Summary: You’re no Lady Death, nor are you a seer, nor are you the High Lady of the Night Court. While the Cauldron had blessed your sisters with powers beyond your comprehension, it had left you a fat load of nothing. Your ears are pointed now, and your periods are killer, but that’s about it. Frustrated at your lack of talents and struggling to fit in amongst the Night Court’s specialized Inner Circle, you start to wonder if Velaris will ever feel like home. After an unfortunate incident during which Rhysand lets slip that he thinks you’re just as useless as you believe yourself to be, he tries making amends by inviting you on official Night Court business. It means a trip to the Autumn Court, but you’re refused from the meeting room by the cruel Lord Beron. He tasks his eldest son Eris with babysitting you, and an unfortunately timed mating bond snap leaves you drifting between worlds like a falling leaf caught in an autumn breeze.
A/N: I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS RAAAAAAH i'm that skeleton banging on the shield screaming I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS I LOVE ERIS <33333
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Waking up feels like a hangover. You’re glad you’ve risen before Azriel’s 8AM wakeup call, though you’re not sure he’ll really follow through with it. You have time to smush your face into your pillow, your eyes tight and achy from the exhaustion sleep can’t fix, and try to keep your breathing calm and steady where it had raged last night.
You’re not sure if there’s a word for the grief you’re feeling. It’s a loss, even if you hadn’t had powers to begin with, because they’d integrated you into their family like you had. They’d turned promising smiles and expectant eyes on you, waiting for you to shoot fire from your fingertips or command light to heal the sick. One by one your sisters had revealed themselves as something special, and each time another one became great you’d felt a chisel chipping away at the structure of your soul.
You’re happy for them, but so, so envious. The kind of envy that you’re ashamed of, the kind that makes you stay buried beneath your covers instead of dining with Feyre, or asking Elain if she’d like your help in the gardens. You’d rather be alone than in the company of people simply better than you, and you hate yourself for it.
At 7:55 a series of knocks lands against your door, and you grumble as you turn over in your tangled sheets. They’re such a mess that they constrict your body movement, and you call to Azriel to come in instead of trying to get the door yourself.
“You’re still dozing by eight.” He stands dressed in a suit, something like Rhysand would wear but with an undershirt beneath it instead of showing off the tanned planes of his abdomen. His siphons are still there, though, mounted on his chest as a warning. Despite the jewels, the ensemble is still classier than fighting leathers, and you wonder if it has something to do with Autumn’s infamously cruel High Lord.
“It’s not eight.” You argue, but your limbs are suddenly itchy with the need to get up, to do something, to make yourself presentable so that you at least look like you have something to offer the world.
“In the camps anyone who gets to training within fifteen minutes of it starting has to double their workouts.” Azriel’s shadows swarm towards your bed to rouse you from the covers with pinpricks of cold that you can’t bury yourself away from, “Get showered, and we’ll have breakfast before we go.”
After being thoroughly scolded you dash to the bathroom, making sure that none of Azriel’s shadows poke beneath the doorframe in their infinite attempts to ruffle your feathers. When you’re in the clear you hop into the steaming water, glad that Azriel had attributed your puffy face to sleep and not to the way you’d cried into the wee hours of the morning. You take the quickest shower of your life, smearing floral body wash into every inch of your skin in hopes that the scent will carry on the Autumn breeze and make you smell pretty, make you seem graceful, give everyone something to think about you besides what you lack.
Azriel’s shut your door behind him, but once you wrestle on a dress with a zipper you almost can’t fasten and slip into your flats to head towards the table you find him still waiting outside, his eyes shut as his head leans against the wall.
You stop in your doorway, bewildered eyes blinking at him, “Have you been standing there this whole time?”
“You took a quick shower,” He shrugs, eyes weary as they open and fall over the dress draped down your body, “And Cassian would have gotten syrup on my suit if I’d gone down there with him.”
“It looks nice,” You clutch the small bag you’d groggily packed last night after crying yourself silly, a book inside, water and some snacks that the House had decided you’d need in case you’re not permitted any refreshments at the Autumn Court. Beron’s disposition is infamous, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d attempt to starve you to death for the duration of the meeting he’s meant to engage in with Rhysand.
You’re not even sure what the meeting is about, really. Just that it’s important, court stuff, and you’ll be reading in another room.
Oh well.
Azriel’s scarred hand comes up to brace against your back, guiding you down the staircase towards the dining room. “So do you,” He eyes your dress sideways, a deep red with leaves stitched in gold thread around the skirt, “You’ll certainly blend in with Autumn.”
Breakfast is a calm affair now that Cassian’s had his fill, and Azriel scoops a handful of berries onto your plate that you hadn’t even realized you’d wanted until they were already there, a shadow licking against the rim of your plate.
“Thank you,” You hum quietly, trying to tamp down your nerves at the thought of visiting Autumn. You’re excited to see the sights, perhaps take a wander through the woods or tour a nearby village. But your anxieties lie with the Vanserra family- Lucien has proven himself kind but the rest of his family seems complicated at best. Hopefully your unimportance will work to your advantage this time, and you won’t even come face to face with Beron or the pack of wild dogs that make up the heirs to the throne.
Once your stomach is sated and your shoes are on, Azriel leads you to the foyer where the rest of the Autumn Court visitors stand ready. You straighten your shoulders, like you’re important- like you’re not scared, like you’re not pathetic, like you’re not dying inside a little bit each day that you don’t wake up as someone special.
“Everybody ready?” Rhysand asks, “We’ll be winnowing directly into the manor. I don’t know who will be asked to meet- who will be allowed to meet,” He casts quick glances at everyone in the room, “You know he likes to pick and choose who to bully.”
“Well he’s got all his favorites today,” Cassian drawls, glancing at Morrigan, Azriel, Feyre, “Maybe he’ll be so overwhelmed with bloodlust he’ll just drop dead.”
“Don’t make those jokes when we get there,” Rhys warns, though his face forms a dry grin, “Eris might sic his hounds on you.”
You’ve heard stories of the Autumn Court hounds. They sound terrifying- they’re born and bred hunters that would have ripped Morrigan into literal shreds if they’d caught her. Even Cassian grimaces, envisioning them outnumbering him, and shuts his mouth.
Once everyone gives Rhysand a reluctant nod, he sighs and takes Feyre’s arm. Morrigan claims Cassian, and you’re left to shadowwalk with Azriel, only slightly more comfortable than the tilting, squeezing feeling of winnowing.
You land in the Autumn Court, three pairs popping into existence one after the next, and you lean heavily into Azriel as you gain your bearings. The shadows that had guided you from place to place dissipate, but some of them linger around you and their singer, wisps of darkness that assess the room for threats before curling protectively around your shoulders and Azriel’s arms. He wears them like tattoos, like part of his skin. But you wear them like a shawl, drapery meant to protect and conceal.
As soon as you settle in your places, before anyone can murmur anything about the large mahogany manor you’re standing in- beautiful despite its imposing size, thundering footsteps, dozens of them, begin from your left side somewhere unseen. Sudden wisps of smoke- similar to Azriel’s shadows but far more corporeal phase through the wall, landing heavy on the carpeted floor as soon as they’re in the room you and your family had winnowed into. They’re dogs- hounds, smokehounds made of muscle and darkness that kick your heart rate into overdrive as they bound towards you with their massive paws.
They’re waist-height to Cassian. They’re enormous, and you duck behind Azriel in terror before you realize it means they’ll get him first. You wonder if that makes you a backstabber- a weak, useless coward - but his hands are already grabbing for you, arms behind his back as he stations himself before you as a shield. Rhysand throws his hands out, ready to use his power to do whatever he needs to in order to maintain your safety, but your heart still pounds in your chest.
The hounds stop five paces away from you, assessing, at attention in formation like an army. Clearly impeccably trained, their eyes blaze with energy, raw power coiling off of them in wisps of smoke that seem to rise and dissipate endlessly off of them. You don’t have time to consider the mechanics of their bodies- physical, spiritual, solid, gas, before shoes scrape against the ground behind you, and you spin behind Azriel’s back to find Eris Vanserra straightening himself where he’d been leaning against a pillar of the foyer in wait for you, hand outstretched in a silent command to his hounds: wait.
His face is sharp, cheekbones and jawline slanted and angled like weapons. His skin stretches taut over them, smooth but taut like he eats for necessity and not enjoyment. His pointed ears jut upwards into a head of impeccably-styled flaming red hair, gel slicking the strands sideways and back around the part against the left side of his scalp. It’s closely shaved to the nape of his neck, gradually lengthening until the strands at the front of his hairline that look long enough to dip into his vision if it weren’t so thickly coated with product. It looks rock-solid, like it might break off if it’s moved from its careful placement.
He’s dressed sharply, and you admire the Autumn Court fashion- a white tunic, sleeves elegantly cuffed that contrasts deeply with the emerald green vest he’s buttoned over it. There’s gold stitching at the breast pocket, and his slacks are tight against his thighs as he slips his hands behind his back primly. You notice another presence- another redheaded presence behind Eris, and your tension eases only slightly as you recognize Lucien’s long hair woven into an intricate braid, sections of it twisted this way and that in a style you couldn’t even imagine attempting. He’s leaning against the same wall Eris had, and you wonder if they were having some sort of brotherly conversation before your arrival, or if they’d simply stared at the floor in silent wait. Either way, his eyes are kinder than Eris’s when they rake over you, but it’s the eldest Vanserra who speaks.
“You’ve brought a party,” He observes, his eyes raking over Cassian, Morrigan, Rhys and your sister, Azriel, and catching on the embroidery on your dress before his eyes flit to your face. His gaze burns like his fire and your stomach curls- you feel bare in front of his powerful stare, vulnerable despite Azriel’s hand wrapping around your stomach to pull you tighter into him, protecting you from the threats surrounding you from all sides. Eris’s eyes don’t miss the gesture, and his lips quirk in a sneer where they had been set in an uninterested curve.
“You are aware,” Eris begins, his voice a grating drawl that splays Azriel’s fingers out wider against your stomach, “That not all of you will be permitted into the meeting room?” He casts a scathing glance over Cassian’s broad frame, one that makes your face flood with a rush of indignance, “The dogs typically stay outside.”
“Cassian has information from the front lines of his army.” Rhysand states simply, calm and composed next to Eris’s flickering flame, “And he will deliver it as is his right due to his station.”
“Yes, his station, the-” Eris’s lips tug up at the corners, though he stifles it for dramatic effect, “Lord of Bloodshed.”
You wonder if perhaps Eris is the Lord of Condescension.
As if on cue, his eyes flicker to you, lashes fluttering as he blinks once, twice, thrice, almost bewildered if not for his regal composure, “And you? Who are you?”
You hadn’t expected to be addressed directly. You falter- you know your name quite well, but you find yourself incapable of speaking it for a few brief seconds as you regain your composure. Eris’s eyes burn, their flames licking at your skin and heating your face with embarrassment. Before you can introduce yourself Azriel speaks from over your shoulder, “She is the sister of my High Lady. She is here to be shown around by Lucien. She will not be placed within sneering range of Beron.”
There’s a very conflicting set of emotions warring inside of you. You appreciate Azriel’s protectiveness- he’s a good male, he’s always willing to throw himself into harm’s way to keep his family safe. But Rhysand had offered you a spot at the table; as much of one as he was able to promise, not knowing whether Beron was in a particularly aggressive mood or not. But still, it had been a last-ditch attempt to make you feel like you were good for something, and Azriel had simply decided you weren’t going. Is it protectiveness, or is it his true feelings- the ones he swore he didn’t possess - shining through?
Did you even want to go? Did you want to sign yourself up for gruelling debate, hours and hours of sitting tensely and watching politics play out before you, waiting for someone to go for another man’s jugular?
You did not. Your book and the richly-colored forests of autumn are calling your name, but it feels like an especially useless thing to do. Opting out of the big-kid job to go play in the woods- that seems precisely like something someone would do if they had no dog in the fight. And you don’t, but you wish to so desperately that you’d be willing to sit at their table, stiff-backed and straight-faced until someone thought you belonged there.
Despite not wanting any part in the meeting, you find yourself unreasonably irritated that Azriel is going to shut the door on you.
Perhaps he senses it- that thoughtful, caring bastard - because the hand on your stomach twitches, thumb stroking briefly back and forth over your skin, only once so no one catches the movement. But it’s meant to soothe, and you sink back into helpless despair as the room decides your fate for you. As it always does.
“Lucien will be meeting with us.” Eris grimaces, and for once he looks sincere as his brother shifts restlessly beside him, his face twisted in a scowl, “My father- the High Lord is particularly fixated on speaking to him at the moment.”
You wonder if they’ve spoken at all since Lucien began working for Rhysand. If they’ve written, if they’ve fought, if they’d burned down whatever meeting place they’d chosen for a conversation. Lucien casts you an apologetic glance, but you can’t manage a smile back at him.
“Then I will keep her company,” Azriel defers, but Rhysand shakes his head once, seeming just as pained as Eris.
“Azriel.” He calls warily, resignedly, knowingly, “You’re needed in the meeting room.”
“I can join you,” You try, your voice feeble as you address both your family and your adversary, Azriel’s fingers curling tightly around you in protest, “I can sit and-”
“And what?” Comes a raspy voice as the double doors behind Eris and Lucien creak open, wood scraping against wood to create a sound just as chilling as the voice of the man behind them, “Gather dust?”
Beron Vanserra is a man as withered and callous on the outside as he is on the inside. His hair is thinning and greying, his face gnarled and twisted with age and hatred alike. It writhes into a scowl, an audible scoff leaving his thin lips as he takes note of Lucien’s presence before him, and the fire in his eyes jumps to your companions, hungry for more fuel. They scald your skin as they rake over you and Azriel, then the rest of your party, his lips curling up in a withering sneer that reveals too-thin, yellowed, crooked teeth protruding from his pale gums, “Is this a joke, Rhysand? You come here for a formal discussion, three Illyrian bastards and your whores. You really believe that is appropriate for official court business? This is not a vacation spot.”
He speaks the word court like it’s the thing that matters most to him, sharp and intentional. And as he shoulders roughly past Eris in the doorway to stride towards you, nearly knocking his son off-balance, his gaze flicking over the smokehounds behind you with the same disdain he’d aimed at you, you wonder if Beron Vanserra cares about anything at all besides his throne.
One of the smokehounds snarls- no, the growl comes from Azriel, deep and guttural within his throat, so animalistic that you’d assumed it was a dog’s. Cassian bristles and Morrigan straightens her posture, shoulders back, chin held high. Rhysand and Feyre though- they look used to it. They keep their faces in sync, cool, unbothered smirks that don’t falter under the heat of Beron’s gaze.
“Lord Beron,” Feyre greets smoothly, her lead surely boiling Beron’s blood further, “Do you mean to tell me your manor is not large enough for six guests?”
“Besides,” Rhysand speaks after her, and Feyre tilts her head, her hair spilling down her shoulders and back in elegant waves, “I seem to remember your entire brood of heirs joining us the last time we spoke. Is this any different?”
“Of course it’s different,” Beron scoffs, “My sons are members of my court. They contribute, they will rule someday, and you’ve brought along your gaggle of misfits and as many humans as the King of Hybern was able to scoop up and toss into the Cauldron.”
“Actually, there’s two more at home,” Cassian smirks, teeth sharp and bared, “But they didn’t feel like wasting their time listening to you.”
You’re sure if Beron were younger or less soulless his cheeks would have flushed in anger. But it’s his permanent state, and he doesn’t tear his gaze away from Rhysand as he speaks.
“No guests in the meeting room.”
“Feyre and I reign.” Rhysand stands tall, his wings spread behind him in an intimidating display, “Cassian leads my armies and Azriel knows my court inside and out. Morrigan is my second-in-command and-”
Rhys’s voice barely begins to falter over your name before Beron’s own cuts him off, “Don’t bother giving the girl a make-believe title. You may have managed to sequester all of the human girls that invaded our lands, Rhysand, but they are legend across Prythian. This one is the one without powers.”
Azriel’s harsh, gruff voice barks from behind you, “Don’t-”, but Beron pays him no mind,
“This one is not of any use to you, or to me. This one will not be permitted to join.”
Your stomach aches.
Azriel’s shadows writhe. His grip on your waist is starting to pain you now, and you shift beneath his fingers that are clenched in the soft skin of your stomach like an anchor in waterlogged silt. He loosens his grip apologetically, but doesn’t let you go, and Eris steps in before Azriel’s shadows block his father’s airways.
“Father,” He dips his head respectfully towards Beron, “I’ll take the girl to the servant’s quarters. She can stay there while we meet, and-”
“And run off to spread the spymaster’s shadows throughout our court? Use your brain, Eris,” Beron grits, and you wonder if he’s ever let anyone finish a sentence around him without trampling all over it, “She cannot be left unattended. You will watch her.”
Eris’s eyes don’t widen, but they do twitch slightly. He bristles, his shoulders shifting as he moves his weight from one foot to the other. He stares at you, gaze wary like you’re trying to hold him back from his princely duties. Like you’re begging to have him breathe down your neck for the day, like you’d enjoy his company instead of fear it. He glances back at Beron- you can tell he’s surprised by the order, as are you, as is Azriel whose hand presses your back impossibly closer to his chest. The cobalt siphon on his chest digs painfully into your spine, and you shift your shoulders to push yourself away from it. You straighten them like you matter, like you’re a diplomat instead of a daydreamer, and try ignoring the way your stomach has deflated so tragically that it seems to have fallen to your feet.
“But… My Lord,” He bows his head respectfully, layering his adoration on thicker than grease, “The meeting- I am needed.”
“And I don’t need a babysitter.” Your voice is strong but not loud, though your tone nearly falters when Beron’s gaze singes your nerve, “I’ll be happy to walk through the forest while you’re talking.”
“Yes,” Beron grins, his teeth covered in spit that shines in the faelight of the foyer, “Peruse the forests. Walk alone, unarmed, weak and new to the territory. My sons and I will draw up a bet for how soon your remains are scattered throughout the woods. I’d say twenty minutes.”
“The serving quarters,” Eris attempts again, but Beron snarls this time, jerking his arms about in such hot anger you’re surprised his fire magic doesn’t lick up the mahogany crown molding bracketing every ceiling and floor.
“Enough! I did not permit you a seat at the table to argue with me.” Beron growls, “Seeing the disrespect you show me now makes me glad Rhysand brought his human bore for you to entertain- it would have been disastrous to allow this sort of behavior in my court. Go, take her and go,” Beron waves a hand at both of you like he might not care whether you lived or died, “And while you are out, be sure you locate your manners because it seems as though you lost them- probably on your last hunt with those mongrels. Get these bitches out of my manor,” Beron’s hand sweeps over you and the dogs as one, his voice vicious and biting as he storms back into his meeting room, “And do not return until we are finished.”
Azriel is breathing so heavily with restraint that it’s audible in your ear. He’s seething, burning like autumn court fire with the urge to fill Beron’s lungs up with his shadows and watch the man die a slow, painful death. But Rhysand turns towards you, levelling him with a warning stare before his eyes slide down to your own, calm and collected to keep you the same.
“I believe he’s done throwing his temper tantrum now, and I’ll make sure it’s the last you see of him. Eris,” He calls the eldest son of autumn, and you watch as Eris fights very hard not to step forwards like he would for his father, the habit nearly degrading him in front of your family, “Do not let any harm come to her.”
“She will be safe.” He mutters begrudgingly, “You think I can’t handle babysitting a human girl? Or- do you think I’ll hurt her,” He scoffs, wary of his father’s listening ear as he murmurs lowly, “Has my brother’s alliance and my cooperation not been enough to convince you that I am not the enemy under this roof?”
“She is fae.” Azriel snarls, “And you left the last woman you were trusted with half-dead on the border of Spring. So yes, Eris, I think you will hurt her.”
Eris’s hands flicker with flame. A visible fire that coats his fists, licking up his arms until it’s touching but not burning his sharply-cuffed sleeves. You’re still aware of the tension between Eris and Azriel, but you briefly stare in awe at his power- magic is still so new to you that even something as rudimentary for Eris as simple flames puts stars in your eyes.
“I will not hurt her.” Eris spits, “We’re wasting time. If my father has to call for you he will simply refuse to meet at all. Come.” He turns his gaze towards you, sharp and irritated from the Illyrians’ needling, “We’re leaving.”
You have to peel Azriel’s hand off of your stomach. You feel his resistance, you see the two shadows that separate from his arsenal to circle around your ankles, one for each. One to stay with you at all times, and one to race back to Azriel and report any danger.
The shadows catch one of the smokehound’s eyes, and you let out an unsteady, garbled sound of fear as it darts for your stumbling feet, but all it does is sniff curiously at your ankle and the wispy smoke curling around it.
“Those cannot come with us,” Eris points at the shadows, “Don’t be stupid, Azriel.”
Azriel’s fist clenches at his side as he calls the shadows back, their gray, formless bodies seeming to resist the order as well. They delight in making the curious smokehound at your feet sneeze on their way back to Azriel, but even at its now-relaxed, puppyish behavior you shy a few steps to your left to get away from it. Eris tracks the motion, one hand beckoning for the other dogs to follow behind him as he takes your arm in his grip and heads for the door.
“Come outside,” He mutters, his voice now too low for even your family to hear as they reluctantly file into the meeting room, “And fight me.”
“What-” You whimper as he squeezes your arm, “Ow, I-” Then you register his words, twisting in his hold, before the large windows that look into the room where your friends are taking their seats, and Beron is watching sharply as you struggle, “You pig, get your hands off of me! Stop,” You beg, thrashing about as Eris beelines you both towards a smaller building against the side of the manor, at the very edge of the forest, “You’re hurting me! I can walk on my own, where are you taking me?”
“For the record,” He yanks you through a doorway into a concrete hallway, doors lining the walls to make up what you realize is a kennel for his enormous hunting hounds that swarm inside after you, twining around your legs and brushing against your sides in the confined space, “I never said you had to speak. But it was a nice touch, if not a bit underplayed. If someone ever grabs you like that again, I’d suggest calling them worse things than a pig.”
You stagger backwards as soon as he lets you go, grappling with all of the different attitudes and personas he’d worn in such a short time. You can't keep them straight- you don't know which to trust. Is he Mor’s vicious abuser? Is he a genius, carefully planting her where she could be saved and escorting his father the opposite way? Is he Beron’s mini-me, his father’s obedient little pet? Is he the Night Court’s begrudging ally, resistant to betray his court but eager to betray its ruler? Is he the smart-mouthed man now standing before you, shoulders loosened from where they’d been held proudly squared until the door shut behind him?
“I’m Eris,” He offers you his hand and you freeze, glancing warily down at his skin, unmarred by the flame it had just held moments prior, “Please don’t back away any further, darling, you’ll step on a smokehound.”
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⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 12.4k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: baelor's pov (everyone cheered!), mentions of injury/blood, protective... everyone lol, angsty, baelor inventing pining and yearning. So this chapter was logistically the hardest to write because I had to balance a lot of canon asoiaf characters, so hope I did ok! As always... you guys are fucking insane. I'm so glad I took a chance and posted a little something for this dilf because look at us now, huh? Enjoy and thank you for all your support ❤
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The ride back blurs.
Later, Baelor will be able to recall each piece if he forces himself—every shouted order, every spray of mud, the way your head lolled with the rhythm of the gallop—but in the moment, it runs together into one long, sick streak of motion. Hooves and breath and the wet slap of blood against leather.
He does not remember remounting. He remembers you on the ground, though.
Your body hitting the dirt with a sound he will hear in his sleep for years: not the high clang of steel on steel, not the wet tearing of meat, but a dull, ugly thump. The moment it took him to realise the red on your gown was not just someone else’s spray. The feathered shaft juts from your shoulder like an accusation.
He’d had his hands on you before the archer’s corpse finished falling. He knows that because when he closes his eyes, Baelor can still feel the jolt of the man’s weight crashing down behind him, somewhere on the edge of his hearing, while the whole of his focus was bent to you—your blood hot on his fingers, your breath ragged against his wrist.
The arrow had come out clean. That almost reassured him for half a heartbeat.
Then one of the Kingsguard had sniffed, eyes gone flint-hard, and declared, “Poison.”
Now, as the Red Keep’s gates yawn open ahead of them, the word tolls through Baelor’s skull like a bell.
—
They thunder into the yard a mess of dirt and steel and torn white cloaks.
The city’s stink still clings to him—river and tanneries and hot stone—but the keep has its own smell: smoke, old rushes, the faint tang of oil on the hinges of the great doors. Grooms and guards scatter as the party crashes in under the arch. A stableboy drops a bucket; water fans across the cobbles, turning dust to mud that splashes up the legs of the nearest horse.
Baelor swings down before his gelding has fully stopped.
Pain lances up his left thigh as his boot hits uneven stone; he realises distantly that at some point in the chaos, something has wrenched, that his knee is swelling under his boot. It doesn’t matter. The leather of your bridle burns his palm as he catches it when your mare dances, eyes rolling white at the sudden dark of the gate. You’re still slumped forward over the saddle-bow, arm hanging limp.
“Easy,” he murmurs to the gelding, not looking at his own horse at all. “Stand.”
Maekar hits the ground beside him with a thud. There’s blood on his cheek that is not his own, drying in a flaking streak from hairline to jaw. His mace hangs heavy in his hand, crusted dark. One of the Kingsguard is missing a piece of his cloak; another’s shield looks like someone took a bite out of it.
“Clear the yard!” Maekar roars, voice cracking across the stone. “Make way for the maesters—move, damn you!”
Servants freeze for a fatal fraction. Then the shout penetrates; they scatter, pulling benches away from the path, grabbing at startled chickens, dragging a cart back by its wheels. Gold cloaks pour in from the walls, some wide-eyed, some already reaching for swords, faces sharpening as they see the limp, grey-clad figure draped over the northern saddle.
Baelor reaches up.
Your body is dead weight in his arms as he lifts you down, cradling you to his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder; your hair is stuck to your neck with sweat and blood. The arrow is gone now, but the tear in your gown gapes, dark and wet around the ugly puncture of the wound. The flesh around it is starting to discolour—angry red spiking outwards into a faint, sinister shadow under the skin.
Poison, one of the knights had said.
Baelor holds you tighter.
“Prince Baelor.” A maester shuffles at his elbow, breathless, his chain clinking. It’s not the old man from Summerhall, nor the thin crow Daeron keeps in council; this one is thick around the middle, hands surprisingly steady. “We must get her to the healing rooms. I’ll need light, hot water, and my stores. That wound—”
“Then move,” Baelor snaps.
He is aware, dimly, that he almost never speaks like that to men of learning. Maesters are his father’s favoured tools as much as his own; he’s learned to husband their goodwill. Right now, he does not care. The world has shrunk to the weight in his arms and the way your breath catches in shallow, uneven pulls.
“Your Grace!”
The voice cuts through the yard like a trumpet.
King Daeron is already striding down the steps from the keep, cloak thrown back, a pair of white cloaks flanking him. He must have been told at the gate, or perhaps he heard the yard erupt and came of his own accord. Either way, he looks nothing like the gentle scholar most of the realm names him when they think he can’t hear.
There is fury in him, banked and sharp.
Baelor has seen his father angry before. At lords who played too freely with peasant lives, at Blackfyre pretensions, at his own father’s, Aegon’s, old ghosts. That anger has always worn the civilised face of statecraft: clipped words, cold decrees, ink that might as well have been blood when it dried on parchment.
Now, for the first time in many years, Daeron the Good looks very much like a dragon.
“What happened?” he demands, voice ringing off the stone. His gaze flicks over the yard in one sweeping cut: the torn cloak, the dented shield, Maekar’s blood-streaked face, the way Baelor clutches you like a man afraid someone will try to take you from him. His eyes narrow, settling on the black smear around your wound. “Is that—”
“Poison,” the maester confirms grimly. “A slow one, by the look of it, Your Grace. Not the Stranger’s kiss, but not kind either.”
Colour drains from Daeron’s cheeks, leaving his skin waxen around the mouth.
“In my own Kingswood,” he says softly. “An arrow for the heir of Winterfell. In sight of my city walls.”
One of the courtiers hovering at the edge of the yard opens his mouth—some platitude, some coward’s suggestion about bandits. Daeron does not look at him, does not raise his voice. He simply says, very clearly, “If the next man who speaks the word ‘bandit’ in my hearing is not carrying a bow and a deer, I will have him flogged.”
Silence slams down.
Then Daeron’s gaze comes back to Baelor. For a heartbeat, prince and king look at one another over the curve of your body. Baelor feels it—the old, familiar weight of expectation, the question without words. Are you hurt? Are you whole? Can you stand?
“Yes,” Baelor forces out, though his throat feels tight enough to strangle him. “We were ambushed, Father. Blackfyre sympathisers. There were… there were sigils. Inverted dragons. They knew our route.”
Daeron’s jaw clenches. “We will speak of that. Later.” His eyes drop to your face—the pained tightness, the sheen of sweat on your upper lip, the way your lashes lie too still against your cheeks. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “For now, get her inside. Quickly. Every moment we waste talking in this yard is a moment that poison has to root itself deeper.”
Baelor shifts his grip, ready to carry you himself.
The maester steps in. “My prince—let the porters—”
“No.” The word comes out raw, so sharp the man flinches back, startled. “She—”
A hand clamps on his arm. Maekar’s fingers are like iron bands around his bicep, biting through the leather of his sleeve.
“Bael,” his brother says under his breath. “Let them work. You’ll slow them, and you know it.”
He does know it. That’s the worst of it. He can see, in some cold, rational part of his mind, the path: maester, table, knives, clean cloth, tinctures. Yet his arms will not give you up. The porters hover at the edge of his vision, faces tense, hands empty and ready. The maester watches him with professional impatience, poorly masked as concern. Over all of it, Daeron’s gaze, heavy and intent on his brow.
“Baelor,” his father says, quieter now. “Son. Give her to them.”
The plea in it nearly undoes him.
Your head lolls against his shoulder; your lips part on a tiny, unconscious sound. He feels it more than hears it, a little vibration against his collarbone. The skin around the wound is darkening further now, the veins radiating out faintly like ink drawn through paper.
If he hesitates any longer, he will be the one doing harm. Baelor swallows, feeling something in his chest crack, and forces his hands to loosen.
“Careful,” he grinds out as he transfers your weight into the porters’ arms. “If you drop her—”
“We won’t,” the maester assures him. There is none of the usual obsequiousness in it; only a man sworn to save lives speaking to another who understands that oath. “I swear it, my prince.”
They bear you away at a near-trot, the maester bustling ahead, shouting for hot water, clean linens, wine, willowbark, the pale blue vial he keeps under lock for snake-bites. The little procession disappears under an arch, swallowed by the keep’s shadow.
Baelor’s body sways after them.
He takes one involuntary step, then another. The need to follow is a living thing under his skin, clawing at his ribs. It wants him moving, wants him in that room, wants him between you and everything that might hurt you further—including the maester’s knives.
Maekar’s grip tightens.
“Leave them to their work,” he growls under his breath, digging his fingers in harder. “You’ll be in their way.”
“She—” Baelor hears his own voice and hates it. Thinned, frayed, too close to breaking. “Maekar, I—”
“I know,” Maekar cuts in, and there is something rough in his tone that catches Baelor’s attention through the fog. “I know. But unless you’ve suddenly taken the chain, you’re no use in that room. Here—”
He shifts his stance, subtly angling his bulk between Baelor and the door through which they carried you. It’s not much—he’s not their father, he cannot command with a glance the way Daeron can—but it creates the smallest of barriers. Enough for Baelor to smash himself against instead of the wall.
He realises his hands are shaking. Baelor curls them into fists at his sides, flexing until his gloves creak. The yard is full of eyes; he can feel them crawling over him. Gold cloaks. Grooms. Courtiers. The lords who happened to be close enough to come running when the shouts started. All of them, watching the king’s heir with the wolf’s blood on his hands.
He drags in a breath that tastes of horse and iron and panic and forces it back out slowly.
Control, he reminds himself. You cannot lose it here. Not in front of them. Not while Father is watching.
Daeron has not moved far. He stands a little way off, conferring in a low, tight voice with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, eyes still cold as the Narrow Sea in winter. As Baelor watches, a page sprints up, white-faced, stammering something. The king’s head snaps toward the gate.
Northern banners.
The direwolf on grey comes into view a moment later, wind-snapped and grim, followed by a column of riders splashed in road-dirt and sweat. Barthogan Stark had ridden for the Kingswood as soon as the first rider reached the city with the news, but even a northern horse can only eat so much ground. They have arrived too late for the fight.
Not too late for the aftermath.
Baelor feels the temperature in the yard drop as the Stark column pushes in. It’s not the wind; the day is still southern-hot, the stone still radiating heat. It’s something else. The way the air changes around certain men. Daeron’s anger burns. Barthogan Stark’s wrath chills to the bone.
He swings down from his horse in one smooth motion, barely waiting for the animal to stop. There is dust in his beard and at the hems of his cloak; his hair has come half-loose from its tie, silver and dark hanks falling around a face set in a line that looks carved from rock. His eyes—those cold, north-sky eyes—go at once to the blood on the cobbles.
“Where is she?” he snarls, without preamble, voice low and dangerous.
“Inside,” Daeron answers, stepping forward to meet him. There is an entire history in the way they stand facing one another: Aegon on the Neck, dragonfire over the Wall, oaths sworn and kept. “My maesters have her. An arrow—”
“An arrow,” Stark repeats, gaze snapping to Baelor, taking in the torn state of his armour, the smear of your blood on his hands, the pallor under the summer tan. “In your king’s own woods. On your watch.”
The words hit like blows. Baelor feels each one land. “I was there,” he says quietly. “I pulled her away. I—”
“Not fast enough,” Barthogan cuts in, his voice cold as river ice. “Not hard enough. You were meant to keep her safe, dragon. Not give the realm a story about how Stark heirs bleed so prettily for your family’s quarrels.”
Heat flashes up Baelor’s spine. Guilt rears, teeth bared, eager to agree with every syllable. It was his ride. His road. His failure to see the crack before the river gave way. He opens his mouth—he doesn’t even know yet if it’s to apologise or to promise, either way, to accept the blame—but Daeron speaks first.
“Take care, Barthogan,” the king speaks, voice gone very soft. It’s the softness that makes grown men flinch. “You speak of my son and my Hand.”
Stark’s head turns toward him slowly. For a moment, Baelor thinks he will push it anyway; northern tempers are headstrong things, not easily soothed. Then something in Daeron’s face—the iron under all his good-natured courtesy—registers, and Barthogan reins in with visible effort.
“My pardon, Your Grace,” he grinds out. The words are ice, not warmth. “Grief makes my tongue jump the leash.”
“It has every right to strain it,” Daeron allows. A flicker of something like old friendship passes between them, quickly drowned by the moment’s immediacy. “But remember also who stands before you. Baelor did not put that arrow in your daughter’s flesh. He threw himself between her and the worst of it.”
“He should have thrown himself in front of the damned shaft,” Stark snarls.
“He tried,” Maekar interjects flatly.
All eyes swing to him.
Maekar’s face is bare of courtly compromise. There is blood on his jaw and a fresh cut along his forearm; his leathers are scored and dark in places where something splintered too close. He looks like he’d rather still be in the trees, swinging his mace.
“Your daughter,” he goes on bluntly, ignoring the attention, “showed more courage than half the knights sworn to our house today. She sank her teeth into the hand of a man who came for her, then stepped into the path of an arrow meant for Baelor. If you’re set on blaming someone, Lord Stark, don’t start with the one whose life she’s already bled to keep out of the Stranger’s reach.”
It is as close to praise as Maekar Targaryen ever gives anyone. The fact that he offers it now, blunt and unadorned, drops into the silence like a stone into a well. Something flickers in Barthogan’s eyes at that. Pride and terror, twisting together. The idea of you, teeth bared, blood in your mouth, stepping into the path of a shaft meant for a prince—it is clearly both exactly what he would have expected of you and the very thing he has dreaded since you were old enough to hold a knife.
His hand flexes at his side, fingers digging into his own palm.
“The best maesters in the Red Keep are with her,” Daeron says, more gently now. “And I’ve already sent for my son Aerys. No man living in this castle knows more of poisons than he. If anyone can unmake what those bastards meant to do, it’s him.”
Baelor clings to that as if it were a rope thrown to a drowning man: Aerys, with his ink-stained fingers and his quiet, unnerving knowledge of plants that kill as easily as they heal. Aerys, who prefers books to blades and will, for once, be the weapon they need.
Barthogan’s jaw works.
“If she dies,” he growls at last, “no song in the realm will sweeten this alliance.”
“If she dies,” Daeron replies, grim and tired and furious all at once, “it will not be at my son’s hands. Nor mine. It will be at the hands of men who think the realm is a board they can upset at will. And those men will learn that even a good king has teeth.”
For a moment, the two of them stand in that cold, shared understanding. Then Barthogan turns on his heel, cloak flaring, and strides for the arch where they took you. The guards there begin to move to bar his way, then think better of it when they catch the look in his eye. Wolves on a scent. Only fools and dead men try to stand in front of a father desperate to see his daughter safe.
He disappears into the keep, following the trail of your blood. Daeron watches him go, shoulders tightening under his cloak. Then he looks back to the yard; it’s already filling again with people who smell opportunity the way hounds smell meat. Lords. Courtiers. Men who will want reassurance that this is not the first move in some wider war.
“I must speak with them,” he says, weary certainty in every syllable. “If we don’t seize this tale now, others will. Maekar—”
“I’ll see the men sorted,” Maekar answers at once. “We’ll have every survivor questioned before dusk. And the bodies—”
“Drag them into the throne room if you have to,” Daeron mutters. “Let the realm see what comes of loosing Blackfyre arrows at my guests.”
He moves away then, already gathering lords and captains into his wake, his voice dropping into that measured cadence Baelor knows so well: the tone of a king shaping a narrative before the chaos can. The yard begins to empty around them as people pull into the orbit of duty. Grooms lead horses off, clucking. A Kingsguard limps away toward the armoury with his dented shield. Servants squabble quietly over the best way to scrub wolf-blood from stone.
Baelor stays where he is.
His hands are still sticky. He looks down and sees the stains on his gloves—rust-dark, drying. The knowledge that it is your blood turns his stomach. Maekar doesn’t let go of his arm. Not until the last of the crowd has thinned enough that the yard feels almost, if not private, then at least less full of mouths. Only then does he release his grip, flexing his own fingers as if they’ve cramped.
For a moment, he merely studies Baelor’s profile.
Baelor can feel it like touch, that familiar, infuriatingly thorough assessment. Maekar has never needed words to take a man apart; his gaze does it for him. It ticks from the rigid set of Baelor’s jaw to the hollows bruised in under his eyes, to the way his shoulders hold a fraction too square, too high, as if he’s holding himself together by keeping everything clenched. It catches on the minute tremor in his right hand where it hangs at his side, fingers flexing against ruined leather as though they still remember your weight.
There is blood on Baelor’s neck too, he realises distantly—tacky where it has dried, a thin crusted line running from just under his ear to the collar of his doublet. It flakes when he swallows. He doesn’t know whose it is. Yours, probably. It always comes back to that.
“Well,” Maekar says at last, voice dropping into that heavy, disgusted fatalism that usually precedes him breaking something. “Seven bloody hells.”
Baelor huffs out a sound that might, in kinder light, pass for a laugh. Here in the bright, pitiless yard, it feels more like air escaping a cracked vessel.
Maekar scrubs a hand over his face, palm rasping against stubble, smearing the half-dried streak of blood on his cheek into a wider, uglier smear. He stares at his own hand for a heartbeat, as if surprised to see it shaking, then curls it into a fist.
“I thought—” He stops, grimaces, the words catching on something sharp on the way out. Starts again, rougher. “I thought you’d have more sense than this.”
Baelor turns his head, sharply enough that his neck protests. “Than what?”
Maekar meets his gaze without flinching. In this light, one of his eyes is deep violet, the other a softer lilac, the colours Daeron passed to his sons like odd little curses. Right now, they are both as hard as cut stones. There’s no mockery in them, no easy brother’s baiting. Just a tired, furious sort of knowing.
“Not the she-wolf,” he mutters. “Anyone but the gods-damned she-wolf.”
Baelor goes very still.
Still in that way he learned as a boy at court: no visible flinch, no outward recoil, just every muscle tightening by a hair, as if bracing for a blow. He feels the words slot into place between his ribs with obscene precision. Not because they’re wrong, but because they land so close to a truth he has been circling for days without daring to look at it head-on.
Images rise, unbidden, with horrible clarity. Your waist under his hand in the corridor, the warm give of you through wool. Your voice in his ear on the Wall, low and wry and entirely too steady for the height. The exact shape of your mouth when you said, My Lord Prince. The way your body twisted between him and that arrow in the dappled green of the Kingswood, as if the most natural thing in the world were to make yourself into a shield for him. He remembers the feel of you hitting him—shoulder to ribs, breath knocked out of him, his world lurching—and then the sound of you being hit in turn. That awful, wet, muted thunk. The way your eyes went wide, then dazed.
His stomach turns over.
He does not deny it.
Baelor feels his throat work once, twice, swallowing down the first instinctive rush of words: protest, excuse, minimisation. She is a guest. She is our ally. I would have done the same for any lord’s daughter. All of them lies, or half-lies so thin they might as well be.
There’s no point. Maekar has eyes. Maekar was there when Baelor’s mind blanked to a screaming white the moment your body jerked with the arrow’s impact, when for one terrible heartbeat all the careful discipline in him blew apart and left nothing but a man on his knees in the dirt with his hands slick in a woman’s blood.
Instead, Baelor drags in a slow breath that tastes of dust and iron, and lets it out through his teeth. He feels the air scrape his lungs raw on the way.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, and the lie tastes like dirt between his teeth. “What matters is this: they knew where we would be. When. How many men would ride with us. That is not luck. That is not some farmer’s son with more courage than sense. That is treachery.”
Maekar’s expression shutters, the flash of brotherly exasperation folding neatly away under the weight of something more familiar: the prince, the soldier, the man Daeron calls for when he expects to need steel, not speeches.
Baelor nods once, the movement small, controlled. “We left by a gate we weren’t supposed to use. Our route was decided late, after the council. The timing was tight. And they still managed to be waiting in just the right stretch of road, with just the right number of men, with sigils they were arrogant enough not to fully hide.” He flexes his hand again, feeling the grind of dried blood tightening the leather over his knuckles. “Someone talked. Someone inside these walls.”
Maekar’s mouth goes thin. “Could be a servant,” he suggests. “Loose tongue in a wine cellar. Stableboy trying to impress the wrong ears.”
“It could,” Baelor concedes. His voice has levelled out now, losing the ragged edge it held in the yard, taking on a different quality altogether. Calm. Measured. Cold. “Or it could be a lord with a Blackfyre cousin and more ambition than caution. A squire with the wrong father. A guard who’s been bought thrice over. I intend to find out which. And when I do—”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He lets the thought hang there between them, heavy as a hanging chain. No threats. No bright promises of dragonfire. Just the simple, unadorned certainty of a man who has given the realm his whole life in careful, bloodless inches—and is now, finally, prepared to take something back with all the ruthless precision he’s spent years using on its behalf.
Maekar watches him for a long moment.
He’s seen Baelor angry before—sharp flashes, quick to bank. This is something else. This is ice over deep water, cracked clean through.
“Father will want to proceed carefully,” Maekar says at last, a half-warning, half-reminder. “He’ll talk of proof. Of not feeding Blackfyre tales of persecution.”
“I know,” Baelor says. “And he will be right. We cannot afford to punish the wrong man in our haste and drive the right ones deeper underground.” He looks back toward the archway where they took you, to where, somewhere inside the keep, your blood is seeping into white sheets and maesters’ hands. His throat works once. “But understand me, Maekar: I will not let this pass. Not when they aimed at the North to strike at us. Not when they turned their swords on us this brazenly. Not when she—”
His voice trips, catches; he rides over the stumble by sheer force of will.
“When she lies in there with poison working through her veins because some coward thought cutting down our ally’s heir would weaken the king’s hand.”
Maekar’s gaze darkens, something vicious flickering up through the soldier’s calm.
“That,” he says slowly, “sounds a great deal like you planning to tear the castle apart with your bare hands.”
“If I must,” Baelor replies, and the quiet of it sends a small, involuntary chill up even his brother’s spine. There’s no heat in it at all, only intent. “But I would prefer to start with questions. With records. With Aerys’s lists of men who’ve been writing too many letters to the wrong corners of the realm. With the names of every guard and scribe and groom who knew about our ride, who shouldn’t have.”
His eyes lift, meeting Maekar’s squarely. “Help me.” It isn’t a plea. It’s an invitation, laid between them like a drawn sword, sharp edge up.
Maekar’s jaw works once. Twice. Baelor can almost see him turning it over: the insult to their house, the sight of your body hitting the ground, the memory of your teeth in a man’s hand and your shoulder jerking as the arrow struck, the knowledge that if you hadn’t moved, he would be standing here without a brother at all.
Then he gives a short, savage nod.
“Always,” he answers, voice gravelly. “You think I don’t want those bastards’ heads on spikes as much as you do? They made me call that girl brave.” His mouth twists as if the admission is both bitter and oddly satisfying. “I don’t hand that word out lightly.”
Baelor’s lips twitch, the ghost of a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. There’s gratitude in it, and something rougher; a shared, silent promise.
“Then we start,” he says. “We wait for word from the maesters. We pray to any gods who will listen that Aerys gets here before the poison does what it was meant to. And in the meantime, we pull every thread we can find. We tug until something gives.”
He looks back at the arch once more.
For a heartbeat, the yard seems to tilt around him. He sees, overlaid on the sun and stone, the Kingswood again: shafts hissing through leaves, your body jerking, your hand leaving a smeared print of your own blood on his cheek as you shoved him out of the arrow’s path. The look on your face, shocked and stubborn all at once, already fading as the poison bit.
Baelor sets his shoulders.
Whatever waits beyond that door, whatever news the maesters bring—good or ill—he will meet it. And then he will make sure that somewhere, in some cold cell or shallow grave, the man who loosed that poisoned shaft—and the one who put the bow in his hands, and anyone who whispered the time and place into their ears—understands, down to their bones, what it means to strike at a dragon through a wolf.
Maekar’s hand comes down on his shoulder once, hard, the weight of it more vow than comfort.
“Come on, then,” he says gruffly. “Let’s see which of these bastards flinch when we start asking the wrong questions.”
Baelor nods.
He casts one last look at the doorway where they took you—at that shadowed threshold between the world where you stand at his side and the world where you might not—and then turns away, his face smoothing into something colder and sharper than any helm.
—
By the time the castle goes quiet enough that he can hear his own thoughts, the light has gone.
Not wholly—King’s Landing never truly sleeps—but the day’s harsh brightness has bled out of the corridors, leaving only pockets of lamplight and the odd guttering candle in a niche. The sounds have changed, too. Less clang of armour, more the muted shuffle of servants, the distant clatter of pots from the last of the kitchens.
Baelor realises, dimly, that he has not eaten since dawn.
He cannot bring himself to care.
He climbs the last flight of stairs to the healing tower with his hand on the wall more from habit than need, fingertips brushing the cool stone. It steadies him in a way his own legs no longer do. His knee aches fiercely now that the day’s work is done, swelling against the confines of his boot, but he keeps his stride even. The guards outside the maesters’ door straighten as he approaches.
“Your Highness,” one calls out promptly. “Lord Stark is within.”
“Good,” Baelor replies.
He means it. He would rather face a dozen Blackfyre men in the trees again than walk into that room empty of anyone who loves you.
The healing chamber smells of vinegar and old stone and crushed herbs.
It is not large, but the maesters have made it feel crowded. Tables bristle with glass and clay: vials, bowls, little pots of salve. A brazier glows low in the corner, its heat pushing the air heavy and close. Wisps of steam curl from a basin of water gone pink at the edges. The narrow window is cracked open just enough to let a line of cooler night air lick at the ceiling.
You lie on the bed nearest the fire.
The arrow is gone now. In its place: bandages, tight and clean, white now but already bruised by the faint seeping of red at their centre. Bruises are blooming along your collarbone and shoulder where the impact tossed you. Someone has washed the blood from your face and neck; your hair is damp at the temples, laid back in heavy strands around your head. A sheen of fever-sweat shines at your throat.
Your chest rises and falls. Not easily, but it moves. That is enough to make his knees want to give.
Barthogan Stark sits at your bedside like a carved thing.
He has taken off his cloak and sword-belt, but nothing about the man looks less armed. His hands are braced on his knees, big and scarred and too still. The lamplight hollows his weathered face, carving the lines around his mouth deeper, turning the streaks of silver in his hair to threads of dull iron. His gaze is fixed on your face with an intensity that could melt metal. It is not the wild rage of earlier. This is something colder. The fury of an old wolf who has spent all day not tearing out throats, but only because there were none here he could reach.
A maester sits at a table a little way off, bent over notes. Another dozes in a chair by the fire, head lolling, hands still curled loosely around a cup of some dark infusion. Baelor recognises Aerys’ hand in the clutter: the fine glass phials, the bundled sprigs of plants from the east, the faint metallic tang in the air of an antidote already brewed.
They say the poison has been checked, for now. That much, at least, they have bought her.
Baelor pauses just inside the threshold.
For a beat, he can do nothing but look at you. Everything he has been holding at bay with tasks and questions and rage presses up against his ribs at once, clamouring. He feels it in his throat, behind his eyes, in the tremor that threatens his fingers.
Barthogan’s head comes up, dangerously slow.
“Your Highness,” he says.
The title lands like a thrown spear, perfectly aimed. Polite. Icy.
“Lord Stark.” Baelor’s voice is hoarse; he does not clear it. “How fares she?”
“Alive.” Stark’s gaze slides back to you, then to him, as if he is weighing how much information he’s worth. “Your brother’s pet maester thinks the worst of the poison has been drawn.” His mouth tightens. “He also says the next two days will decide whether she keeps the life she has or slips it.”
The words sink into Baelor like stones into deep water. Two days. As if your fate could be measured in something as small as that.
“The arrowhead was barbed,” the maester at the table explains without looking up, voice thin with fatigue. “They had the cruelty to roughen it, too. It tore more than it need have.” He makes a small, helpless gesture. “But the venom was not as quick as some. We had time to bleed it, and Prince Aerys sent instructions for a counter-draught. Her blood takes it, for now.”
Stark’s jaw clenches at the mention of the arrow; Baelor sees his fingers curl briefly into fists on his knees.
“Give us the room,” Barthogan orders without turning.
The maester blinks. “My lord, I should—”
“I am not asking.” Stark’s eyes remain on Baelor, but his voice carries to the corners of the room. “If she worsens, you’ll hear me shout from the yard.”
There is a heartbeat of hesitation. Then the maesters bow themselves out, gathering notes and cups, casting quick, assessing looks at Baelor and the old wolf at his daughter’s bedside. The door shuts behind them with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
Silence settles.
Baelor takes a few steps closer, until he is near enough to see the way your lashes throw faint shadows on your cheeks, the way your fingers twitch now and then against the linen, as if chasing something in a dream.
“Was it worth it?” Stark asks.
Baelor looks up. The northern lord has not moved, but his eyes are on him now, stormy and merciless.
“She dragged you out of the way of that arrow,” Stark goes on, voice low, every word honed to hard ice. “Took it in her own flesh. I rode south with a daughter and an heir, dragon. You would tell me if that bargain was worth the cost?”
There is no good answer. Only the truth.
“I would have died,” Baelor admits quietly. “If she hadn’t moved me, I would not be standing in this room. That is not conjecture. The angle, the distance—” He forces himself to swallow. “It was meant for me. She interposed herself.”
“And you call that worth it?” Stark’s mouth twists dangerously. “My daughter’s life for your hide.”
Baelor takes the hit. Lets it land. There is no point ducking what he already believes.
“No.” The word is soft, and it is the hardest thing he has said all day. “No life is worth hers in that calculus. Least of all mine. But she chose to move. I do not have the arrogance to decide she was wrong.”
Stark’s eyes narrow a fraction. “So you’ll put the blame on her shoulders, then,” he says. “Convenient.”
Baelor’s temper flares, quick and hot, then is banked again by sheer habit. He makes himself breathe in and out.
“I will wear the blame for this until the day I die,” he responds, and the steadiness in his voice surprises even him. “I brought her into those woods. My men rode with us. My guard failed to catch the cracks in our line. Whatever she chose to do once the arrows flew, the fault that there were arrows at all is mine. I will not pretend otherwise.”
He takes another step until the end of the bed is a bare arm’s length away.
“But hear me, Lord Stark,” he says, and this time there is something harder under the words. “What she did there—the courage she showed—is not a weight I will ever set on the wrong side of the scales. That arrow changed the shape of my debt to your house. It is not one I mean to forget.”
Stark watches him for a long, measuring moment. He looks very tired, Baelor realises. It sits under the anger like an old wound. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper tonight; his shoulders sag a fraction, though his spine remains straight.
“She is my only child,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Did you know that?”
Baelor looks at you. At the way your hand lies open on the coverlet, palm up, as if reaching for a sword hilt that isn’t there.
“Yes,” he says. “I do.”
“She has no brothers,” Stark goes on. “No pack to lose her in or to guard her. Just me, and a keep full of men who think they know what’s best for her.” His jaw ticks, a shadow passing over his rugged face. “I would mourn every man who rides under my banner, if I lost him. But she—” he looks down at you, and something in his face loosens, raw and unguarded, “she is my heart made flesh. You have younger brothers, Baelor. You’ve watched your mother look at you boys as if the whole world could fall and she’d still be holding it by the scruff for you. You ought to understand.”
“I do,” Baelor says again, more quietly.
Silence stretches. The fire pops. Somewhere below, a bell chimes the hour.
“The crown,” Barthogan says at last, “brought her south. The crown promised this was a visit for peace, for closer ties, for some bright tale about wolves and dragons not tearing at one another’s throats. The crown owes me an accounting for why my girl lies full of southern poison on a Targaryen bed.”
Baelor meets his gaze. Does not look away.
“Then let me start paying,” he says.
The words come out before he can overthink them, clear and absolute.
“I swear to you, my lord, this is a debt I will never forget. The crown will stand with House Stark until I am gone and my bones are ash. As long as I draw breath in this castle, there will be no hand raised against the North that does not find mine raised against it in turn. What she has done—what you have risked by sending her here—binds me.”
Stark’s eyes flash, something like grim satisfaction sparking under the ice, and something wary.
“You are bold,” he voices, and there is a faint rasp of impatience in it now. “But you are not king. Not yet. You cannot speak binding fealty for your father, not in those words. I will not have you swearing oaths that do not belong to you to give.”
“I know my place,” Baelor replies.
Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he steps to the side of the bed, turns, and drops to one knee.
The stone is hard under him, his bad leg protesting, but he barely feels it. His hand finds the familiar curve of his sword-hilt and rests there, not drawing, simply anchoring himself in the old forms.
He looks up at Barthogan Stark from his knees, the old wolf’s shadow falling long across him in the lamplight.
“I do not speak now as Hand.” His voice is low but sure. “Nor as Daeron’s heir. I speak as Baelor, son of Old Valyria, man of this house.” His fingers tighten on the leather-wrapped hilt. “Whatever kings decide, whatever storms the realm walks into, I will watch over your daughter until the day I die. In court, in council, in whatever field the gods are cruel enough to throw us onto—I will stand at her side. You have my word on that, and if there is any worth in my name at all, I lay it here.”
The words leave him feeling strangely lighter and more burdened all at once. It is, in truth, only the shape of what has already settled in his bones. Saying it aloud feels less like an oath and more like admitting something he has been carrying for longer than he knew.
Stark looks down at him.
For an unnerving moment, his face is unreadable. Then something in it shifts—a tiny softening around the eyes, a fraction’s easing of the hard line of his mouth. The old wolf’s gaze flicks from Baelor’s face to yours and back again.
“You’d make that vow,” he says slowly, “for any highborn girl with a good sword-hand, would you?”
Baelor holds his stare. “No,” he says simply.
The admission hangs in the air, stark as winter sky. Something like understanding passes through Barthogan Stark’s eyes. A grim amusement, perhaps, or resignation, or the bitter, reluctant recognition of a pattern: Targaryen princes and Stark girls, always drawn like storm and snow.
“You look at her like your father once looked at Dorne,” he mutters. “As if you’ve seen the piece you were missing and now can’t imagine the board without it.”
Baelor’s breath stutters, just once.
“I look at her,” he says carefully, “as a woman who saved my life at the cost of nearly losing her own. As a lord’s daughter who walked into dragon country with her head high. As someone, the realm will be the poorer for if we let her slip away.” His gaze drops to your face, the sheen of fever on your brow. “As someone I would rather not have to learn to live without.”
A corner of Stark’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.
“Then you had best speak with your father,” he says, a weary glimmer in his gaze. “Plainly, for once. About the true nature of this visit. About what kind of bond the crown intends to forge with the North.” His eyes narrow. “If Daeron means for my girl to be a southern pawn, he can say so to your face. If he means her to be more, he can stop playing at shadows and put the truth on a page.”
Baelor thinks of the half-said things in council; of the way Daeron’s gaze had lingered on you over supper in the hall, watching you speak plainly of winter roads and lean harvests with a small, approving tilt to his mouth; and of the ride, when you’d almost told him what your father had laid on your shoulders and then swallowed it back, right before all hells broke loose.
“I will,” he says. “He owes you that honesty. He owes her more than this.” His hand tightens reflexively on his sword again. “And so do I.”
Barthogan studies him for another heartbeat, then nods once, curt and decisive.
“Good,” he grunts. “Then we understand one another.”
He pushes to his feet with a faint grunt, old joints complaining. He stands looking down at you, the lines of his face softened by something that has nothing to do with Baelor or crowns—just a father watching his child breathe.
Then he turns.
“You have ten minutes with her,” he tells him, voice back to that rough, practical cadence. “No more. After that, I want you gone out of my sight for the night, prince or no. If I see you again before dawn, dragon, we may say things we can’t take back.”
Baelor inclines his head. “Ten minutes,” he agrees.
Lord Stark gives him one last, long look—as if fixing the sight of a prince on his knees beside his daughter’s bed into memory—and then strides past him, out into the corridor. The door closes with a quiet thud.
The room feels larger and smaller all at once. Baelor exhales, only then realising how tightly he has been holding his breath. Slowly, he rises from his knee, his bad leg complaining in earnest now. He steps closer to the bed until he can rest his hand lightly on the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch you if he dares.
For a moment, he simply stands there, looking down at you. The lamplight paints your skin and shadow. Your lips are parted just enough for breath. He can see the flutter of your pulse at your throat, a frail, stubborn drum beneath the smear of salve.
“Ten minutes,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
He reaches out and, very carefully, takes your uninjured hand in both of his. The bones of your fingers feel small and strong against his palms. Your skin is hotter than it should be.
“I am here,” he says, barely louder than the crackle of the brazier. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time since the arrow flew, the knot in his chest loosens by a fraction.
For a while, Baelor only sits. The chair at your bedside is hard and too low; it puts a kink in his bad knee and a twinge in his back. He doesn’t move. His whole world has shrunk to the strip of mattress where your hand lies and the narrow rise and fall of your chest.
He traces the lines of your fingers with his gaze, the way other men might trace maps—learning them, committing them to memory. The callus along your forefinger from a bowstring. The faint, jagged scar at the base of your thumb that he’s never noticed before. The way your nails are cut, blunt and neat, fit for leather and reins rather than courtly embroidery. He swallows and shifts, just enough to bring your hand closer. Very carefully, as if afraid you’ll break, he cups your fingers between his palms and lifts them. Your skin is hot, fever-bright, but the weight of your hand is its own kind of anchor.
He bends his head and presses your knuckles to his forehead.
The contact is small, almost nothing, but it cracks something in him wide open.
“I am sorry,” he breathes, and the words scrape raw on the way out. They hang in the quiet room like smoke. “Gods forgive me, I am so damned sorry.”
He doesn’t know who he’s apologising to, exactly. To you, for bringing you into his father’s woods with only a handful of white cloaks and a promise. To his own gods, perhaps, for being foolish enough to think he could braid peace out of old grudges without anyone bleeding for it.
He breathes in, your hand still at his brow, and lets it out slowly.
“The Mother,” he begins, because that is where everyone begins. “You have sons enough across this bloody realm. One more will not strain you. Watch over her. Ease the pain if you can. Give her… give her back to her father with breath in her lungs and that tongue still sharp.”
His mouth twitches, despite everything, at that.
“The Father,” he goes on, quieter. “Judge me for this if you must. I will not argue the sentence. But judge her kindly. She came south in good faith. None of this was her doing.”
His thumb strokes absently along the back of your hand, feeling the fragile hammer of your pulse.
“The Warrior,” he murmurs. “Stand at her bedside for a while. You know she’d hate lying here helpless. Lend her some of your stubbornness until hers wakes up again.”
He hesitates over the next.
“The Stranger…” His jaw tightens. “You keep away from her. Do you hear me? You’ve had enough Starks these past years. Go haunt the bastards who loosed the arrow instead.”
It feels blasphemous to speak to the gods like recalcitrant children. It also feels, inexplicably, right. If any man in this realm has earned the right to talk back to heaven, it is one who has spent half his life trying to keep it from falling on people’s heads.
Baelor exhales and shifts your hand in his grip, turning it so that your fingers rest more easily against his mouth.
He kisses your smallest knuckle first, a ghost of a touch. A rite whispered into skin instead of stone.
“Forgive me,” he breathes against it.
He moves to the next. The third. Slow, reverent, the words unspooling in time with the soft press of his lips.
“For the road I chose.”
“For the guards I trusted.”
“For not seeing the crack until it broke under us.”
He kisses the line where your fingers meet your palm, eyes closing for a heartbeat.
“Forgive me,” he breathes out, “for thinking, even for a moment, that my life was worth the risk you took.”
He feels ridiculous and utterly sincere all at once.
If you were awake, you would probably roll your eyes at him, make some cutting remark about Targaryen theatre and the way dragons like to wrap guilt around themselves like cloaks. The thought nearly makes him smile. Nearly.
By the time he reaches your thumb, his mouth lingers.
“And forgive me,” he says softly, “for wanting things it is not my place to want.”
The admission hangs somewhere between you and the rafters. Baelor does not unpack it, even in his own head. It is enough that it has been given shape. Slowly, reluctantly, Baelor lowers your hand. He smooths the blanket beside you and lays your fingers there, arranging them with a care that would seem absurd to anyone watching. Thumb tucked just so, palm relaxed. As if you might wake and be irritated to find it cramped.
For a long moment, he simply looks.
He tries to fix the sight of you in his mind—not as you were in the wood, bloodied and reeling, nor as some court painter might one day try to catch you: all heraldry and poise. Just you. Hair damp and messy against the linen. Brow furrowed faintly even in sleep, as if arguing with someone in a dream. The set, stubborn line of your jaw.
He takes it in like a man drinking before a long march.
As he watches, something else loosens and shifts inside him, like a stone turning over at the bottom of a river.
He thinks of his father’s face these past weeks; the way Daeron’s eyes have flicked between you and him in council. The careful questions about northern customs. The way talk of marriages has crept closer to the Stark name each time the subject returns, always from some lord’s lips, never the king’s, and always redirected with a mildness that leaves too much unsaid.
He hears again Barthogan’s words: You had best speak with your father. Plainly, for once.
He has been telling himself, until now, that this visit was about trade and peace and the pleasant fiction of tours and hunts and unity. That his father’s silence on betrothals has been courtesy rather than calculation. That he, Baelor, could stand between you and any bargain he did not like simply by refusing to give it his name. Now, with your hand still warm from his lips and your blood still seeping into his father’s sheets, he allows himself to see it as it is.
Daeron means to bind wolf and dragon with more than ink.
It hits him, then, what he has been pretending not to see: that when his father looks at you, and then at him, he is not only thinking of peace and grain tithes. He is seeing a future drawn sharp as ink—you at Baelor’s side, not as a guest, not as negotiated ally, but as wife. As queen.
The shape of his life tilts beneath that thought.
For the first time, he lets himself follow it out fully: you in crimson and black at his right hand, your voice at his shoulder in council, your hand resting casual and steady on his arm at court. The two of you riding out from this keep side by side. Your laughter off the stone of his solar, your wolf set loose in the dragon’s den and utterly unafraid. It is dizzying, how easily the picture comes once he stops fighting it.
And under all of that—hot and startling and entirely, selfishly his—the sudden, treacherous awareness of what it might be like to kiss you without restraint or fear of consequence. To feel your mouth open under his, not in some fevered, guilty imagining, but as a right given and returned. The idea burns through Baelor so sharply he’s abruptly glad he is sitting; if he were standing, he thinks, his knees might have betrayed him.
His whole life, he has trained himself not to want. Want makes princes careless; it makes kings cruel. He has been content with duty, with the clean, cold satisfaction of doing what is needful.
Now, for the first time, he wants so much that the wanting itself feels like a living thing in his chest—and the cruellest part is how possible it suddenly seems.
It terrifies him.
It steadies him.
“Of course,” he whispers, more to himself than to you, “this is what he meant.”
He sits back slightly, drawing in a slow breath, feeling the contours of this new certainty settle around his ribs.
If you live—and the thought is a hard, unforgiving if—the path ahead has changed. Not in some hypothetical, distant way, but in the precise angles of conversations he will need to have with his Father, with Lord Stark, with the realm. He is his father’s Hand. He has spent years shaping other people’s futures in small, careful increments. He has never truly let himself consider the shape of his own.
Now, holding your hand print still faint on his lips, Baelor begins to.
“Wake up,” he says gently, leaning forward, his voice barely more than breath. “We have work to do, you and I. Deals to make. Old ghosts to settle. My father to needle.”
He allows himself one last touch—his fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair back from your forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages at your shoulder.
“Just… stay,” he adds, so quietly he is not sure whether even the gods can hear it. “Stay, and I will make the rest of it right. As much as any man can.”
Outside, somewhere in the depths of the castle, a bell tolls again, marking the passing of another hour.
His ten minutes are nearly gone.
Baelor sits there a moment longer, fixing the sight of you, the feel of your hand, the shape of his own resolve in his chest. Then, with a reluctance that aches in his bones, he eases his fingers from yours and rises to his feet.
He looks down at you once more.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he says softly. “Try not to terrify too many maesters in my absence.”
Baelor turns toward the door, his knee complaining, his shoulders set.
His father waits.
—
Daeron’s solar is still lit when Baelor finds his way there.
The torches in the corridor outside have burned low; their light throws long, wavering shadows over the dragon-carved door. Two white cloaks stand guard, helms under their arms, expressions carefully blank. Baelor nods to them; one reaches for the handle at once.
“His Grace is—”
“Awake,” Daeron’s voice calls from within, dry and precise. “Let him in.”
The solar smells of ink and cooling wax, with a lingering thread of something softer—citrus and myrrh, the scent of Dorne.
Maps and ledgers litter the great table in the centre of the room, pushed into uneasy heaps. A decanter of wine stands half-empty, two cups beside it. One of them is clearly Daeron’s: smudged where ink-stained fingers have gripped the stem. The other is untouched, its surface unbroken, catching firelight in a dark, garnet gleam.
By the hearth, in a tall chair pulled close to the warmth, sits Queen Myriah.
She has shed her courtly armour for the night: no jewels, no stiff brocade, only a deep red gown that falls soft over her, silk sleeves pushed to the elbow. Her dark hair is braided loose over one shoulder, a few silver threads winking where the light catches. A piece of embroidery lies forgotten in her lap, needle still caught in the half-finished spray of orange blossoms. Her bare feet rest on a low stool; she looks, for a moment, less like a queen and more like a tired mother sitting up too late.
Her head comes up as Baelor steps in. “Bael,” she breathes, the syllable soft with relief.
Daeron stands with his back to the room, hands braced on the stone sill, looking out at his city. He has shed crown and cloak; only the simple chain at his throat marks him as anything but a thin, weary man of middle years. The lamplight picks out the streaks of silver in his golden hair, the familiar line of his shoulders. His reflection in the glass is more dragon than scholar tonight—hard mouth, hard eyes, a contained fire.
“Busy day,” he notes without turning. “I’ve just spent an hour assuring half the realm’s loudest lords that the North is not about to rise in open rebellion because we let their wolf princess get shot on our doorstep.”
Baelor closes the door behind him. The sound clicks into the quiet.
“How did they take it?” he asks. His voice comes out steadier than he feels.
“In the way of men who would like something to be frightened of,” Daeron replies. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, then finally turns to face his son. “Half of them smelling opportunity, half of them smelling doom. All of them, for the moment, leashed.” He studies Baelor’s face for a heartbeat; his gaze catches on the smear of dried blood still at his collar, the hollows under his eyes. “How is she?”
“Alive,” Baelor replies. The word has become a litany. “For now. Aerys believes the worst of the poison has been checked. The next days will decide how much of her the venom tried to take with it.”
Something in Daeron’s face eases. Not much. But enough that the lines at the corners of his mouth soften.
“Good,” he says quietly. “The realm is fragile enough without us murdering our guests, however accidentally.”
Behind him, Myriah lets out a breath she’s been holding since he spoke.
“Thank the gods,” she murmurs in her lilting accent. She rises from her chair with the easy grace that never quite left her, even as the years piled their small indignities onto her joints. Crossing the room, she reaches Baelor in a rustle of silk.
Up close, she smells of sun-warmed fruit and smoke from the fire. Her hands come up to his face without hesitation, thumbs brushing the edge of the dried blood at Baelor’s jaw, as if reassuring herself that it is not his.
“My son,” she says softly, Dornish vowels smoothing the words. “You are whole.”
“For now,” he echoes, and tries to smile for her.
Myriah’s mouth trembles. She leans in and kisses his cheek, just below the smear of red, as if staking her own claim over the mark. Her fingers rest a moment against his jaw, warm and firm.
“I have sent prayers for her every hour,” she tells him. “For the wolf-girl. The one who dragged you out of the path.” There is a fierce gratitude in her eyes now, brightening the tiredness. “I will send more.”
“Thank you, Mother. Lady Stark will appreciate all the help she can get,” Baelor says, and his voice comes out rougher than he meant.
Myriah’s gaze lingers on him, searching, weighing. She has always been better than his father at seeing the spaces between what he says. Daeron clears his throat lightly.
“Myriah,” he prompts gently. “Baelor and I need a moment.”
She glances over her shoulder at him, one brow lifting.
“Alone?” she asks. There is a wry aside in it: as if the last time she left the two of them alone, they were boys with stolen lemons.
“This time, yes,” Daeron answers. “We won’t be long.”
She looks back at Baelor. “Then I will go and sit with the girl’s father,” she decides. “He looks like a man who might snap if left alone too long with his thoughts. I know something of those.”
Her hand squeezes Baelor’s cheek once more before she lets him go.
“Do not stay on your feet all night,” she chides gently. “You walk like your grandfather when the rains come. Rest when you can. She will not wake faster for you wearing yourself to bone.”
“Yes, Mother,” Baelor says, because it is easier than promising anything else.
Myriah smiles, small and sharp and achingly fond. Then she pivots on bare, ring-gleaming feet and crosses back to the door, gathering her shawl from the back of a chair as she goes. The white cloaks outside straighten as she passes; she nods to them as if they are old acquaintances.
The door closes behind her with a soft thud. The room feels different without her—the warmth she carries gone in an instant, leaving ink and wax and dragonstone chill.
Daeron gestures toward the table.
“Sit, if you can stand to,” he says. “You look like a man who’s been dragged behind a horse all day.”
Baelor almost laughs at that. Almost. Instead, he stays where he is, just inside the room, fingers flexing once at his sides, as if testing whether they will obey him.
“There is something I need to ask you,” he says tightly.
Daeron’s brows lift a fraction. “Only one thing? Either you are merciful, or you are very focused.”
“I’m trying to be,” Baelor answers. He draws in a breath that tastes of old smoke and wine. “What are your intentions toward House Stark?”
The question hangs in the air, blunt as a hammer. Daeron regards him for a long, silent moment.
“Specific,” he hums thoughtfully. “You must be very tired indeed.”
Baelor doesn’t look away. “Father.”
“Very well.”
Daeron exhales and pushes away from the window. He moves with that deliberate, unhurried gait that always makes courtiers forget how quickly he can strike if he chooses. The hem of his robe whispers over the stone. He comes to a halt on the far side of the table, resting his hands against the scarred wood where a hundred other arguments have been fought and settled.
“You are not a fool,” he begins. “You have seen the talk circling. You can likely recite by rote half the arguments I would make about glaciers and dragonfire and what it means, symbolically, to yoke North and South in marriage rather than war.”
“I have,” Baelor admits. His voice feels thick in his throat. “I would rather hear you say it plainly.”
Daeron inclines his head, the motion small, the chain at his throat catching the light.
“Plainly, then,” he says. “I have proposed a match between our houses. A formal alliance. Blood for blood. Wolf and dragon, bound by law and gods both.”
Baelor’s heart beats once, hard, like a fist against his ribs. Heat and cold wash through him in the same breath.
“And the match is?” he asks. The words feel strange in his mouth, as if his tongue has forgotten the shape of them.
Daeron’s gaze sharpens, weighing him with new care.
“To Maekar,” he answers calmly. “Stark’s girl for my youngest son. The North for the steel in our hand, not the quill in it.”
Everything inside Baelor goes very, very quiet.
The solar doesn’t spin, the floor doesn’t drop; there is no shock like an arrow’s impact. It is slower than that. A steady, inexorable tipping somewhere deep behind his breastbone, as if someone has taken the board of his life and leaned it, letting all the neat, ordered pieces tumble into a new pattern he doesn’t recognise.
He feels the words hit, one after another.
To Maekar.
Stark’s girl.
Not you.
The dragon in him—coiled so long under iron discipline it has almost forgotten its own name—unfurls in a sudden, searing lash of instinct.
Mine, something in his blood whispers, hot and ugly and very old. She stood between us and death. She bled for us. She walked into our fire and did not flinch. Ours.
He clamps his teeth on it, jaw aching. Across the table, Daeron is still speaking. The words come from a long way off, as if through water.
“—a practical match,” his father is saying. “Maekar is a soldier; the North understands that kind of strength. They will trust him to hold a line with them, to bleed with them if need be. It gives him a power-base that is his, not mine, which he will need when you wear the crown, and he has to reconcile himself to standing a step below you. It tells the realm that we value the North for more than its spears—that we are willing to give them a prince and not some third cousin with a dragon on his cloak and nothing behind it.”
He’s thought this through. Of course, he has. Baelor can see every tidy line of logic, laid out like a game of cyvasse already half-won. Black and white, glacier and dragonfire, all in their proper places.
Under it, his own need prowls, furious and bewildered.
He thinks of Maekar, broad-shouldered and blunt, sitting at your bedside trying not to look worried. Maekar, who grumbled and swore and then called you brave, as if the word had been dragged out of him with tongs. Maekar, who has never wanted the crown and would take the North with grim, competent hands and never think twice about the girl at the centre of the bargain, except to be loyal in the way Baelor already knows he would.
It should comfort him. It doesn’t.
The dragon in his chest snarls again, quieter but more persistent now, pressing hot against his ribs.
He will take what you want and not even know he holds it. He will have her laugh, and her temper, and the way she looks at a man whose word she trusts. He will have the right to stand beside her when the snows come. And you will have a story about peace to tell yourself in the dark.
“And now,” Daeron goes on, oblivious to the stillness forming on Baelor’s side of the table, “this attack sharpens it. She has bled to keep the crown prince safe. You could not ask the gods for a more potent argument. We can take this… outrage, and turn it. Show the realm that such loyalty—standing between dragon and arrow—is honoured. We marry her into our blood, lend Stark our name, make it clear that we value this kind of courage above all else. It strengthens the story, Baelor. It strengthens us.”
He looks up, eyes bright with a tired, grim sort of conviction. He believes this. He has held this realm together with stories like this—hurt turned to heraldry, wounds turned to warnings.
Baelor hears his own voice break the air.
“No,” he says.
The word falls into the room like a dropped blade. Baelor doesn’t recognise the sound. It is too flat. Too hard. There is none of his usual careful tempering in it. No softening for his father’s sake, no instinctive bend toward compromise. Daeron blinks, the flow of his reasoning checked as cleanly as if someone had knocked over all his little carved dragons.
“Baelor—”
“No,” Baelor repeats. The second time, it comes easier, pulled up from deeper. “You cannot use this.”
His father’s mouth tightens. “Use—?” There’s a flash of real offence there, under the exhaustion. “Gods, boy, I am trying to make it matter. To ensure this is not just another pointless hurt. We were struck through her. We answer by raising her. That is not exploitation; it is—”
“No,” Baelor says again, and it costs him more than any order he has ever given men in the field. “You will not bind her to Maekar. Not for this.”
The ringing in his ears is louder now than the crackle of the fire. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, his throat. His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists until the leather of his gloves creaks in protest. Every lesson of his life screams at him to stand down. To soften. To turn the word into something more palatable—perhaps, Father, or we should consider other options. To swallow the raw edge and offer it back in a shape Daeron can take without cutting his hands.
The dragon in him bares its teeth and refuses.
She is not a piece for you to move, it hisses. She is the hand that knocked the arrow aside. She is the one who bit a man’s hand to keep breathing. She is ours.
Daeron straightens fully, the years falling from him in an instant. The king is there suddenly, not just the worn man staring down an ungrateful realm. His presence fills the solar the way heat fills a forge; the air feels thinner, tighter around the edges.
“Be careful,” he says softly. “You have never spoken to me this way before.”
“I know,” Baelor answers, and that, too, is true. Every syllable feels like treason against habit, against love.
He loves this man. Loves him in that endless, bone-deep way that comes from watching him hold a shattered kingdom together for years. Baelor has built half his life on being the son Daeron can lean on without having to look, the one who does not make trouble, who smooths and soothes and mends.
And still.
“I cannot allow this match,” he forces out.
The words fall between them and stay there, heavy and undeniable. Silence stretches, taut as a drawn bowstring. In the hearth, a log settles with a soft sigh and a flurry of sparks. Daeron’s eyes narrow—not with immediate anger, but with something more dangerous: dawning comprehension. He has always been quick at reading the currents under men’s words; he would not be the king he is otherwise.
“And why is that?” The question is soft, almost gentle; the steel is all underneath. “You have spoken at length, these past years, about the value of Northern steel and the need to bring the Starks closer. You have argued for marriages with less enthusiasm than this house deserves. Now, when the alliance is all but offered, you balk. Why?”
Baelor looks away.
His gaze finds the window, the dark smear of the city beyond. The glass gives him back a ghost of himself: hollow-eyed, jaw clenched, a smear of someone else’s blood at his throat. Behind that reflection, faint and doubled, his father waits.
Say it, the dragon in him urges savagely. Tell him she is yours. Tell him you will not see her in another man’s arms while you still draw breath, even if it’s your blood.
Baelor’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
“Do not make me say it,” he manages.
“A king,” Daeron replies coolly, and there is no give in him now, “does not build on what his sons cannot bear to name. You want to stand at my right hand and at my place when I am gone, you will speak plain. I will not be led by stammers and silences. Not in this.”
It is unfair. It is entirely, precisely fair.
Baelor’s breath comes shorter. The room feels too small; the walls too close. He pushes away from the patch of stone where he had unconsciously braced himself, crossing the solar in three quick strides. The map-strewn table stands between them like a painted battlefield. Little carved dragons and wolves dot its surface, marking supply lines and winter stores and levy strengths. It looks, suddenly, obscene.
He sets his hands on the wood, fingers splaying against the old cuts and ink stains. The urge to sweep it all onto the floor—to send their tidy plans flying—is a hot flash in his muscles. He masters it, straightening instead, drawing himself up as if he were armoured.
His heart is beating too fast; he can hear it in his ears, feel it in his neck and in his teeth.
“If you wish,” he says, each word chosen and placed like a stone, “to wed Lady Stark to anyone in this house…”
He steps around the edge of the table, closing the last of the distance. Now there is nothing between them but air, and blood, and the weight of the day—the memory of you crumpling in the leaves, the taste of your name in his prayers.
The dragon in him lifts its head, eyes bright, teeth bared.
“... then it will be me.”
an: Everyone wanted Baelor POV, and boy I hope it delivered (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞ so excited to hear your thoughts, see you soon~
Synopsys: The love story of two childhood best friends
Tw:Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Character Death, Tragic Romance, Targaryen Incest (canon-typical, cousins), Eventual Happy Ending (for the dragons), Fix-It of Sorts, Childbirth/Labor, Pregnancy Complications, Grief/Mourning, Death in Childbirth, reincarnation. To keep the story inclusive and allow readers to envision themselves in Y/ N, the physical appearance pf her mother is intentionally never described nor her family of origin.
wc 16k
requested by @itsnotsonat07
Maekar
The halls of Summerhall were quiet, that much Maekar remembered. The hour was deep, the kind that blurred the boundary between night and morning, and he had worn a groove into the stone floor of the antechamber. His boots scuffed against the same flags, the torchlight casting his shadow long and restless against the walls.
Inside, his wife labored. He was not accustomed to waiting. Maekar Targaryen was a man of action, of swordplay and saddle, of hard leather and harder judgment. He had little patience for courts and ceremonies, for the slow dance of ravens and whispers that his father the king conducted so deftly. But this was a different sort of trial, there was no enemy to face, no tourney to win. Only the muffled sounds beyond the door, and the rhythmic pace of his own feet.
Dawn crept pale through the high windows. The birds of Summerhall began their chorus. And then, at last, a cry.
Thin and furious, a needle of sound piercing the heavy oak. Maekar stopped mid-stride, his hand finding the doorframe before he could think better of it.
The midwife emerged, flushed and smiling. “A daughter, my prince. Born first, and fierce as any dragon, and then a boy, quiet but healthy and strong.” He did not wait for permission. The room was warm, too warm, the fire stoked high against the morning chill. His wife lay propped against pillows, her hair damp at the temples, her smile tired but true. In her arms, a small bundle stirred and squalled.
Maekar approached the bed as though it were a battlefield. He had faced armed men with less trepidation. “She has your temperament,” She murmured, her voice worn soft. “She has not stopped protesting since she entered this world.”
He looked down at his daughter. She was impossibly small. Her face was creased, her fists clenched tight, her cries fierce and unrelenting. Maekar had held infants before but he had never felt this particular weight settle in his chest.
“She does not like me,” he observed. She laughed, a sound like water over stone. “She does not like anyone yet” The cries continued, sharp and insistent. The wet nurse stepped forward, but the babe would not be soothed. She would not take milk, would not be rocked, would not be swaddled tighter or looser or any of the thousand small adjustments the women attempted.
Maekar stood apart, useless. He had fought in wars, rebellions, had earned his spurs and his scars, had proven himself a thousand times over. And yet he could not quiet his own daughter. “Let me,” he said. She lifted the bundle, her arms steady despite their exhaustion, and offered their daughter to her father.
Maekar took her. He was not certain, afterward, what he had expected. Perhaps that she would continue to wail, and he would be forced to return her, confirmed in his suspicion that he was ill-suited to this particular tenderness. Perhaps that the weight of her would shatter him entirely, this small and furious thing that he had somehow helped create.
Instead, she quieted. Not slowly, not reluctantly. The cries ceased as though they had never been. Her face, still creased turned toward his. Her eyes searched for something in his own.
And then her tiny hand found his beard. It was not a gentle touch. Her grip was immediate and absolute, her small fingers curling into the short-cropped hair at his jaw with surprising strength. She held fast, and she did not let go.
Maekar did not move. He scarcely breathed. He stood at his wife’s bedside, his armor shed but his leathers still stiff, his hands callused from sword and saddle, his reputation hard-won and carefully maintained and he was utterly, completely captured by a newborn babe who had seized his beard and would not release it.
His wife watched him. Her smile had deepened. “I think she likes your beard” she said. Maekar looked down at his daughter. She looked back at him, her grip unyielding, her expression—if such a small face could be said to possess expression—one of perfect satisfaction.
“I may have to cut it off,” he said. His voice was rougher than he intended. “To survive her.” But he did not move to free himself. He did not call for shears, did not summon a servant, did not even shift his weight to ease the insistent tug of her fingers. He stood, and he held her, and he let her hold him.
“What will you name her?” Maekar looked at her. His wife had her eyes closed now, her breathing slow and even, one hand resting on the small bundle that was their son. The maesters would attend to him shortly, for now, he slept, unaware of the world he had entered.
“Y/N,” She had said, in the brief moments between the births. If she is a girl, I would call her Y/N. Maekar had agreed without hesitation. “Y/N,” he said now. “Princess Y/N of House Targaryen.”
In the days that followed, the courtiers gossiped. Prince Maekar, they said, had always been the hardest of the king’s sons, the sharpest edge, the least yielding. He had no patience for softness, no time for tenderness. He was his father’s most dutiful son and his least affectionate.
But they watched him walk the halls of Summerhall with his daughter cradled in the crook of his arm, her small fingers tangled in his beard, and they revised their judgments. They watched him sit through council sessions with her asleep against his chest, his hand steady on her back, his attention divided between reports from the marches and the gentle rhythm of her breathing.
They watched him rise in the dark hours to pace the corridors when she would not be soothed by any other, his shadow long and patient, his voice—that voice they had heard only in command and reproach—murmuring quiet words they could not quite catch.
The years turned, as years do, and Summerhall ripened around them. Maekar watched his daughter grow as he had once watched the battle frontier. with vigilance, with attention, with the quiet certainty that something precious was being shaped and he would not let harm find it.
She was small. She would always be small, he suspected; His wife laughed and said her blood ran true in her, that her kind had never been giants. But what she lacked in height she answered in presence. Her step was quick, her gaze quicker, and she had a way of tilting her chin when she considered a question that reminded him of his father the king.
This was not, he reflected, a comfortable comparison. He saw it most clearly on the mornings when he passed the solar where her lady lessons were held. Septa Marcherys had a voice like a rusted hinge and a disposition to match, and through the crack in the door Maekar would hear her reciting the virtues expected of noblewomen: patience, obedience, silence. And he would hear his daughter's voice, perfectly polite, perfectly attentive and perfectly full of questions.
Septa Marcherys did not know how to answer these questions. She knew how to stitch, not how to explain stitching. She knew how to instruct, not how to illuminate. And his daughter, who had been born with her small hand curled in his beard and her eyes searching for something to hold, did not accept instruction without illumination.
She was seven when she first asked to join her brothers' lessons. "They are learning histories," she said. "I have finished my stitching." "Have you." He asked. "The septa said my work was exemplary." She delivered this without pride, as simple fact. "She said I had nothing more to learn from her today." "And the harp?"
"I played until my fingers ached. Mother said I might rest them." Maekar looked at the door. Beyond it, he could hear Maester Vyman's droning voice and the occasional shuffle of his sons—Daeron, eight now, and Aerion, six—attempting to remain attentive. His daughter looked at him with her steady gaze and her patient silence and her absolute certainty that he would find a way to grant her request.
He opened the door. Maester Vyman paused mid-sentence, his wispy eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. Prince Daeron turned in his seat, relief plain on his round face. Prince Aerion's attention sharpened with the particular interest he reserved for disruptions.
"My prince," said Maester Vyman. "Is there—"
"My daughter will join the lessons from now on."
It was not a request. Maester Vyman, who had served House Targaryen long enough to recognize the particular immovability of Prince Maekar's pronouncements, simply nodded and continued his lecture on the Unification of the Seven Kingdoms.
His daughter settled onto the bench beside Daeron, her hands folded, her attention absolute. She did not smile. She did not fidget. She listened as she did everything, completely.
Maester Vyman, to his credit, adjusted his instruction. When he spoke of Aegon the Conqueror, he spoke not only of battles and crowns but of governance, of the weight of rule, of the thousand small decisions that kept kingdoms from fracturing. And when he posed questions, he posed them to all three children alike.
His daughter answered each one correctly.
She was eight when she asked to learn archery. Maekar appointed Ser Gerold Lannister, a master bowman and he arrived with his finest yew bow and his most patient demeanor, prepared to instruct a princess in the gentle art of target shooting.
He left three hours later with a profound respect for Prince Maekar's daughter and a request to be informed if she ever wished to compete in a tourney.
She was nine when she asked to learn the sword. Maekar taught her himself. He cleared the solar of furniture, laid down mats of woven rush, and stood before his daughter with a blunted practice blade in each hand. She was so small. The sword, even the lightest he could find, seemed almost too heavy for her grip.
She was not naturally gifted. Her arms tired quickly, her wrists lacked strength, her height put her at constant disadvantage against any opponent of size. But she listened, and she learned, and she improved. And when she finally managed to land her blunted blade against his guard—not a hit, not truly, but contact enough to count—her smile was the brightest thing in Summerhall.
Maekar did not tell her that he had let her succeed. He did not tell her that he had slowed his parry, had left his guard a fraction lower than necessary, had given her the opening she needed. He simply nodded, and took the practice sword from her tired hands, and sent her to her mother for supper.
He did not tell her, either, that every day he watched her master some new skill—history, archery, the careful mathematics of household accounts—he felt the same sharp twist in his chest.
If only she had been born a boy.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, impossible to banish. If she had been born a boy, she would be his heir. She would inherit Summerhall, with its warm halls and its growing libraries and its gardens that she had mapped in such careful detail. She would carry his name forward, would rule with the same quiet competence she brought to everything she touched.
If she had been born a boy, he would not have to give her away. The letters came monthly. Sometimes weekly. From lords great and small, from the Reach and the Stormlands and once, audaciously, from lords of the free cities. Each letter praised Prince Maekar's daughter, her virtue, her beauty, her impeccable blood. Each letter proposed a match. Each letter offered gold and land and alliance.
Each letter received the same reply: Princess Y/N's hand is not presently available for discussion.
His father did not press. King Daeron was many things—patient, shrewd, possessed of a long view that Maekar had never quite mastered—but he was not cruel. He knew what the letters cost his son. He did not add to the weight.
But the letters kept coming. And every time Maekar dictated his refusal to the same long-suffering maester, he felt the same cold certainty settle into his bones.
He could not keep her forever.
She saw the ledgers his stewards brought and found the discrepancy the maesters had missed. She walked the gardens with the head gardener and asked why the western terrace received less sun, and by the following spring the terrace had been replanted with shade-loving varieties. She listened to the petitions Maekar heard as prince of Summerhall and, afterward, recounted each petitioner's name and grievance and the subtle tells that revealed which spoke true and which did not.
She was ten years old. His father, who had made peace with Dorne through marriage and diplomacy. His father, who had bent the realm to his will not through conquest but through patience. His father, who looked at his granddaughter and saw something Maekar was afraid to name.
"A remarkable girl," the king said, when she had been sent to bed. "She has your mother's mind." "She should be fostered," his father continued. "A year or two in a great house would broaden her experience. The Lannisters have daughters near her age. The Tyrells have expressed interest—"
"No." The word was out before Maekar could stop it. His father's pale violet gaze settled on him, patient, waiting.
"She is ten years old," Maekar said. "She is too young to leave home." "She is ten years old. She is not too young to begin preparing for her future." The king's voice was gentle. "You cannot keep her here forever, my son. You know this."
Maekar knew this. He knew that she would one day marry, would leave Summerhall for some other lord's castle, would bear some other house's children and answer to some other name. He knew that the letters would not be refused forever, that his father's patience had limits, that the realm required alliances and the princesses of the blood were currency in that endless negotiation.
He knew all of this. "She is ten years old," he repeated. "We will speak of fostering when she is older."
But the words lingered.You cannot keep her here forever. Maekar went to his daughter's chamber that night. She was asleep, her face peaceful, one hand curled against her pillow as it had once curled in his beard. The fire had burned low; the room was soft with shadow.
He sat beside her bed and watched her breathe. She was so small. She was so fierce. She was so utterly, completely herself, and every day she grew a little more toward a woman he would not recognize, a life he could not share.
She would leave, and the halls of Summerhall would grow quieter, and there would be no small hand reaching for his beard in the morning light. No voice asking why and how and what if. No patient correction of sums, no quiet triumph on the archery range, no chin tilted at that particular angle. She would leave. And he would let her. Because he was a prince of the realm, and his duty was to his house and his king, and fathers did not keep their daughters forever.
But not yet. He reached out and smoothed the hair from her forehead, careful not to wake her. She stirred slightly, murmured something unintelligible, and was still.
Maekar withdrew his hand. He sat in the darkness, watching his daughter sleep, and did not think about the letters on his desk or the weight of his father's words or the future he could not prevent.
He thought about tomorrow morning, when she would wake and find him breaking his fast in the solar. She would ask him about the new shipments from the Reach, or the correspondence with Lord Swann, or the progress of the garden terrace. She would pour his tea without being asked, the way she had done since she was old enough to lift the pot.
And when she passed his chair, she would reach out and tug, once, at his beard. She had not outgrown the habit. He had not encouraged her to. He sat in the darkness, and he waited for morning, and he did not think about the future at all.
YN
You called him Val. You met him when you were six and he was seven, a formal introduction in the great hall of King's Landing while your father stood stiff behind you. Prince Baelor had smiled, broad and warm, and ruffled his son's dark hair. Valarr had stared at his shoes.
"Your cousin," said Baelor. "Princess Y/N of Summerhall." Valarr had looked up, briefly, and then down again. His face had been very red.
You had studied him with the frank assessment of a child who had not yet learned that staring was impolite. He was shorter than you, which you found interesting. He was round in the cheeks and round in the middle, his fine clothes straining slightly at the seams. His hands were small and soft, clasped tightly before him. "Hello," you said.
"Hello," he whispered. And that was that.
Or it was, until you discovered him hiding behind the tapestry in the corridor outside the small council chamber. He had not been difficult to find. The tapestry billowed slightly, betraying his presence, and when you pulled it aside he was pressed against the stone wall with his hands over his face and his breathing quick and shallow.
"What are you doing?" you asked. He did not answer. His shoulders shook. You considered the situation with the same practical attention you brought to your lady lessons. He was hiding. He was sad. He was your cousin, and his face was very red, and his hands were pressed so tightly against his eyes that his knuckles had gone white.
You sat down beside him. "I don't like it here either," you said. "Everyone is very loud. My father says the courtiers talk more than fishwives and have less sense."
A pause. His breathing slowed slightly. "My mother made me wear this tunic," he whispered. "It pinches."
You examined the tunic. It was velvet, deep blue, embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of dragon scales. It did, indeed, look very pinched.
"My mother makes me wear dresses with too many buttons," you said. "I told her buttons are inefficient. She said I would understand when I was older."
"She always says that."
"Who?"
"Mother." His hands lowered slightly, just enough to reveal one watery eye. "She says I will understand when I am older. But I don't think I will. I think I will just be older and still not understand."
You considered this. It seemed, to you, a perfectly reasonable fear.
"Maybe," you said, "we will both be older and neither of us will understand anything, and everyone else will be very confused."
Valarr looked at you. His eyes were different, one blue, a pale shade like the sky on winter mornings, and one a warm chocolate brown. His lashes were wet. "That would be funny," he said.
"It would be very funny."
He smiled. It was a small smile, hesitant, as though he were not entirely certain he was permitted it. But it was there.
He did not hide behind the tapestry again. Not while you were at court, at least.
You teased him. You could not help it. He was so easy to tease, his round cheeks flushing pink at the slightest provocation, his gaze dropping to his shoes whenever someone spoke too directly to him. The courtiers called him solemn, you called him pudding-face, and watched his blush spread from his cheeks to his ears to the very tips of his ears.
"I am not," he protested, but his mouth was already twitching toward a smile.
"You are. You have pudding where your chin should be." You poked the soft curve of his jaw. "And pudding here, and pudding—"
He swatted your hand away, laughing despite himself. "You are very mean."
"I am honest. There is a difference."
"You are mean, and I do not have to listen to you."
"You do not have to listen to me," you agreed. "But you will anyway, because you like me."
His blush deepened. He did not deny it.
He was ten when he informed you, with great solemnity, that he had decided to marry you.
You were nine, which was old enough to know that marriage was something adults arranged and children did not decide. You were also old enough to know that Valarr's mother had been speaking of betrothals, and that he had been listening more carefully than anyone realized.
"You cannot marry me," you said. "You are my cousin."
"So?" His brow furrowed. "Targaryens marry each other all the time. Father says it keeps the blood pure."
You had no argument for this. You had heard the same reasoning yourself, though you found it unconvincing. The Targaryens had been marrying each other for centuries, and they were no less peculiar for it.
"Even so," you said. "You cannot marry me unless you can beat me with a sword."
He blinked. "A sword?"
"Any man who wishes to be my husband must prove himself worthy." You had heard this somewhere—perhaps from Septa Marcherys, perhaps from one of the romances the older ladies whispered about when they thought the children weren't listening. "He must defeat me in honorable combat."
"But you are a girl."
"And I practice with my father every morning. I can already parry a low thrust and execute a basic riposte." You had learned these words yesterday and were very pleased with them. "Can you?"
Valarr could not, his sword lessons consisted primarily of being knocked to the ground by his father's master-at-arms and told to try again. He was not bad, precisely, but he was not good, and he knew it.
"I will learn," he said, with more determination than you had ever heard from him. "I will practice every day. And when I can beat you, you will have to marry me."
"I will have to consider it," you said, with great dignity.
He nodded, satisfied. "That is fair."
He did practice. You watched him from the gallery, his small round form struggling through the same drills your father had taught you. He fell. He rose. He fell again. His master-at-arms shouted, his face grew red, his grip on the practice sword remained clumsy and uncertain.
But he did not stop.
He was eleven when he finally reached you.
It was not dramatic, no sudden spurt, no overnight transformation. But one morning you stood beside him in the corridor and realized, with faint surprise, that you no longer had to look down to meet his eyes.
You were the same height.
"I told you," you said. "I am still taller."
"You are a weed," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His gaze lingered on the top of your head, measuring the distance. "I will catch up. And get taller."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you will be short forever, and I will be very tall, and everyone will think you are my little brother."
"I am older than you."
"By a year. That is nothing. When we are old, a year will not matter at all."
He considered this. His face, still round, still prone to blushing, had begun to lose some of its baby softness. His jaw was taking shape; his shoulders were broadening, though slowly. His mother's indulgence had not diminished—she still sent sweetcakes to his chambers and fretted over his health—but he had grown into himself, somewhat.
"When we are old," he said, "I will be a great knight, and you will be my lady wife, and we will live in a castle by the sea."
"What sea?"
"Any sea. All seas. I will conquer one for you."
"That is very impractical. Castles by the sea are difficult to defend and prone to salt damage. Also, I don't like fish."
He laughed. He laughed often, now, when he was with you. It was a soft sound, easily startled into silence, but genuine.
"You are impossible," he said.
"I am practical. There is a difference."
He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes were hypnothising, and there was something in them you could not quite name.
You were twelve when your father took you home.
Summerhall was your home, had always been your home, and you had known this visit to court would end as all visits ended. But the knowledge had been abstract, distant, a fact without weight. You had not felt it in your chest, pressing against your ribs, until your father stood before you in the Red Keep's solar and told you to pack your things.
"Your mother misses you," he said. "Summerhall misses you. It is time to come home."
You nodded. You were a princess of the realm; you knew how to nod at commands you did not wish to obey.
Valarr found you in the library. He simply sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, and waited.
"My father is taking me home," you said.
"I know."
"Summerhall. Not court. Not—" Your voice caught. You had not expected it to catch. You were not a child who cried easily, had not cried since you were very small and your father had taken you into his arms and quieted you with his presence alone. "Not here."
"I know," he said again.
"I do not want to go," you whispered.
"I know."
You turned to look at him. His face was very still, very pale, his jaw set in a line you had never seen before. His eyes were bright, though he did not let them spill over.
"You will write to me," you said. It was not a question.
"Every week."
"And you will visit."
"When I can. Father says—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He says I am old enough to accompany him on progress. Perhaps we will come to Summerhall."
"Perhaps."
Silence. The library was dim, the afternoon light filtered through high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden shafts.
"I am still going to marry you," he said.
His voice was steady. His gaze was steady. His hands, clasped tightly in his lap, were not steady at all.
"I have not forgotten," he said. "I practice every day. Master Arlan says my footwork has improved. I can parry a low thrust and execute a basic riposte." His voice trembled slightly on the words, the ones you had taught him three years ago. "I am not good enough yet. But I will be. I will be good enough, and I will come to Summerhall, and I will beat you, and you will have to marry me."
You looked at him. His round face, his chocolate-sky eyes, his soft hands that were slowly growing callused from the sword. His earnestness, his determination, his absolute certainty that if he only tried hard enough, he could shape the world to match his wanting.
You had taught him that. You had pulled him out from behind his tapestries and taught him that wanting was not weakness, that reaching for things was not shameful, that the world might sometimes yield to those who asked it properly.
You had taught him, and now you were leaving.
"All right," you said.
He blinked. "All right?"
"All right. I will wait." Your voice was very small. "I will wait, and you will practice, and when you are good enough you will come to Summerhall and beat me. And then I will consider marrying you."
His smile was slow, hesitant, as though he were not entirely certain he was permitted it. But it was there.
"All right," he said. "It is a promise."
"It is a promise."
You left at dawn.
Your father's hand was warm on your shoulder, steadying you as the carriage lurched into motion. You did not look back. You had learned, from years of watching courtiers come and go, that looking back only made the parting harder.
But you felt it, all the same. The weight of the Red Keep receding behind you, the distance growing between your heart and the boy with winter-sky eyes. You felt it settle into your chest, heavy and cold, and you did not know what name to give it.
Your father did not speak. His hand remained on your shoulder, his grip sure, his silence more eloquent than words.
You were twelve years old. You were going home.
And somewhere, in the castle behind you, a boy was standing at a window, watching your carriage grow smaller and smaller until it vanished into the morning mist.
The years between were letters.
They came weekly, as promised. Valarr's script was careful, precise, each word formed with the same earnest attention he brought to everything. He wrote of his lessons—swordwork improving, history mastered, sums still troublesome. He wrote of his brothers, Matarys growing like a weed and just as wild, of his father's travels and his mother's health and the small, daily rhythms of life at court.
You wrote back. Your own hand was quicker, less polished, sprawling across the page in your haste to capture everything before it escaped you. You wrote of Summerhall's gardens and the new terrace that flourished in the shade. You wrote of your father's ledgers and the discrepancies you had found, of your mother's laughter and your brother Daeron's dreams. You wrote of Aerion's sharp edges and Aemon's quietness, of the twins Daella and Rhae who had just begun to talk.
You did not write that you missed him. You did not need to.
He visited when he could.
Twelve, and he came to Summerhall with his father for the autumn progress. He was taller—you noticed immediately, with a strange twist in your chest—taller than you now, as he had always promised he would be. His face had lost its roundness, his jaw sharpening into the shape of a young man's. He was still soft, still gentle, still prone to blushing when you looked at him too long.
But his shoulders were broader. His hands, when he helped you down from the garden wall you had climbed for old times' sake, were stronger.
"You grew," you said.
"You shrank."
"I did not. You are just taller now. It is very inconvenient."
He smiled, that same hesitant smile, as though he were still not certain he was permitted it. "I told you I would catch up."
"You took long enough."
You walked the gardens together. He told you about King's Landing, about the small intrigues and daily dramas you had missed. You told him about Summerhall, about the changes your father had made at your suggestion, about the satisfaction of seeing your ideas take root and flourish.
He listened. He always listened, his attention absolute, his gaze steady on your face as though you were the most important person in any room.
You had missed that. You had not known you missed it until it was there again.
Thirteen, and you came to court for your nameday.
The Red Keep was the same—loud, crowded, full of whispers and glances and people who wanted things you could not name. But Valarr was different. He moved through it with more ease than you remembered, his shyness faded into something quieter, more controlled. He still blushed when courtiers addressed him directly, but he no longer hid behind tapestries.
He showed you the places only he knew: a hidden balcony overlooking the bay, a corner of the library where the light fell golden in the afternoons, a spot in the godswood where the heart tree's leaves whispered secrets to anyone quiet enough to listen.
"Do you remember," he said, "when you found me behind the tapestry?"
"You were very small."
"I was six. You were five and very bossy."
"I was practical. There is a difference."
He laughed. The sound was deeper now, but still soft, still easily startled into silence. "You always say that."
"Because it is always true."
He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes were still that pale winter blue, but there was something new in them, something you could not quite name.
"You have changed," he said.
"So have you."
"Have I? I do not feel changed. I feel like the same person, only—" He gestured vaguely, helplessly. "Only more."
You understood. You felt it too—the strange sensation of growing into oneself, of becoming more fully the person one had always been. It was disorienting, sometimes, to look in the mirror and see the same face, only sharper, older, more defined.
"More is good," you said. "I think."
"I think so too."
Fourteen, and he came to Summerhall again.
You met him in the courtyard, and for a moment you did not recognize him. He had grown again, taller still, his frame filling out in ways that spoke of hours in the training yard. His dark hair was longer, brushing his collar, and there was a new confidence in the way he held himself.
But his smile was the same. Hesitant, hopeful, as though he were still afraid you might turn away.
"Val," you said, and something in your chest eased at the way his name felt in your mouth.
"Y/N." He said it softly, like a prayer. "You look—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks. "You look well."
"Summerhall suits me."
"It does." His gaze lingered on your face a moment too long. "It always has."
That night, you sat together on the battlements, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. The stones were warm from the day's sun, the air soft with the promise of summer. His shoulder was warm against yours, and you did not move away.
"I missed you," he said quietly. "More than I thought I would."
"I missed you too."
"I know. Your letters—" He stopped. Started again. "They help. They help more than you know."
You turned to look at him. The starlight caught his features, softening them, making him look younger than his fifteen years. "Then I will keep writing."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Fifteen, and you returned to court for his nameday.
He was sixteen now, officially a man grown, though he still carried himself with that same quiet hesitance. The tourney in his honor had been grand—his father's doing, you suspected, Baelor's quiet pride in his eldest son manifesting in silver and silk and the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
Valarr had not won. He had never been a great warrior, and you knew he never would be. But he had held his own, had lasted three rounds against knights twice his age, and you had cheered louder than anyone when he finally yielded.
Afterward, he found you in the gardens.
"You embarrassed me," he said, but he was smiling.
"I did not. I was supportive."
"Supportive is quiet encouragement. You were—" He laughed, shaking his head. "You were very loud."
"You deserved loud. You fought well."
His smile softened. "You think so?"
"I know so. I watched every moment."
He looked at you for a long moment. The garden was quiet, the sounds of the feast distant and muffled. His hand found yours, tentative, questioning.
You did not pull away.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was different. Thicker, somehow. "I—"
"Val." You squeezed his hand. "I know."
You did know. You had known for years, in the way that you knew the shape of your own thoughts. He loved you. He had always loved you, from the moment you pulled him out from behind that tapestry and sat beside him in the dust.
And you—you loved him too. Not the way you loved your father, or your brothers, or Summerhall. Different. Deeper. A thing that had grown so slowly you had not noticed it until it was too large to ignore.
He did not say the words. He did not need to. He simply stood there, in the quiet garden, holding your hand as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
And you stood with him.
Now you are seventeen, and it is his eighteenth nameday.
The celebrations have been ongoing for three days. Tourneys and feasts and dances, endless dances where you have been partnered with lordlings and heirs and one very persistent Tyrell who does not seem to understand that your smiles are merely polite. Your feet ache. Your head aches. Your patience has long since fled.
Valarr finds you in the corridor outside the great hall, where you have escaped for air.
"You look like you are planning someone's murder," he observes.
"I am planning many murders. The Tyrell boy is first."
He laughs. It is a good sound, warm and genuine, and it eases something in your chest. "He is harmless."
"He is tiresome. There is a difference."
"There always is with you." He glances around, lowers his voice. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Away." He holds out his hand, that same tentative gesture, as though he still fears you might refuse. "I want to show you something."
You take his hand without hesitation.
He leads you through passages you do not know, past kitchens and storage rooms and up a winding stair that seems to go on forever. The air grows cooler, the sounds of the castle fading behind you. Finally, he pushes open a door, and you step out onto the roof.
The night sky opens above you, vast and brilliant, more stars than you have ever seen. The city sprawls below, a thousand tiny lights flickering in the darkness. The wind is sharp up here, carrying the salt scent of the bay.
"What is this place?" you breathe.
"My secret. I found it years ago, when I needed to hide." He gestures at the sky. "No one comes here. No one knows it exists. Just me."
"And now me."
"And now you." He looks at you, and his eyes are very blue in the starlight. "Happy nameday to me."
You laugh. "You brought me a gift for your nameday?"
"The best gift. You, alone, with no Tyrells." He pauses. "I have something else, actually. But it can wait."
"What is it?"
He shakes his head, smiling. "Later. First—" He draws something from his belt, and you recognize it with a start. A practice sword, blunted but familiar. "I have not forgotten."
"Val—"
"When I can beat you with a sword, you said. You would marry me." His voice is light, teasing, but there is something underneath it. Something serious. "I am eighteen now. A man grown. It seems past time I collected on that promise."
"You cannot be serious."
"Deadly serious." He tosses the sword lightly from hand to hand. "One bout. Right here. No one to see but the stars."
You stare at him. He stares back, that hesitant smile playing at his lips, his eyes bright with something you cannot quite name.
"You will lose," you say.
"Probably." He shrugs. "But I have been practicing."
You have no sword. You have no intention of fighting him on a rooftop in your feast clothes. You have every intention of telling him exactly how foolish this is.
Instead, you laugh. "You are impossible."
"I learned from the best."
You find a length of wood near the door—an old broom handle, discarded and forgotten. It is not a sword, but it will serve. You settle into your stance, the same stance your father taught you years ago, and face him across the moonlit roof.
"Rules?" you ask.
"First to disarm."
"First to disarm," you agree. "Begin."
He is better than you expected. Not good—not truly good, not the way your father is good, not the way a warrior is good—but better. His footwork is solid, his guard consistent, his attacks measured and careful. He has been practicing. He has been practicing a great deal.
You circle each other on the rooftop, the city spread below, the stars wheeling overhead. Your broom handle meets his practice sword again and again, the sound sharp in the night air. He presses forward; you yield ground, testing him. He follows; you parry, riposte, force him back.
"You have improved," you admit.
"I told you." He is breathing hard, but smiling. "I always keep my promises."
You press your advantage. He is stronger than he was, but you are faster, more skilled, more experienced. Your father taught you well, and you have not let those lessons rust. You drive him back toward the edge of the roof, your broom handle a blur of motion.
He is going to lose. He knows he is going to lose. You can see it in his eyes, the acceptance, the determination to fight on anyway.
And then—
He moves forward instead of back.
It is unexpected, bold, utterly foolish. He steps inside your guard, inside the reach of your broom handle, and for a moment you are too surprised to react. His free hand comes up, not to strike, but to cup your face.
His lips meet yours.
The kiss is soft, tentative, exactly like him. His mouth is warm against yours, and for one breathless moment you forget everything—the sword, the rooftop, the city below, the stars above. You forget your name, your training, your father's voice in your head. There is only him, only Valarr, only the impossible sweetness of his mouth on yours.
Your broom handle drops from nerveless fingers.
He pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are very blue, very close, very bright. His breath is warm on your lips.
"I win," he whispers.
You look down. His practice sword is pressed gently against your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to count. Your broom handle lies forgotten at your feet.
He disarmed you.
You should be angry. You should call him a cheat, a trickster, a dishonorable wretch who would rather steal a victory than earn it fairly. You should—
You kiss him again.
This time it is not soft. This time it is not tentative. This time you put into it everything you have not said, everything you have not admitted, everything you have been too afraid to name. You kiss him like the years of letters, like the stolen moments in gardens, like the weight of his hand in yours and the warmth of his shoulder against your own.
He makes a sound against your mouth—surprise, pleasure, something deeper—and his arms come around you, pulling you close. The practice sword clatters to the roof, forgotten. His hands find your waist, your back, your hair. He kisses you like he has been waiting his whole life for this moment.
Perhaps he has.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathless. The stars spin overhead. The city glitters below. His face is very close, very flushed, very beautiful in the moonlight.
"That was—" he starts.
"A cheat," you say, but you are smiling. "A trick. Dishonorable."
"I won."
"You cheated."
"The rules did not say I could not kiss you." His voice is soft, wondering. "I checked. Very carefully. Many times."
You laugh. You cannot help it. The sound echoes across the rooftop, bright and free, and he watches you with an expression you have never seen before. Tenderness, yes. Love, certainly. But something else—something like triumph, like wonder, like he cannot quite believe you are real.
"I have loved you," he says quietly, "since I was six years old and you sat beside me behind that tapestry. I have loved you every day since. I will love you every day until I die."
"Val—"
"You do not have to say it back. I know—I know you care for me, I know you—but you do not have to—"
You kiss him again, just to stop his rambling.
When you pull back, his eyes are very bright. "I love you too," you say. "You impossible, ridiculous, wonderful man. I have loved you for years. I was just waiting for you to catch up."
He laughs. It is a wet sound, a little broken, absolutely joyful. "I caught up."
"You did." You touch his face, trace the line of his jaw. "Eventually."
"I won."
"You cheated."
"I won, and now you have to marry me."
You consider this. The stars wheel overhead. The city glitters below. His arms are warm around you, his heart beating against your chest, his eyes the blue of winter sky.
"I suppose," you say slowly, "I did make a promise."
"You did."
"And I always keep my promises."
"I know." He kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth. "I know you do."
"Then I suppose—" You smile, and it feels like coming home. "I suppose you had better speak to my father."
He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. "Your father. The man who sharpens his sword every morning while glaring at anyone who looks at you too long."
"He likes you."
"He tolerates me. There is a difference."
"There always is." You run your fingers through his hair, and he sighs against your shoulder. "But he will say yes. He knows—he knows you make me happy."
"He does?"
"He notices everything. It is very inconvenient." You pause. "Also, you are a prince of the realm, grandson of the king, heir to Dragonstone after your father. There are worse matches."
He lifts his head, mock-offended. "You are marrying me for my title?"
"I am marrying you despite your title. There is a difference."
He laughs, and kisses you again, and the stars spin on.
The weeks blur into something golden.
Three weeks of Valarr's nameday celebrations—feasts and hunts and tourneys and balls, each one grander than the last. Three weeks of smiling at the right moments, dancing with the right partners, saying the right things to the right people. Three weeks of pretending that everything is exactly as it should be.
And three weeks of stealing moments.
The gardens at dawn, when the rest of the castle sleeps. A hidden alcove behind the tapestry in the library. The abandoned tower room where the maesters once stored their books, now empty and forgotten. These become your sanctuaries, your secret kingdom, the only places where you can stop being princess and prince and simply be yourselves.
You meet him whenever you can.
In the mornings, before anyone thinks to look for you. In the afternoons, when the court naps through the heat. At night, when the feasts finally end and the corridors grow quiet and the guards know better than to question the prince's late-night walks.
He is always waiting.
His arms open. His smile private. His eyes warming the moment they find you.
"You're late," he says one afternoon, pulling you into the alcove behind the tapestry.
"I'm not late. You're early."
"I've been waiting for an hour."
"You have not."
"I have. I counted every heartbeat." His arms circle your waist, drawing you against him. "Seven thousand, two hundred and forty-three."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love. There's a difference."
You kiss him. It is the only reasonable response.
The alcove is small, barely large enough for two, but you have grown to love its cramped intimacy. The stone wall at your back. His warmth at your front. The muffled sounds of the library beyond the tapestry, scholars and scribes going about their business unaware that the heir to the Iron Throne is three feet away with his hands in your hair.
"I have to go back soon," you murmur against his lips.
"Not yet."
"Your mother will notice."
"My mother has noticed everything since i was eight. She's just waiting to see what happens next."
"And what is happening next?"
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression has shifted, the playfulness fading into something deeper, more serious.
"I'm telling my father in the morrow."
Your heart stops. "It's been three weeks. The celebrations end tomorrow. If I wait any longer, you'll go back to Summerhall and I'll—" He stops. Swallows. "I'll lose you again."
"You won't lose me."
"You know what I mean." His hand cups your face. "I want to do this properly. I want to ask for your hand. I want your father's blessing and my father's approval and the king's consent. I want to marry you in the light, in front of everyone, with no more hiding and no more secrets."
"Valarr—"
"I know it's fast. I know we've only had three weeks. But I've loved you for ten years. I've waited for you for ten years. I'm not waiting anymore."
You look at him—this man who was once a shy boy hiding behind tapestries, who grew tall and strong and sure, who kept his promise to practice every day and wrote you a hundred letters he never sent. This man who held you in a tent and kissed you like you were the answer to every question he had ever asked.
"You're sure?" you whisper.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
You kiss him again. Deeper this time, slower, pouring ten years of waiting into a single moment.
His hands roam your back, your waist, your hips. Yours tangle in his hair, pull him closer, hold him there. The tapestry muffles your soft sounds. The library continues its quiet business. The world spins on, oblivious.
Your hand drifts lower.
He catches your wrist. Gently. His forehead rests against yours, his breath coming quick.
"Not yet," he says.
"I want to."
"I know." His thumb traces slow circles on your palm. "But not like this. Not in a hidden alcove, stealing moments between duties. Not when I have to let you go in an hour and pretend nothing happened."
"I don't care about—"
"I care." His voice is soft but firm. "I won't take your maidenhood like this. After the celebration, I'll tell my father. I'll propose to you properly. I'll do this right."
You want to argue. You want to tell him that you don't need proposals or permissions, that you have waited long enough, that the only thing that matters is him.
But you look at his face—the sincerity in his eyes, the steadiness of his gaze—and you understand.
"Only our wedding bed," he says slowly, "will have the honor of our first love. I promise."
"You and your promises."
"You and your waiting." He pulls you close, tucking your head beneath his chin. "We're quite a pair."
"We are." Your arms circle his waist. "A pair of fools in love."
"The best kind of fools."
---
The morning light falls soft through the windows of Prince Baelor's solar.
Valarr stands before his father's desk, his heart full, his intentions clear. He has rehearsed this conversation a hundred times—in the garden, in the alcove, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep would not come. He knows exactly what he will say.
Father, I want to marry Y/N. This is not an infatuation. I have loved her since we were children. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want your blessing.
Baelor looks up from the papers on his desk. His expression is unreadable, it has always been unreadable, the face of a man who has spent his life learning to hide his thoughts. But there is something in his eyes today. Something Valarr cannot name.
"Valarr." His voice is gentle. "Sit down."
"I'd rather stand." A pause. "Father, I need to speak with you about something important."
"And I need to speak with you." Baelor sets down his quill. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Please. Sit."
Something cold settles in Valarr's stomach. He sits.
Baelor is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful—too careful, the voice of a man delivering news he knows will wound.
"I have been in discussions with the Archon of Tyrosh," he says. "For several months now. Trade agreements, military alliances—the usual dance." He pauses. "And a marriage."
Valarr goes very still.
"The Archon's daughter, Kiera. She is of an age with you. Well-educated, well-mannered, well-connected. The match would strengthen our ties with the Free Cities, secure our southern trade routes, and provide a counterbalance to the growing power of—"
"No."
Baelor stops. His eyes meet his son's.
"No," Valarr repeats. "I won't marry her."
"You haven't even met her."
"I don't need to meet her." His voice is rising, though he fights to keep it steady. "I am going to marry Y/N. That is what I came here to tell you. I want your blessing to propose to her."
Baelor's face shifts, something flickering across his features that might be regret, might be understanding, might be the echo of his own youth.
"Y/N," he says. "Maekar's daughter."
"Yes."
Baelor is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.
"I understand what you feel. I do. Young love is powerful—I remember what it was like to be your age, to look at someone and think they were the only person in the world who mattered." He leans forward. "But you are not just any young man, Valarr. You are my heir. You will be king after your grandfather. The realm needs more than love—it needs alliances, treaties, bonds that cannot be broken."
"I don't care."
"Valarr—"
"I don't care about Tyrosh. I don't care about trade routes or military alliances or any of it." He is on his feet now, though he does not remember standing. "I have done everything you asked. Every lesson, every duty, every expectation. I have been the perfect son, the perfect heir, the perfect prince. I have never asked for anything."
Baelor rises too. His expression is pained. "I know."
"Then give me this." His voice cracks. "Give me Y/N. She is the only thing I have ever wanted. The only thing."
"Valarr—"
"Father, please." He is begging now, and he does not care. "I love her. I have loved her since I was eight years old. I waited for her for five years while she was in Summerhall. I wrote her a hundred letters I never sent because I was afraid. And now she is here, and she loves me, and you cannot ask me to give her up."
Baelor's jaw tightens. "The negotiations with Tyrosh are nearly complete. The Archon expects—"
"Then marry Matarys to her."
"Matarys is fourteen."
"Then Daeron. I don't care. Marry her to Daeron. Marry her to anyone. Just let me have Y/N."
"You are not thinking clearly."
"I am thinking more clearly than I have ever thought." He steps closer to his father, his voice dropping. "I will marry Y/N. Whether you want it or not. Whether the king wants it or not. Whether the whole realm wants it or not."
Baelor's eyes widen slightly. "You cannot—"
"I can." His voice is quiet now. Steady. Absolute. "I can, Father. If you refuse me, I will elope with her. We will find a septon somewhere, some village no one has heard of, and we will marry in secret and spend the rest of our lives paying for it."
"You would throw away everything?"
"I would throw away everything for her." He meets his father's eyes without flinching. "The succession. The throne. My name. Everything. I don't care about any of it without her."
Silence stretches between them.
Baelor stares at his son. At this boy who was once shy and round-cheeked, who hid behind tapestries and blushed at every teasing word. This boy who has grown into a man, a knight, a prince—and who stands before him now, trembling with the force of his conviction.
"If you refuse me," Valarr says, "I will abdicate. Matarys can be heir. He would make a fine king—better than me, probably. He has the charm I lack, the ease with people, the—"
"Stop." Baelor's voice is rough. "Stop."
Valarr stops.
His father looks at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sits back down. He presses his palms to his eyes and rubs, hard.
"Your mother is going to kill me," he mutters.
Valarr blinks. "What?"
"The Tyroshi negotiations." Baelor drops his hands. "I am going to have to undo months of work. The Archon will be furious. Your grandfather will be disappointed. The entire court will talk."
"Father—"
"She is Maekar's daughter." Baelor is not looking at him. He is looking at the papers on his desk, the careful lists of alliances and agreements. "Maekar. My brother. Who will probably also want to kill me, for an entirely different set of reasons."
Valarr's heart is pounding. "Are you saying—"
"I am saying that I have never seen you like this." Baelor looks up. His eyes are tired, but there is something else there—something that might be pride. "I have never seen you fight for anything. You have always accepted what you were given, done what you were told, followed the path laid out for you."
"I—"
"Today, you fought." He almost smiles. "Today, you told me what you wanted. What you were willing to sacrifice for. What you would burn down rather than lose."
Valarr says nothing. He cannot speak.
"If this is what you want," Baelor says slowly, "if she is truly the one—then I will not stand in your way."
The words take a moment to register. When they do, Valarr's knees nearly buckle.
"I will need to speak with Maekar. With your grandfather. With the Archon, who will be furious, and with your mother, who will have opinions." Baelor shakes his head. "But if you are certain—if you are absolutely certain—then I will support you."
"I am certain." His voice is barely a whisper. "I have never been more certain of anything."
Baelor nods. He looks older suddenly, wearier, as though the weight of the conversation has settled into his bones.
"Then go," he says. "Go find her. Tell her. Before I change my mind."
Valarr does not need to be told twice.
He is out the door before his father finishes speaking, running through the corridors of the Red Keep with his heart soaring and his future bright before him.
He is going to marry Y/N.
Nothing else matters.
---
Four years.
You count them sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, when your husband's arm is heavy across your waist and the world has not yet remembered to demand anything of either of you. Four years of marriage. Four years of waking beside him, of falling asleep beside him, of learning the shape of his days and the weight of his silences and the thousand small ways he shows you he loves you.
Three years of moon tea.
You had not expected it. Had not even considered it, in those giddy weeks before the wedding, when everything was light and promise and the future stretched before you like an unrolled map. Children, of course. There would be children. You were Targaryens, heirs to a dynasty, and children were the currency of your bloodline.
But Valarr had asked.
Not commanded. Not demanded. Asked, in that quiet way of his, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours for understanding.
Not yet, he had said. Please. Not yet.
He had waited ten years for you. Ten years of wanting, of longing, of building you into something almost mythical in his mind. And now you were his—finally his, truly his, in every way that mattered—and he could not bear to share you.
Not yet.
You had agreed. It seemed a small thing, at the time. A year or two, to have him to yourself, to be young and in love and unburdened by the weight of motherhood. The maester had provided the tea without question—it was common enough, for noble ladies who wished to space their children, to control the timing of their fertility. No one thought anything of it.
A year became two. Two became three.
The court began to talk.
The Princess Y/N has been married four years and still no child. Perhaps she is barren. Perhaps the blood runs thin. Perhaps the gods have cursed her for some slight, some sin, some—
You heard the whispers. You could not help but hear them. They followed you through corridors, through gardens, through the great hall where you sat beside your husband at feasts and pretended not to notice the speculative glances.
Valarr heard them too. His jaw would tighten. His hand would find yours beneath the table. But he did not suggest stopping the tea.
He was greedy. You knew this about him—had always known it, from the first moment he told you he had waited ten years and would wait ten more. He wanted you. All of you. Every moment, every thought, every breath. He wanted to make up for lost time, for the years when you were only letters he never sent, only a face he tried to remember, only a promise he was not certain you had kept.
And you had let him. Because you were greedy too. Because you had waited just as long, wanted just as fiercely, needed just as desperately. Because the thought of sharing him—of pushing your body through the transformations of pregnancy, of dividing your attention between husband and child—felt like a loss you were not ready to face.
But the talks grew louder.
And your body, independent of your wishes, began to ache for something more.
Now you sit in the window seat of your chambers, the afternoon light warm on your face, your hand resting on the curve of your belly. Eight months. Ten months since you stopped taking the tea, since you told Valarr it was time, since you watched his face cycle through fear and joy and fear again.
He had not argued. He had kissed your belly instead, reverent and terrified, and promised to love this child as fiercely as he loved you.
The child kicks. Strong and insistent, a reminder that you are no longer alone in your own body. You smile, though your back aches and your feet have swollen and you cannot remember the last time you slept through the night.
Valarr will be back soon. He has been gone all afternoon, attending to some matter with his father, some duty of the heir that cannot wait. He hates leaving you. He tells you every time, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, promising to return as quickly as he can.
Stay, he always whispers. Wait for me. I'll be fast.
You always wait.
The door opens. His footsteps cross the room. His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and familiar, before he circles the bench to kneel before you.
His face. You never tire of looking at his face. Four years, and it still makes your heart stutter.
His hands find your belly. His lips follow, pressing soft kisses to the swell, to the place where his child grows.
"Hello," he murmurs against your skin. "Hello in there. Your father is home."
The child kicks. Right where his mouth is. He laughs, startled, and looks up at you with eyes that are still the same winter sky you remember from a library, from a promise, from a lifetime ago.
"She knows me," he says.
"It could be a boy."
"It's a girl. She knows me." He presses another kiss to your belly. "She's impatient. Like her mother."
"You have no proof of that."
"I have four years of proof." He settles more comfortably, his cheek resting against your belly, his arms wrapping around your hips. "Four years of you being impatient for everything except the one thing I asked you to wait for."
You run your fingers through his hair. The silver streak is still there, bright against the dark. You have always loved that streak.
"Are you glad?" you ask quietly. "That we waited?"
He is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is muffled against your belly.
"I'm glad we had the time. Just us. Four years of just us." He lifts his head to look at you. "But I'm glad we stopped waiting too. I'm glad—" His hand presses more firmly against your belly. "I'm glad for this."
You pull him up. You kiss him. Soft and slow and full of everything four years has taught you about loving him.
The child kicks again.
Valarr laughs against your mouth.
"Eager," he says. "Definitely your daughter."
"Definitely yours."
He kisses you again. The afternoon light fades. The whispers of the court drift away, unimportant, irrelevant.
There is only this. Only him. Only the life growing between you, the future you built from waiting and wanting and four years of greedy, selfish love.
The argument starts quietly.
It always does, with you. You have never been one for shouting, for dramatics, for the kind of fights that echo through corridors and become court gossip. You state your position. You wait for his response. You counter. You wait again.
But this time, his response does not come.
Instead, he stares at you. His face has gone very still, very pale, in a way you have learned to recognize over four years of marriage. It is the face he wears when he is trying very hard not to show how deeply something has affected him.
"You cannot be serious," he says.
"I am completely serious." You keep your voice steady, reasonable. "The Ashford tourney is two weeks away. The journey is not long—four days at most, with proper accommodations. The maester said travel in the later months is possible, as long as one is careful."
"Possible." He repeats the word as though it tastes strange. "Possible is not safe. Possible is not—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "Y/N. You are eight months pregnant."
He steps closer, his hands reaching for yours. "You are heavily pregnant. The maesters said—"
"The maesters said many things. They also said I might have difficulty conceiving, and we both know how wrong they were." You let him take your hands, but you do not soften. "I want to be there. The whole family is going—your father, your brothers, my father, everyone. I don't want to sit alone at King's Landing while you all ride off to Ashford."
"You would not be alone. You would be safe. Here. In our chambers. With maesters and midwives and—"
"Valarr."
"Y/N." His grip on your hands tightens. "Please. Please do not ask me to watch you ride off on some tourney progress when you are this close to your time. I cannot—" His voice cracks. He stops. Swallows. "I cannot."
You have seen your husband afraid before. You have seen him face his father, face the king, face the weight of his name and his duty and all the expectations that come with being heir to the Iron Throne. You have never seen him look like this.
"I would be careful," you say, softer now. "I would take every precaution. The roads are good this time of year, and—"
"Please."
The word is barely a whisper. He drops to his knees.
You stare at him. Valarr—your husband, the heir of the heir to the Iron Throne, the man who has never begged for anything in his life—is on his knees before you, his hands still gripping yours, his face tilted up to meet your eyes.
"My love." His voice is rough, scraped clean of all pretense. "My soul. I am begging you."
"Valarr, get up—"
"No." He shakes his head, his grip tightening. "No, I will stay here until you agree. I will stay here all night if I have to. I will—" He stops. Takes a breath. "You are everything to me. You and this child. Everything. If something happened on the road, if something happened at Ashford, if you were hurt and I was not there—"
"You would be there. You would be right beside me."
"And if I could not reach you in time? If something went wrong and I was on the other side of the tourney grounds, or in the middle of a tilt, or—" His voice breaks again. "I cannot. I cannot lose you. I cannot lose either of you. Please."
You look down at him. At his mismatched eyes, bright with unshed tears. At his hands, white-knuckled around yours. At his knees, pressed against the cold stone floor because he refused to wait for a cushion, refused to wait for anything except your answer.
Four years of marriage. Four years of greedy, selfish love, of moon tea and whispered promises and a jealousy so fierce it sometimes stole your breath. You had thought you understood the depth of his need for you.
You had not understood this.
"You are ridiculous," you whisper.
"I know." His voice is hoarse. "I am ridiculous. I am pathetic. I am on my knees begging my wife not to leave me, and I do not care who knows it. Please, Y/N. Please stay."
The child kicks. Hard. Right against your ribs, as though agreeing with its father.
You close your eyes.
You think about Ashford. The tourney. The chance to see your family, to be part of something larger than these quiet chambers and the endless waiting. You think about four days on the road, about the jostling of the carriage, about the crowds and the noise and the thousand small dangers you had convinced yourself were negligible.
You open your eyes.
Valarr is still there. Still on his knees. Still waiting.
"I will stay," you say.
The breath leaves him in a rush. His forehead drops to your belly, pressing against the swell, against the child who kicks in response.
"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you. Thank you."
You run your fingers through his hair. The silver streak. The dark strands. The familiar shape of his head beneath your hands.
"Get up," you say gently. "You are going to ruin your knees."
"I do not care about my knees."
"Get up anyway."
He rises. Slowly. His hands find your face, cupping it with the same reverence he has shown you since the first moment he held you in that tent four years ago.
"I love you," he says. "I love you more than anything. More than the throne. More than my name. More than—"
"I know." You cover his hands with your own. "I know."
He kisses you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he cannot say.
You kiss him back.
The child kicks again, and you laugh against his mouth, and the argument is over.
The letter arrives a week before they return.
You know something is wrong the moment you see the maester's face. He is pale, paler than you have ever seen him, and his hands tremble slightly as he holds out the folded parchment.
"A raven from Ashford, my princess," he says. His voice is not steady. "You should sit down."
You do not sit. You take the letter. You read it.
Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, is dead. Killed by a blow to the head during a trial of the seven. The king has been informed. The party will return within the week.
That is all. Official words, carefully chosen, stripped of emotion. A prince is dead. Your uncle is dead. The man who smiled at you when you arrived at court, who clapped your brother's shoulder with easy affection, who raised the boy you married to be the man he is—
Dead.
You read the words again. They do not change.
Your father's hand. Your father, who taught you to ride, who held you when you cried, who told you that you would have made a better prince than any son in the kingdom.
Your father killed his brother.
You do not remember sitting down. You do not remember the maester leaving. You only know that suddenly you are on the floor, the letter crumpled in your hands, and the child is kicking and kicking and kicking as though trying to remind you that life continues even when the world has ended.
They return on a grey morning.
You stand in the courtyard of the Red Keep, wrapped in a cloak that does not quite keep out the chill. The child shifts within you, restless, as though sensing your tension. Around you, the court gathers in somber silence. No music. No banners. No celebration.
The gates open.
They ride in slowly, a procession of mourners rather than victors. Black banners hang from lances. Horses walk at a funereal pace. Faces are drawn, pale, marked by grief.
You see Valarr first.
He is at the front, as befits his new station—heir to the Iron Throne now, though the title tastes like ash in your mouth. His face is grey. His eyes are empty. He looks at you as though you are the only solid thing in a world that has turned to water.
your gaze searches the procession for your father.
You find him near the back.
He is alone. The other riders have given him space, a wide berth as though his grief might be contagious. His horse moves mechanically, responding to cues he probably does not remember giving. His face—
You have never seen your father's face like this.
He looks old. Broken. Hollowed out by something worse than grief—by guilt, by knowledge, by the unbearable weight of having killed his own brother with his own hand.
His eyes find yours.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The procession continues around you, horses and riders and mourners flowing past like a river around stones. But you and your father are still, frozen in each other's gaze.
Then he looks away. His horse carries him forward, toward the stables, toward whatever solitude he can find in a castle full of people.
You want to follow him. You want to hold him. You want to tell him that it was an accident, that no one blames him, that Baelor would not want him to carry this weight alone.
But the child kicks. Valarr is approaching, his grey face breaking into something almost like relief at the sight of you. The court watches. The world continues its terrible turning.
You stay where you are.
And you wait for your husband to reach you.
Three weeks pass.
The sickness spreads like fire through dry grass. Servants first, then guards, then nobles. The maesters work day and night, their faces growing more grim with each report. The Red Keep becomes a labyrinth of quarantined chambers and forbidden corridors, of doors that open only one way and close forever.
Valarr has you locked in your room before the first noble falls ill.
You do not argue. You cannot argue—he is already gone, standing in the doorway with his hand on the frame and his eyes fixed on you like a man saying goodbye.
"I will not risk you," he says. "I will not risk either of you. Only the maids I trust. No one else. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
He wants to cross to you. You see it in the way his fingers curl against the wood, in the way his weight shifts forward before he forces it back. He wants to hold you, kiss you, press his face to your belly and feel the child move.
He does not.
"I love you," he says. "Stay safe."
The door closes.
You do not see him again for twelve days.
He uses other chambers. You know this because Lyra tells you, her voice carefully neutral as she brings your meals and changes your linens and checks that you are still breathing. The prince sleeps in the Tower of the Hand now, in rooms far from yours. He sends messages—short notes in his familiar hand, I am well, I miss you, Stay safe—but he does not come.
You understand. You hate it, but you understand.
The child grows heavier. The days grow longer. The sickness takes more names each morning, each evening, each hour between.
One morrow you wake to Lyra's face.
It is wrong. You know it immediately, the way you know things are wrong in that moment between sleep and waking. Lyra never comes this early. Lyra never looks like this.
"What?" You are already sitting up, your heart pounding, your hand flying to your belly. "What is it?"
"It's Prince Valarr."
The world stops.
"He's sick." Lyra's eyes are bright, too bright. "The fever took him last night. He's in his chambers. The maesters are with him but—" She stops again. "They don't know if he'll—"
You are already moving.
"My lady, you cannot—" Lyra reaches for you, but you are faster, stronger than you have any right to be. "The sickness, the baby, you cannot risk—"
You do not hear her.
You are already through the door.
The corridors blur past you.
You do not remember walking. You do not remember the guards who step aside, their faces shocked, their protests dying unspoken. You do not remember the stairs, the turns, the doors that should be locked but are not, because someone has forgotten in the chaos of the night.
You remember only him.
Valarr. Your husband. Your heart. The boy who waited ten years, who begged you to stay, who cried in your arms each night since his father died. The man who locked you away to keep you safe, who used other chambers so he would not breathe the same air as you, who wrote you notes each day saying I am well when he must have known, must have felt the sickness creeping toward him even as his pen touched the paper.
The door to his chambers is open.
You step through.
He is alone.
This is the first thing you notice, the thing that cuts deepest. He is alone. The heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King—and he lies in his bed with no one beside him, no hand to hold, no voice to comfort.
The maesters have been here. You see the evidence—the bowls of water, the cloths, the half-empty cups of potions that have not worked. But they are gone now. Called away to other patients, other crises, other lives that might still be saved.
Valarr lies in the center of the vast bed, drowning in sheets, drowning in fever.
His face is flushed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. His breath comes in short, shallow gasps, each one a struggle. His lips move, forming words you cannot hear.
You cross to him.
Your body protests. The child kicks hard, fierce, angry at being jostled. You ignore it. You ignore everything except the man on the bed, the man who is everything to you, the man who might be dying while you stand here doing nothing.
You climb onto the bed.
The sheets are damp. His skin is burning. You settle beside him, fitting yourself against his side the way you have done a thousand nights, a thousand times. Your arm crosses his chest. Your head rests on his shoulder. Your belly presses against his hip, and the child kicks again, and you do not care.
"I'm here," you whisper. "I'm here, my love. I'm here."
He stirs. His eyes open—just slightly, just enough to show the fever-bright blue beneath. His lips move.
"Y/N?"
"I'm here."
"You can't—" His voice cracks, barely a whisper. "Sickness. The baby. You have to—"
"I'm not going anywhere."
He tries to push you away. His hands are weak, useless, falling against you like leaves. You catch one of them, press it to your chest, hold it there.
"I love you," you say. "I love you, and I am not leaving you alone."
"Y/N—"
"Stop." Your voice is fierce. "Stop trying to protect me. Stop trying to send me away. I am your wife. I am carrying your child. And I will be here, with you, no matter what happens."
He stares at you. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, but something in them shifts. Something like understanding. Something like relief.
"I was so scared," he whispers. "Not of dying. Of leaving you alone."
"You're not leaving me."
"But if I—"
"You're not." You press your lips to his burning forehead. "You cannot sleep."
Your voice is firm, though it trembles at the edges. You are propped beside him in the bed, your hand still wrapped around his, your body pressed against his side. The fever burns through him like a fire, but his eyes are open now, cloudy, exhausted, but open.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know." You squeeze his hand. "But you cannot sleep. Not yet. Just a little longer."
He smiles. It is a weak thing, barely there, but it is a smile. "You're bossy."
"I'm your wife. It's my job."
"Mm." His eyes drift closed. You shake his shoulder gently.
"Valarr. Look at me."
He forces his eyes open. They find yours. Even now, even burning with fever, they hold you like you are the only thing worth seeing.
"Tell me something," you say. "Anything. Tell me about the first time you saw me."
"You were six." His voice is a rasp, barely audible. "You walked into the great hall like you owned it. Looked at me like I was furniture."
"I did not."
"You did." A ghost of a laugh. "I was hiding behind my mother's skirts. You came right up to me and told me hi, i was too shy back then"
You kiss his forehead again. His skin is too warm, too dry. You try not to think about it.
"Tell me more," you say.
"I wrote you letters." His eyes drift again, and you let him keep them open this time—he is still looking at you, still present. "Hundreds of them. After you left. I never sent any."
"Why not?"
"I was afraid." His voice cracks. "Afraid you would reject me."
"Foolish boy."
"Foolish man." He smiles again. "Still foolish. Still yours."
"Always mine."
You kiss him. You do not care about the fever, the sickness, the risk. You kiss him because he is here, because he is breathing, because you do not know how much longer you will have either.
He kisses back. Weakly. Desperately. His hand cups your face, and you feel the heat of his skin, and you do not care.
When you break apart, his eyes are brighter. Not just from fever.
"We never chose names," he says.
"What?"
"For the baby." His hand moves to your belly, resting on the swell. "We never chose names."
You laugh. It is a wet sound, half sob. "You want to name our baby now?"
"Now is all we have." He looks at you. "Tell me names."
You think. The child kicks beneath his hand, strong and insistent.
"If it's a girl," you say slowly, "I thought—perhaps—"
"Baela." He says it quietly, reverently. "For my father."
Your throat tightens. "Valarr—"
"She will be a pretty girl." His voice is soft, dreamy. "I know that already. A brave girl, like her mother. She will have your courage and my—" He stops. Smiles. "My complete inability to say no to her."
"She will have you wrapped around her finger."
"Good. That's how it should be." His hand presses gently against your belly. "Baela. Our daughter. Baela Targaryen."
"And if it's a boy?"
He is quiet for a moment. His eyes drift, and you shake him gently again.
"Valarr."
"Sorry. Thinking." He focuses on you. "If it's a boy—you choose."
"Me?"
"I chose the girl. You choose the boy." His thumb traces circles on your belly. "But it's a girl. I can feel it."
"You cannot feel it."
"I can." His smile is stubborn, even through the fever. "She kicks like you argue. Constant and insistent."
You laugh. You cannot help it.
"What about Baelor?" you ask quietly.
Something flickers across his face. Pain. Loss. Love.
"No." His voice is soft but firm. "No, that would bring me too much grief. I don't want our child born into sadness. I don't want to look at him and see—" He stops. Swallows. "I don't want that."
You understand. You squeeze his hand.
"Then you choose," you say. "When he's born. If he's born. You choose."
"If he's born." He looks at you. "But it's a girl."
"You are impossible."
"I am correct." His eyes are closing again. You let them close this time, just for a moment. "Baela. Our daughter. She will be beautiful."
"She will be stubborn."
"Like her mother."
"Like her father."
He smiles. It is peaceful, that smile, even through the fever and the fear and the uncertain hours ahead.
You hold his hand. You watch his face. You wait.
The child kicks.
You wait.
He falls asleep.
You feel it happen, the slow slackening of his grip, the evening of his breath, the way his body sinks deeper into the mattress. Your heart seizes. Your hand tightens around his.
"Valarr." Your voice is sharp, too loud in the quiet room. "Valarr, wake up."
He does not move.
"Valarr!" You shake his shoulder, harder than you should, desperate and afraid. "Wake up. Please. Please wake up."
His eyes open.
Slowly. Blinking against the light. But open.
"You're so loud," he whispers. His voice is weak, but it is there. He is there.
You collapse against him, your face pressed to his chest, your body shaking with relief. His hand rises slowly, heavily, to rest on your head.
"I had a dream," he says. His voice is dreamy, distant, still half-lost in whatever world he visited. "A beautiful short dream."
You lift your head. His eyes are glassy but focused on you, and you need him to stay awake, need him to keep talking, need anything that will keep him here with you.
"Tell me," you say. "Tell me about the dream."
He smiles. It is a soft thing, peaceful, untouched by the fever that burns through him.
"I was a dragon."
You almost laugh. It bubbles up, unexpected, breaking through the fear. "Did Aerion infect you with his delusions?"
He chuckles. It is a weak sound, barely there, but it is a laugh. "No, no. I was a dragon. A big dragon. I was—" He pauses, brow furrowing. "Green. I was green."
"You dislike green."
"I still looked good." His smile turns teasing, even through the exhaustion. "Very handsome. Very intimidating. All the other dragons were jealous."
"I'm sure they were."
"And you were also a dragon." His hand moves from your head to your face, cupping your cheek. "You were beautiful. Cream and gold at the same time, like—" He pauses, his gaze drifting to the wall.
You follow his eyes.
The painting hangs there, commissioned in the first year of your marriage, capturing your wedding day in oil and pigment. You stand at the center, your cream and gold dress catching the light, Valarr beside you in black and red. The artist captured your expression perfectly—the joy, the love, the absolute certainty that you were exactly where you belonged.
"Like our wedding day," he whispers. "You looked so beautiful. You were so strong."
"Valarr—"
"But even though you were strong, I was still your protector." His eyes return to you, bright with fever and love. "I flew beside you. Above you. Around you. I kept you safe. You had eggs—you were pregnant with our children, like now. And I loved you." His voice cracks. "I love you. I love you so much."
You cannot speak. Your throat is too tight, your eyes too full. You lean forward and press your lips to his, soft and desperate and full of everything you cannot say.
He kisses you back. Weakly, but he kisses you back.
When you break apart, his eyes are closing again.
"No." You shake him gently. "No, stay with me. Tell me more about the dream."
"Tired."
"I know. But stay with me. Please."
He forces his eyes open. He looks at you—his wife, his heart, the cream and gold dragon who carries his child—and he smiles.
"Beautiful," he whispers. "So beautiful."
Then his eyes close, and this time, when you shake him, he does not wake.
But his chest still rises and falls. His hand still holds yours. He is still here.
You settle beside him, your face against his chest, listening to his heart. The child kicks. The fever burns. The world waits.
You wait with it.
You do not know how long you lie there.
Time has lost meaning. The candles burn lower, gutter, die. New ones are lit by hands you do not see. The window darkens, lightens, darkens again. Hours or minutes or days—you cannot tell.
All you know is him.
His chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. His hand limp in yours. The heat of his skin, the rattle of his breath, the terrifying stillness between each inhale and the next.
You hold him. You do not let go.
The child kicks. You barely feel it.
Something is wrong. You know this distantly, the way you know the sun rises and sets, the way you know winter follows autumn. Something is wrong with your body. Pain, low and constant, building like a wave. But you cannot move. You cannot leave him.
You hold him. You do not let go.
The pain grows.
It starts as a ache, a pressure, something easy to ignore when all your attention is fixed on the man in your arms. But it grows. Deepens. Becomes something sharp and insistent, demanding attention you cannot give.
You ignore it.
You hold him. You do not let go.
The scream tears from you without warning.
It is not a sound you recognize. It is raw and desperate and animal, ripped from somewhere deep in your chest. Your body convulses, arching against him, and your grip on his hand tightens until your knuckles go white.
The pain. Gods, the pain.
But you do not let go.
You curl around him, pressing your face to his chest, breathing him in. The fever, the sweat, the familiar scent of him beneath the sickness. You hold him and you scream and you do not let go.
More screams. Yours. You cannot stop them. They come with each wave, each contraction, each terrible pulse of your body trying to do what bodies do even when the world is ending.
You hold him. You do not let go.
Time passes. You do not know how much.
The door opens.
You do not look up. You cannot look up. All your focus is on him, on the rise and fall of his chest, on the heartbeat you can still feel beneath your cheek.
Hands on you. Gentle at first, then firm.
"Y/N."
A voice you know. A voice from childhood, from Summerhall, from a thousand memories you cannot reach right now.
"Y/N, you need to let go."
You shake your head. Your face presses harder against Valarr's chest. Your arms tighten around him.
"No."
"Y/N—"
"No. I won't leave him. I won't."
The hands try to pull you away. You fight them. You scream—not from pain now, but from fury, from desperation, from the absolute certainty that if you let go he will die.
"Y/N, please. You're hurt. The baby—"
You do not care about the baby. You do not care about anything except him.
The hands stop pulling. Instead, they touch your leg. Your thigh. Your—
They freeze.
You feel it too, distantly. Wetness. Warmth. Blood.
"Gods." Your father's voice, rough with fear. "Y/N, you're bleeding. You're in labor. The baby is coming."
No. No, it is too early. Weeks too early. The baby cannot come now, cannot come while Valarr is dying, cannot—
Another wave of pain tears through you. You scream again. Your body curls, convulses, presses you harder against Valarr's unmoving form.
"I won't leave him." The words are broken, gasped between contractions. "I won't. He'll die. He'll die alone."
"Y/N." Hands grip your shoulders. You are lifted, pulled, torn away from the warmth of him. You fight—kicking, screaming, clawing—but your father is stronger, and the pain is overwhelming, and you cannot—
"NO!"
You are in his arms. Cradled against his chest like when you were small, like when you fell and scraped your knees, like when the world was too big and he was the only safe place.
But he is not safe. He is taking you away from him.
"Put me down! Put me DOWN!"
He does not put you down. He carries you through the doorway, into the corridor, away from Valarr's room, away from Valarr's body, away from—
"MAESTERS!" His voice roars, filling the corridor. "MIDWIVES! NOW!"
You are still screaming when he carries you into another room. Still screaming when they lay you on a bed. Still screaming when hands begin to pull at your clothes, check your body, prepare you for something you cannot face.
Still screaming.
Because he is alone.
Because you left him.
The pain takes you. The screaming stops. And there is only the dark.
The labor takes hours.
You are aware of it only in fragmentspa, in, then darkness, then pain again. Voices shouting. Hands pressing. Your father's face, close to yours, his voice rough with an emotion you have never heard from him.
"Stay with me. Stay with me, daughter. You're strong. You're so strong."
You want to tell him that you are not strong. That you left Valarr. That you are nothing without him.
But the pain takes you again, and you cannot speak.
She comes at last.
A cry. Small and fierce, cutting through the chaos. You hear it distantly, like a sound from another room, another life.
"A girl," someone says. "A healthy girl."
They place her on your chest.
She is tiny. Perfect. Her skin wrinkled, her fists clenched, her mouth open in a wail that already sounds like a demand. Her hair—what little there is—is dark. So dark. Just like his.
You touch her face with trembling fingers. She turns toward your touch, instinctive, seeking.
"Baela," you whisper. "Your name is Baela."
Your father's hand rests on your shoulder. Warm. Steady. You had forgotten he was there.
"She's beautiful," he says. His voice is thick. "She looks just like him."
"She does." You cannot stop looking at her. At the shape of her face, the curve of her cheeks, the dark hair that matches his exactly. "When Valarr wakes up, he'll be so glad. He'll be so happy. He wanted a girl. He said he could feel it."
Silence.
You do not notice it. You are too focused on Baela, on her tiny fingers, on the way her cries are quieting as she settles against your skin.
"He'll be so glad," you repeat. "He'll wake up and I'll show her to him and he'll—"
"Y/N." Your father's voice is careful. Too careful. "Y/N, love, Valarr is—"
"He's sleeping. He was so tired. The fever—" You look up, searching his face. "But he'll wake up. He always wakes up. I just have to wait. I just have to—"
Something is wrong.
The room is too quiet. Everyone is looking at you with the same expression—careful, pitying, afraid. Your father's face is grey. The maesters exchange glances. The midwives have stopped moving.
You look down at Baela. She has not opened her eyes yet. They are still closed, those tiny lids, hiding whatever color lies beneath.
"I don't feel well," you say.
The maester steps forward. He is old, experienced, his face weathered by decades of delivering babies and pronouncing deaths. He presses a hand to your forehead, checks your pulse, nods to himself.
"It is normal, Your Highness," he says. "The body has been through great strain. You are distressed. Rest will help."
"No." The word comes out sharper than you intended. "No, there is something wrong. I can feel it. Something is—"
"Princess." His voice is gentle, the voice one uses with frightened children. "You have just given birth. Your body is exhausted. Your mind is overwhelmed by grief. It is natural to feel unwell. Rest, and it will pass."
Grief.
The word hits you like a blow.
"What grief?" You look at your father. "Father, what grief? Why did he say grief?"
Your father's face crumbles.
"Y/N—"
"Where is Valarr?" You try to sit up, but your body will not cooperate. "Why isn't he here? He should be here. He should be—"
"Y/N, please—"
"Valarr!" You are shouting now, your voice raw. "Valarr! Someone get Valarr! He needs to see her! He needs to see Baela!"
Hands hold you down. Gentle but firm. The maester's face appears above you, and in his hand is a small cup.
"Drink this, Princess. It will help you rest."
"No. No, I don't want to rest. I want Valarr. I want—"
The cup presses to your lips. Liquid slides down your throat. Poppy, honey, something to dull the edges of the world.
"No," you whisper. But it is too late. The darkness is already creeping in.
You look at Baela one last time. Her eyes are still closed. Her dark hair. Her tiny fists.
"She looks so much like him," you murmur. "When he wakes up, he'll be so glad."
Your father takes Baela from your arms. You try to hold on, but your hands will not obey.
"Rest," he whispers. "Rest, my love."
The darkness takes you.
You do not wake up.
Hours pass. The maesters check on you, nod, leave. The midwives tend to Baela, who sleeps in a cradle nearby, her dark hair soft against the white linen. Your father sits beside you, holding your hand, waiting for you to open your eyes.
You do not.
The sun sets. The candles are lit. Your mother comes, her face wet, and sits on your other side. They hold your hands together, these two people who have loved you longest, and they wait.
You do not wake up.
Your father's hand tightens around yours.
"No," he says. "No, she's strong. She's always been strong. She'll wake up. She has to wake up."
Baela cries in her cradle. Someone picks her up, soothes her, feeds her. The sound fades. The room grows quiet.
Your father does not leave your side.
During the night your heart stops beating.
The pyre burns for two days.
Their bodies lie together, entwined as they were in life. Their hands are clasped. Their faces are peaceful.
Maekar stands at the front of the mourners and does not weep.
He cannot weep. The tears are frozen somewhere inside him, locked behind a wall of ice that will never fully thaw. He watches the flames consume his daughter, her husband, the future they should have had. He watches and he does not move.
In his pocket, his fingers close around a ring.
Gold, with a red ruby. The one Valarr placed on her finger during their wedding ceremony. The one she loved so much, that she touched absently when she was thinking, that she spun around her finger when she was nervous. The one they removed before the pyre, because Maekar could not bear to see it burn.
He remembers when Valarr came to him.
Months before the wedding. The boy had sought him out in the training yard, nervous and formal, asking for a private word. Maekar had expected a discussion of alliances, of dowries, of the endless practicalities that accompanied royal marriages.
Instead, Valarr had asked: What kind of rings does she like? What would she love?
Not what was traditional. Not what would impress the court. What she would love.
Maekar had told him. And Valarr had listened.
The ring in his pocket is proof of that.
Baela came to him after the funeral.
She is small. So small. Wrapped in blankets, held by a wet nurse who looks terrified to be anywhere near the grieving prince. But Maekar takes her. He holds her against his chest, this tiny creature who has his daughter's face and his daughter's husband's coloring.
She opens her eyes.
Blue and brown. Just like Valarr.
But her face,the shape of her cheeks, the curve of her chin, the way her brow furrows in thought,that is Y/N. That is his daughter, looking at him from the face of her child.
"Baela," he whispers. "Hello, little one."
She blinks. Her tiny hand escapes the blanket, reaching up, finding his beard.
Just like her mother used to do.
Maekar does not weep. But something cracks, deep inside.
He raises her as his own.
---
maekar
The hour is late.
Summerhall sleeps around him, quiet and still, but Maekar cannot rest. He sits in the nursery. The fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls. In her cradle, Baela sleeps. She is so small. So perfect. So terribly like her mother.
A goblet rests in his hand. Wine—Arbor gold, the same vintage he shared with Y/N on her sixteenth nameday, when she had laughed and told him it was too sweet and he had pretended to be offended. He drinks. The wine does nothing.
Baela stirs. A small sound, a shift of blankets. He sets down the goblet and rises, crossing to the cradle before he is fully aware of moving.
She looks up at him.
Her eyes are open, Valarr's eyes, the eyes that looked at his daughter with so much love it had sometimes made Maekar uncomfortable to witness. But her face. The shape of her cheeks. The curve of her chin. The way her brow furrows slightly, studying him.
That is Y/N.
That is his daughter.
"Y/N," he whispers.
The name falls from him without thought, without control. He is tired. He has had too much wine. The firelight is low and treacherous, painting shadows that lie.
"Y/N, I'm sorry." He reaches into the cradle, his big, scarred hand gentle as it ever was with her. His fingers brush her cheek. "I should have been there. I should have protected you. I should have—"
Baela makes a sound. Not a cry—something softer, questioning. Her tiny hand escapes the blanket and finds his fingers, gripping with that same fierce hold her mother had, the hold she had used since the moment she was born.
He freezes.
For a moment—just a moment—he lets himself believe.
"You used to hold my beard," he murmurs. "When you were small. You would grab it and not let go. I told your mother I would have to cut it off to survive you." A sound escapes him, something between a laugh and a sob. "I never did. You loved it too much."
Baela blinks up at him. Her grip on his finger does not loosen.
"You grew so beautiful," he continues. "So smart. So fierce. I watched you become everything I could have hoped for, and I was so proud, and I never told you enough." His voice cracks. "I never told you enough."
The door opens.
Daeron stands in the threshold, his face soft with sleep and sorrow. Daeron looks at him—his father, bent over the cradle, speaking to his granddaughter, as though she were Y/N—and something in his face breaks.
"Father." his voice is gentle. "Father, that's Baela."
He does not move.
"I know." His voice is rough. "I know. I just—for a moment—"
"I know, Come to bed."
"Daeron—"
"Go to bed." He tugs gently. "Baela will be here in the morning. She will always be here."
He lets Daeron lead him away. At the door, he looks back.
Baela's eyes are still open. Still watching him. Still so like her mother.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispers. "Goodnight, Y/N."
In the nursery, Baela sleeps.
She will not remember this night. She will not remember the way her grandfather looked at her and saw someone else, the way his voice broke on a name that was not hers, the way her grandmother led him away like a wounded animal.
But she will grow up knowing she was loved.
By both of them.
Always.
300 A.C
The Meereenese sun hangs heavy in the sky, thick and golden through the open arches of the pyramid. Daenerys Targaryen sits on her cushions, a bowl of grapes beside her, her silver-gold hair loose around her shoulders. She has been listening for hours.
Ser Barristan Selmy stands before her, his heavy armor pristine despite the heat, his weathered face marked by the weight of the story he has just finished telling.
Silence stretches between them.
Daenerys plucks a grape from the bowl. She looks at it for a long moment—small, purple, perfect. Then she throws it at him.
It bounces off his white breastplate and falls to the floor.
"I asked you for a love story," she says. Her voice is light, but there is something beneath it. "A funny story. Something to pass the time before the next round of petitions."
Barristan does not flinch. He has served too many Targaryens to flinch at a thrown grape.
"I told you the story you asked for, Your Grace."
"I asked for a love story. You told me a tragedy." She gestures vaguely, encompassing the pyramid, the city, the whole of Meereen. "They died. Both of them. On the same day. Before they could even see their daughter's face."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And then her father—my great-great—" She stops, counting on her fingers. "Maekar. He raised the girl. He wore the ring. He died feeling guilty for something that wasn't his fault."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And the girl—Baela—she lived happily. That part was nice." Daenerys reaches for another grape. "But everyone else died."
"That is often the way with Targaryen love stories, Your Grace."
Daenerys laughs. It is a surprised sound, pulled from her against her will. "You have a dark sense of humor, Ser Barristan."
"I have served your house for a very long time, Your Grace. One develops certain… perspectives."
She pops the grape into her mouth. Chews. Swallows.
She is quiet for a moment. Then she looks past him, through the open arches, toward the top of the pyramid where her dragons rest.
Viserion lies sprawled across the warm stone, his cream-and-gold scales gleaming in the sun. He is comfortable, relaxed, one wing draped carelessly over the edge of the platform. Asleep, perhaps, or simply basking in the heat he loves.
But it is Rhaegal who catches her attention.
The green dragon is not resting. He is curled around Viserion, his long neck wrapped protectively across his brother's back, his head resting against Viserion's neck. His eyes are half-closed, but every few moments they open, scanning, checking, ensuring that Viserion is still there, still safe, still his.
It is not unusual for dragons to cluster together. They are siblings, littermates, bonded in ways even she does not fully understand.
Rhaegal has always been the wild one. The angry one. The one who snaps and bites and seems to carry some ancient fury in his green scales. He does not cuddle. He does not curl protectively around anyone.
Except for Viserion.
Always Viserion.
The cream-and-gold dragon who is gentle where Rhaegal is fierce, calm where Rhaegal is storm, the only living creature who can approach Rhaegal without drawing blood.
Daenerys watches them. The green wrapped around the gold. The protective curl of his body. The way he shifts whenever Viserion stirs, making sure his brother settles back into comfort.
They look like they have been doing this forever.
Daenerys smiles. It is a small thing, soft, nothing like the commanding expression she wears for petitioners and ambassadors.
"Thank you, Ser Barristan," she says. "For the story. Even if it was a tragedy."
"It was a love story, Your Grace. The two are often the same."
They look peaceful.
Daenerys watches them for a long time.
And somewhere, in a place beyond time and death and the long grief of centuries, two souls who once promised to wait for each other sleep wrapped in each other's arms, finally at peace.
Title: Blue on Black
Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x Princess!Reader
Rating: T + usual Westeros shenanigans
Word count: 6k+
Summary: No one else ever had eyes so blue and kind as his…and only the seven can help a fool who falls in love. Or in which a Targaryen Princess and Dunk keep meeting under a series of unfortunate events.
...sometimes a spark that's in the dark, it catches fire and burns you up...
THE WHITE CLOAKS of the Kingsguard flutter as they move through the streets of King’s Landing, leading and trailing the funeral procession from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor. The smallfolk gather along the way and in the terraces above, watching solemnly as Dyanna Dayne passes by in a shroud of lavender and scarlet on a bier of summer blooms carried by pale horses—their harness bells ring softly.
It is a sad day for the Seven Kingdoms and a sadder day still for the House of the Dragon.
Prince Maekar Targaryen holds little Rhae close against his chest, her small face pressed into his shoulder. He envies the small princess in the moment, ignorant of the cruelty of the world—the aching pain and sadness of losing someone so dear. The rest of his children ride in an open carriage. Their eyes downcast, with only sniffles and dry heaves exchanged, and every so often, Daeron wipes Aegon’s tears with quiet patience.
But Prince Baelor keeps his own—a boy and a girl—at the rear. This is a day reserved for his youngest brother, not one to be overshadowed by the Prince of Dragonstone.
Valarr catches sight of you, feet dragging, your fingers twisting a small ring around and around—a silver band set with rubies, a nervous habit to drown out the tolling bells. He drops back a step, and his hand finds yours in the slow-moving procession, fingers curling around your own. You look at him—then up at your father—eyes shining with tears under the thin dark veil of a mourning dress.
And then the slim silver and ruby ring slips from your finger and skitters toward the edge of the crowd, near the holey shoes of a Flea Bottom boy. The boy stoops down and picks it up—he’s never held something worth so much in all his short years. Part of him thinks he might be able to make a run for it, that it’s enough to book passage to the Free Cities or have supper for a year without begging or thieving, but the thought fades, and he steps forward.
“Get back, boy!” One of the men of the City Watch grits out, brandishing his iron cudgel as a warning. But the boy doesn’t move.
Dirt streaks his face, and his clothes hang loose and worn. He looks younger than your brother, but bigger, much bigger, when he lumbers closer, hesitant. “Pri– Princess,” the Flea Bottom boy mutters, holding out his open hand—broad palm, scraped knuckles—refusing to meet the gaze of royalty. But sitting in his palm is the ring.
Baelor’s hand settles on your back, a quiet urging. You step to the boy and reach for the ring, fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you say, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hush of the crowd and the sept bells. His head lifts then, just a little, and for a heartbeat you’re struck by his eyes. Blue eyes. The likes of which you’ll never forget.
LITTLE PRINCE AEGON closes the door behind him, tears streaking his face as he slips from Maekar’s chamber, leaving his brothers still in heated counsel with their father. Aerion is wroth—of course he is—and Daeron’s piss-poor accusations do not bode well for Egg’s new friend. A fine fellow, from the way the little prince spoke of him. Maybe it’s foolish, careless even, but you decide to see just how true Egg’s words about this Hedge Knight are.
Ser Duncan the Tall looks up from the wet floor at the sound of iron hinges creaking, and his broad shoulders stiffen at the appearance of another royal. Will the parade never end? He lowers his head—he’s already struck one prince today, and he has no wish to insult another of royal blood. “Princess.” It’s not so much a greeting as it is an acknowledgment.
You set one of the stools aright and gather your skirts close in hand to keep them out of the muck as you sit. Fingers instinctively finding the familiar comfort of your silver-and-ruby ring, turning it slowly around and around.
“You’ll hear no thanks from my uncle or my father,” you begin, the words measured but sincere, “but I thank you for keeping Egg from harm.” The boy means a great deal to you. He’s earnest and too gentle for the cruelties of the world. Fear had settled over you like a stormcloud when Daeron finally found the courage to show his face after three days lost to drink in some tavern, spinning tales that a brutish knight had stolen away his little brother.
Your gaze lifts to Ser Duncan then, studying him in the quiet that follows. And while he certainly is large, brute does not seem the right word for him. “And I am sorry,” you add, softer, the ring still turning beneath your thumb and forefinger, “that this misfortune has befallen you.”
Dunk wishes he could regret his actions, but with Tanselle’s agonizing scream still echoing in his ears, he thinks he might’ve broken Aerion’s face had it not been for the royal guards stopping him. “Was only defending the innocent,” he says. “As any knight should.”
A faint breath leaves you—half a laugh and half something sorrowful. If only all knights and princes thought the same. “It is a rare thing for a knight to remember his vows these days.” Your eyes flick to the darkening bruise along his strong jaw. He’s at least three heads taller than Aerion and several stones heavier. The true shame is that he only loosened a tooth and did not knock it clean out. “Though I do wish you’d gotten in a few more blows,” you admit, looking down at the creases in your palm, almost ashamed to admit it.
The corner of Dunk’s mouth twitches at that. He still won’t look at you, but he steals a longer glimpse, long enough to see the same dread and hatred in your expression that Egg had after the day’s joust. Long enough to recall you were there too in that tent. “I don’t understand.” Dunk shakes his head, brow knitting together. “Is Aerion not your betrothed?” Nigh all of Westeros knew of the recent engagement between Baelor’s daughter and Maekar’s son—an odd match for politics and prosperity, but not a queer one among the Targaryens.
“Unfortunately.” You need not say anything more on the matter. Dunk understands. “If it eases your mind and heart, I sent Lord Ashford’s maester to tend to the girl’s hand,” you tell him.
He nods, solemn. It does soothe his heart to know Tanselle’s injuries would be looked after in a proper fashion. “A decent thing to do,” Dunk replies. It was the right thing to do, you think. Silence creeps in, and having thought of nothing more to say, you move to leave, knowing your father will wish to speak with him before he must face Aerion.
A flash of silver and red—a ring now too small for any finger but a pinky—catches his eye. Dunk rises. “Your Grace!” He calls, moving toward you with measured steps so as not to startle. “We...we’ve met before,” he stumbles over the words. “Do you remember?” There’s hope in his voice, even if it's a fool’s hope. A princess would hardly have a cause to remember a poor boy from Flea Bottom and a chance meeting in the streets years ago. “As children.”
After another step, the firelight of a nearby sconce shines fully upon his face, and your throat tightens. You know those blue eyes. In all the time that’s passed, you’ve yet to see a pair of eyes bluer, clearer, kinder than his. Baelor remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree. And you—you remember him, just a boy from Flea Bottom. “You returned my ring,” you muse, remembering the day well.
“Daeron gave it to me on my fifth nameday,” you add, fondness and grief tangled in your voice—always your favorite cousin, no matter how many casks of wine he tries to drown himself in. Slipping the silver band free, you turn it over in hand, the dim light paints the rubies like drops of wet blood, an ill omen, you think. You’ve rarely gone without it, finding comfort in such a little thing.
“Wearing it has always brought me good fortune.” You step toward Dunk then and offer it to him—a courtly favour of sorts. He doesn’t move. So you take his hand—large and calloused—and place the small ring into his palm. “I pray it does the same for you, Ser Duncan.”
He shakes his head. “Your Grace, I can’t...”
“You can,” you interrupt, slipping your hand under his and forcing his fingers to close around the ring—the very same one he thought about making off with as a boy. It is a gift, if nothing else. A small fortune for a hedge knight should he survive what comes next. He finally does not shy from your gaze, and finds a mix of emotions he can’t quite make out.
Small footsteps patter down the hall—Egg. “Dunk.” His brows knit together, surprised to hear you speak his true and given name. “Be gentle with him,” you murmur, hand falling away from his as you turn toward the door. “He’s only a boy.”
“HELP HIM, PLEASE!” Egg’s voice cracks, and his eyes—deep and dark and purple—shine bright with panic and tears. His hands are clenched tight at his sides, knuckles almost white. You’ve always listened, always helped. To Egg, you’re the daughter of the crowned prince, the realm’s darling, and you should be able to thwart his brother’s distorted view of justice before it’s carried out.
But you feel just as helpless as he. “What can I do, Egg?” you answer, crouching so you are level with him. “I am no knight nor prince.” Even if you were more than a princess, it would not be likely to help Ser Duncan.
“But Baelor–” Egg starts. You cut him off, gently, “–is heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King.” Your fingers graze his sleeve. “He cannot risk himself so lightly.”
The boy shakes his head, his jaw set in a stubborn way that reminds you of his father. “Tell Aerion to stop, then,” Egg demands. An impossible task. He knows it is. Mayhap any other husband-to-be would consider his betrothed’s gentle requests, a marriage favor even, but Aerion is neither kind nor noble.
As if summoned by thought alone, Aerion Brightflame enters the room. Your heart drops seeing him. There is no warmth in his gaze as it drifts between you and his younger brother—no affection, no fondness. Only the cold, sharp look that always sets you on edge. “Run along, Egg.” Aerion’s command is lazy, almost bored.
“No.” Aegon answers, lifting his chin just a little. “I won’t,” he says, his voice wavering.
“I said run along,” Aerion repeats, sharper this time. “Go pray for your fool knight, if it please you. He’ll need all the gods he can muster.”
You nod to Egg, almost imperceptibly. “Go find Daeron,” you tell the boy. Egg swallows hard, then gives Aerion one last look of pure, burning hatred before he turns from the room.
In Egg’s wake, there’s an uneasy silence. Neither Lord Tyrell nor Lord Ashford thinks to say anything from their seats at the long table, both waiting for Baelor and Maekar to join and decide what is to be done.
Aerion’s attention turns fully to you, and his gaze hardens, the amusement he finds from tormenting his brother draining away. He steps closer, looking down his nose at you. “You would do well to remember your place, cousin.” His voice is a hiss, having heard you and Egg talking and knowing you’d gone to see the guilty hedge knight.
It feels like he has struck you without raising a hand. He’s forgotten I, too, am a dragon. “My place,” you say with a false smile, back straightening to make yourself taller, “is wherever I choose to stand.”
“Your place,” Aerion corrects coolly, “is at my side.” His hand lifts, as though to cup your cheek—claiming, possessive. You flinch before his fingers can brush flesh. The movement is small, but he notices it. Anger and wounded pride flash across Aerion’s face, a dangerous combination. Approaching footsteps stills his hand in the air between you, and he lets it fall back to his side when he sees his father and uncle coming to join the council. Your gaze flits from his dark eyes to your father, but Aerion lingers just long enough to give you an unreadable look before he takes his seat at the end of the table.
Ser Duncan the Tall requested a trial by combat, as all ordained knights have the right to, but he left the solar needing six more knights to defend his cause by the morning—a Trial of Seven, Aerion demanded. Lord Tyrell and Ashford disperse thereafter. Baelor expects you to follow, as the others do. But you remain seated, hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing. Egg is right. You go to twist the ring on your pinky. It’s gone. Of course, it’s gone, you remind yourself.
Your father watches you with his mismatched eyes. Had you looked up then, you might have seen something akin to shame flicker across the noble face of Baelor Breakspear.
“Is there nothing else you can do, father?” you ask at last. The question surprises him. It is not often you press him so. “He did only what any knight should do,” you continue. “Protect the weak and innocent. The puppeteer. Egg.” Me, but you do not say as much. Nor do you show him the scrapes on your palms, the bruises hidden beneath your sleeves, the ache in your knees from where Aerion’s fury had thrown you aside. A Fossoway squire had been the one to help you from the ground. You feel your throat tighten. “I...I’m tired of the good and decent folk of the realm being trodden on by people like Aerion.”
Baelor’s gaze softens—always a gentle heart. “Have I not been a good daughter?” The words come before you can stop them. “Have I not done your bidding?” You squeeze your eyes shut. Have I not agreed to marry my monstrous cousin—for the good of the realm?
He comes to you then and reaches for you, taking your face into his hands. “You have,” he says quietly, proudly. “You have been dutiful. More than many in your place would be.” No one in the Seven Kingdoms could say Baelor Targaryen did not love and take pride in his children.
And then he takes the empty chair beside you and he speaks as a prince. “Aerion is…as he is,” Baelor says, carefully. “But he is still the blood of the dragon. And the blood of our house must not sit idle where honor is concerned.”
You know he speaks true in some fashion, especially with the recent history of rebellions, but without dragons, House Targaryen cannot rule through fear and absolute power alone. The smallfolk’s love is where true power lies, and they have little love for the likes of Aerion, especially after he dishonored himself in the tourney by killing Humfrey Hardyng’s mount. “What is it you are asking of me?” Your father finally inquires.
To stop this madness. To choose what is right over what is easy. To save him. “I ask and want for nothing,” you whisper, though your lips tremble as you say it.
The morning comes, but you have not slept. No one has, by the looks of it. Walking to the tourney grounds is a solemn affair. The joy has been sapped from Ashford Meadow in just a few hours. Poor young Gwin Ashford, instead of being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, must preside over a bloody and needless trial. Aegon runs past you, small and swift, his face set with fierce determination. He will squire for Ser Duncan.
Turning from the stands, you pace the pavilions, looking for your brother and father. The wind stirs the flaps of Valarr’s pavilion. You pause. A shadow moves within, clad in your brother’s armor. Has Valarr taken up Ser Duncan’s cause? Surely, not. He hadn’t even sat in the council the prior evening. “Valarr?” You call. Your brother does not answer.
The armor does not sit as it should. The dark steel breastplate pulls a touch too tight across the back; the studded leather tassels fall shorter than you remember. And his hair, where your brother’s would show a single bright streak of silver, is salted with grey. Your breath catches.
Father. The man who held your hand when you were little. Who taught you right from wrong. Who kissed your brow and told you stories of brave knights and just kings. Your eyes burn, and suddenly, you feel small again.
“Papa?” Baelor turns. It’s been years since you last called him that. The Prince of Dragonstone dismisses the young Reach lords helping him fasten the last of the straps with a quiet nod. He had not thought to bring his own armor, so he wears his son’s. It fits him well enough. “Why?” It’s a meek, breathless question.
“Ser Duncan upheld his vows, as every true knight should.” There is no doubt, no hesitation. The soul of chivalry. Baelor adjusts his gloves. “And, if by nothing else, I make my daughter proud, then this is worth it.” You don’t realize you’re crying until his hand comes up to wipe the tears from your cheeks, his thumb brushing them away as he has done a hundred times before. He smiles at you—fond and unafraid. “Go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Go with Aegon, and I will do my best to protect your hedge knight.”
Your hedge knight. You want to protest the phrasing, but your father has already turned away. There is nothing to lose, fighting against men sworn to do him no harm, but everything to gain. Outside the pavilion, a groom brings his horse. Baelor Targaryen mounts his dark stallion, gathering the reins in his hands, and glances back toward you, just once, before setting Valarr’s helm on his head. Then he snaps the reins as the doors to the list field groan and open.
VALARR BECKONS YOU away—he’s distraught, angry, and cannot understand why you do not share the same sentiments toward the man he sees as responsible for your father’s death. A Prince of the Realm for a hedge knight. It hardly seems a fair trade. And even now, you cannot say if the man Baelor Targaryen gave his life for will live.
So much blood. You look down at your hands and can still see the mix of it and mud there from the days prior, and hear the maesters yelling for boiled wine and forceps. No place for a princess, they told you, letting a common armorer escort you from the tent in a harrowed daze.
Dunk tries to move—groans—and that is when he realizes he is not on the ground, nor in a cell, nor on the hard-packed earth of the list field. He is in a bed. A real bed. One with a feather mattress, linen sheets, and soft blankets. And everything hurts.
“Easy,” a soft voice says. He turns his head and sees you sitting beside him with his good eye, and feels the gentle weight and warmth of your hand on his bicep. For a moment, Dunk can only stare, trying to make sense of it. A Targaryen princess—daughter of Baelor Breakspear—wearing dark mourning silks, sitting at his bedside. Eyes still red-rimmed and shadowed with grief. It should have been me. The guilt gnaws at him; it will for the rest of his days.
“Princess,” he rasps. There’s a shred of panic in his voice and a new tightness in his chest. Dunk dips his head down, struggling to keep your gaze.
You rise, reaching for a cup on the table nearest the bed. “Here”—one hand slips behind Dunk’s broad shoulders to help him sit, careful of the bandages that wrap his chest and the bruises that turn his body into a canvas of black and blue— “slowly,” you tell him, bringing the water to his lips. He drinks, then coughs, and drinks again.
When he can speak, the first thing he says is: “Your father, Pri-prince Baelor.” Memory comes rushing back in a cacophony of blood and steel—his ears ringing, the crash of lance on shield, the terrible moment when Baelor’s helm was struck…Aerion had already yielded. But Maekar hadn’t heard, nor had Baelor. Dunk flinches as if the mace strikes his own head.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. The same words he repeated over and over as he held the prince in his arms. Tears well up in his clear, blue eye, clouded with pain. How could he ever face you—or Valarr—after what happened? It’s not right for a great prince to die so a hedge knight might live. “I never meant–” His cracked lips tremble. “I never wanted–”
“Hush.” Your voice is gentle, firm, as though Baelor himself speaks through you. Dunk looks at you again and sees the weight of such loss written plainly on your face—that lovely face. And still, you’re not angry...only sad. “My father made his choice,” you tell him, quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand loosely curled around one of his. It’s heavily bandaged—from Aerion’s dagger—and there are blood splotches on the pale wrap. “He chose to stand with Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“He…he told me he needed good men.” The Realm needs good men. “Let me serve you, Your Grace,” Dunk says, nigh begging—seeking atonement for ripping Baelor Breakspear from this world too soon. Then his voice softens, and he reaches out, boldly taking your hand into both of his. “I can be your man,” he chokes. Your man.
You cradle Dunk’s bruised cheek with your free hand, knowing your father would have taken him on in the service of House Targaryen without hesitation. A true knight and a good man. The House of the Dragon could use more of those.
“If that is so” —the corners of your lips quirk upward, a sad, fleeting smile— “then I command you to rest, ser.” Rising from the bed, you bend, only just, and place a chaste kiss on Ser Duncan the Tall’s forehead. He almost reaches for you, but thinks better of it. “Rest while I can still keep Egg from under your feet.”
THE MAESTER UNBINDS the bandage around Dunk’s hand as you enter the pavilion. It is a nasty wound—already debrided to clean the muck out—but still angry and raw, the flesh tender and swollen. Dunk can scarcely bend his fingers, let alone grasp a sword or lance.
You sit opposite Maester Mykal, and Dunk watches you the whole while, his brow furrowed—you’re a puzzle he cannot seem to set to rights. A princess who comes to sit with a lowly hedge knight. A noble lady who does not shy away from blood. A daughter who shows kindness to the man who all but killed her father.
“Hold his hand, if you please, Princess,” Mykal says. You take Dunk’s hand—warm and rough with callus and old scars—in both of yours without complaint. The maester spreads a fresh poultice over the wound. His jaw clenches, but he makes no sound. And when Maester Mykal finishes and ties off the bandage with a neat little knot, he pats Dunk’s wrist. “Try not to be a fool with it, ser. It will mend if you let it.” His eyes flick between the two of you before he gathers his things. He’ll return on the morrow at your bidding. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” he tells Dunk. “Princess.” Mykal inclines his head and slips from the pavilion, leaving you still loosely holding Dunk’s hand.
“Why…?” Dunk begins, then stops, swallowing hard, thinking over his words so as not to offend. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be–” his voice trails, rough with uncertainty “–with your kin?” He asks, not unkindly, just confused. You had lost a father. So had Valarr and Matarys. And Maekar had lost his brother. Dunk cannot understand why you would choose to be here with him over family.
“I have been,” you reply. All the night and all the morning, until it was suffocating to remain. “But grief does not keep to one place.” Your eyes lift to meet his. He can almost open his other eye now, though it is still swollen and painted with bruises—but it is his good eye, the clear blue one, that finds yours. “And neither does duty.” Your thumb brushes mindlessly over his knuckles, careful of the bandage.
“My father once told me,” you continue, finally sitting in your bedside chair, “the measure of a ruler is not how they treat the highborn, but how they tend to the low, the wounded, and the forgotten.” A faint, sad smile touches your lips, there and gone again in a blink. “And you are wounded, Ser Duncan.”
But he is not the only one wounded after the trial: the Kingsguard, Humfrey Hardyng, Daeron, and even Aerion. “Is Prince Aerion...” He hadn’t wanted to kill the prince...not really. But he’s not heard anyone really mention what became of him after the trial. Dunk watches your expression falter and your hand fall away from his, and then he regrets having said anything at all. You daft fool. He curses himself.
You’d gone to Aerion after the funeral pyre had turned to ash—he was family, after all. He lay abed in one of Lord Ashford’s guest rooms. A livid bruise darkened one side of his face, the other gnarled by deep cuts, and his lip split where Dunk’s fist had found it. Aerion had no kind words to say, but there had been a flicker of something when you told him you wanted to see if he survived the night.
“Bruised,” you say, after a moment. “And stitched up.” In some ways, he fared better than Duncan. “My uncle is sending him to Lys.” Time in the Free Cities may yet do him some good. The way Maekar said it in the days after the funeral, it all but absolved your betrothal to his son and loosened the noose of duty around your neck. But you’ve not seen Aerion since Maekar decided on his son’s exile.
Dunk shifts on the bed, wincing as his ribs protest, and feels a streak of boldness overcome him. He reaches to take your hand again, his thumb moves against your fingers, as though testing whether you will pull away. You don’t. Instead, your fingers tighten around his, just slightly.
You find yourself going to sit with Dunk nigh every day. Most of the time, Egg comes too, but today he’s off to pack his things to return to Summerhall. Egg hopes he will not have to go and that he will be able to squire for Ser Duncan the Tall. When you enter the pavilion, Maester Mykal is leaving, having replaced the dressings around his torso, and notes Dunk’s wounds are healing well, if a little slow, and he suggests a bit of fresh air might do the hedge knight some good.
Dunk pushes himself off the bed, steadying himself with a crutch, but once he’s upright, you sidle closer to him, offering yourself as a second crutch. “Never thought I’d have a dragon steadying me on my feet,” he says—you wear the colors of your house today, it’s hard for him not to see you as such.
A small smile touches your lips when you look up at him. “We’re not all fire and fury.”
“No,” he agrees, voice low. “Some of you are kinder than you ought to be.” Dunk takes another step and winces when his weight settles wrong, even with the crutch under one arm and you under the other. It’s too much. Aerion’s sword bit deep.
The crutch slips, clattering to the floor, and his balance with it. All of him—nigh twenty stone of him—presses down on you. Dunk catches himself against the edge of the bed, enough to keep from crushing you entirely, but not enough to spare you the fall. You go down with him, letting out a small, startled grunt as the two of you land in an awkward tangle of limbs.
“Princess,” he chokes, scrambling at once, half-dragging you across his lap in his haste to set you upright, more afraid for you than any wound of his own. “M’sorry.” Dunk holds onto your arms. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Your hands brace against his chest, fingers splaying over the coarse fabric of his stained tunic, and beneath it, you feel the steady, stubborn thrum of his heart. His breath catches beneath you, and you both realize then how close you are. “No harm done,” you assure him, not looking away from those big, bright, blue eyes of his.
“Shouldn’t be the one falling for me, Princess,” Dunk says quietly, a poor attempt at humor. But his voice is a little breathless from the closeness and the ache of the returning pain in his ribs. A faint huff of laughter escapes you, and even though it fades quickly, the warmth lingers in your flushed cheeks. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then up again.
“Princess…” he begins, voice low and uncertain, and then even softer is your name. No titles or formality, just a whisper. You like her, Egg told him the night prior; he could see it easily enough with his own young eyes. And she likes you too. That’s not a bad thing, ser.
You lean in—just enough he could pull back if he wishes, just enough that it feels more like a choice rather than boldness or impropriety. One of your hands lifts from his chest, moving to his face, cradling the fading bruises. Your thumb traces the rough line of his cheek with the first rasp of red-blond stubble. He leans into the touch. The breath he draws is sharp, unsteady, and those blue eyes search your face—asking the same silent question you are.
“Dunk,” you breathe, whether aloud or only in your thoughts, you aren’t certain.
He moves then, and his kiss, when it comes, is tentative and clumsy with care. But you do not shy away, and something in him loosens—breaks, even. His arm, thick and strong, comes up around your shoulders, drawing you closer, further into him. Dunk’s lips press firmer then, lingering just a heartbeat longer before he draws back, his nose brushing yours, and breath unsteady against your cheek.
You tilt your head to the side and catch his lips with yours before he can speak or think to doubt it, as you know he’s wont to do. The second kiss is warmer, no less gentle, and all the deeper for the wanting of it. Your fingers curl lightly at his jaw, holding him there. When you part this time, your foreheads rest together. Dunk swallows hard, his large hand shifting as if he might reach for you again, and he does.
The flap of the tent jerks open. “Ser, I —oh!” Egg stands in the entrance, frozen mid-step, eyes wide as saucers as they dart between you. Your hand on Dunk’s cheek. Dunk’s hand splayed at your waist. The two of you are far closer than propriety would ever allow.
For one drawn-out second, no one moves.
Your gaze flits away from your cousin, back to Dunk, and by the look of him—with his reddened ears—he would rather face another trial than his princeling squire. Resigned, your hand falls from his cheek, back to his chest, and your head drops, resting against his shoulder.
Egg’s face is redder than his scarlet sash, and you cannot help but let out a small, helpless laugh. The first since the lists fell silent—a lovely sound to Dunk’s ears.
“I knew it,” the boy manages, a grin splitting through his initial surprise. “Shall I come back later, ser?” Egg asks, rising on his toes to seem taller. “Or perhaps stand guard?” He adds, trying his utmost to sound serious but nigh on the verge of giddy laughter—how could he not be giddy? His favorite cousin and new friend.
Dunk groans softly and lets his head fall back against the bedframe, dragging a hand down over his face. “Seven save me,” he mutters.
Egg’s smile widens at hearing it. The boy is far too pleased with himself, but he takes a step back out of the tent, not leaving entirely yet—fingers still hooked into the dyed canvas. “Can’t have anyone else interrupting.”
“Egg,” Dunk warns. There’s no real heat in it, more so just the embarrassment of being caught.
A few more heartbeats pass. He looks down at you, still resting your head on his shoulder, smiling. But Ser Duncan the Tall feels a fool. You’re a princess, he reminds himself, he should not have done what he did, no matter how much he—and you—enjoyed it.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last, low and rough, his hand falling away from your waist. “For,” he falters, unsure which part to name exactly. The kiss? Egg? The silly way his heart starts to race when you hold his hand or smile? He squeezes his eyes shut and, for a quick second, sees Baelor Targaryen standing in his son’s armor, an almost sad smile on his lips.
You lift your head, still close enough to him that your noses nearly brush. “Don’t be,” you answer. “It’s not something I regret.” Dunk’s expression eases, leaving that earnest, open look that first struck you all those years ago on the streets of King’s Landing.
His hand lifts to your cheek, fingers just ghosting along the curve of your jaw, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, before his hand slips away again, slow and reluctant. “I shouldn’t have,” he begins again, stubborn in his sense of what is proper. “Yes, you should have,” you interrupt, just as gently as before. Tilting your chin up, you kiss Dunk again, a quick kiss to show you really mean the words you speak.
You want him, by the old gods and the new, you want him. Dunk’s breath catches. “I…have nothing to give you,” he admits, the words are honest and rough, much like him. “I’ve no castle. No lands. Not even a proper suit of armor of my own.” His mouth twitches, self-conscious. “All I’ve got is my sword, and what vows I can keep.” But you know this already, he knows you know, and you still look at him like that.
“And a good heart,” you add.
Dunk huffs a breath at that. His gaze drops again, then returns to yours, steadier—braver, with a new look twinkling in his blue eyes. “If,” he starts, then pauses, gathering his courage. “If you’d have me…I’ll be your man.” The words are quiet, even if he’s already spoken them to you what feels like weeks ago now. “Your man, to serve and stand beside you. For as long as you’ll have me.”
Your gaze drops to his hand, and you reach for it once more, fingers slipping lightly into his palm. Lifting your entwined hands, you—a princess of House Targaryen—kiss one of his scarred knuckles. “I would have you,” you answer, soft and sure.
For a heartbeat, he looks like the boy who once stood in the street with a ring in his palm again. You rest your forehead against his again, hands still joined, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles in that same tentative, hopeful way.
Ser Duncan the Tall may have nothing, he thinks—but with you in his arms and your breath warm against his lips, he feels he has been given everything he’s ever dared to dream of and hope for.
[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @vymyn / @slytherinmates ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form! also please use the same form if you'd like to be added to my GoT, HotD, and AKOTSK taglist.
i'm in the mood to speak on dunk’s sheer size….☘︎ ݁˖
the girth is really what truly astonishes, when he presses against your entrance, it is an immense pressure, a deep, stretching ache. both being virgins it really is an exploration and new experience for you both…
his gaze, darts between your face and your pussy stretching to take him, his concern for your comfort a contrast to the overwhelming power he holds. he halts at your sharp intake of breath, his large hand coming to rest gently on your lower belly, a soft sound from his lips drawing your eyes to his.
"do i pain you, my lady? should i stop?"
"n-no," you manage, a small nod accompanying the word. your hands once gripping his broad shoulders now tangling in the back of his hair.
"easy now," he murmurs as he resumes sinking you down on him.
"gods above!" you gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as your back arches from the intensity of his slow, deliberate entry.
"s’okay- s’okay i feel it, i’ll be gentle. i swear it."
he releases your hip to grasp the base of his shaft, a means to have a more focused pressure, sinking another inch.
"dunk!"
"there girl," he praises, his voice thick with a primal satisfaction as your slickness coats him, easing his path. "i would not see you hurt," with a final, gentle push, you feel him nudge impossibly deep, a presence you feel in your belly. instinctively, you try to widen your straddle, desperate for more room to accommodate his fat cock.
"be at ease, now," he urges, tapping the inside of your thigh. "i don’t think i can move if your muscles don’unclench."
you draw a ragged breath and release it slowly. duncan feels the subtle shift, the way your body softens around his intrusion. "aye, just so my love."
as you exhale, he presses forward, seating himself another measure deeper before slowly lifting you up and down experimentally.
"seven hells, you feel like heaven," he groans, his composure fraying at the edges. his eyes are fixed upon where you are joined. at the sound of your exhaled breath, he thrusts again burying his entire length within you. another sharp cry escapes your lips, and your hands grip or- tug his hair.
"breathe. just breathe," he commands, his own brows raised in encouragement as he demonstrates for you. you nod, mimicking him, the tightness in your chest easing with each cycle of air.
"good…keep breathing…" he asks. your nod is frantic as you comply. in, out, in, out...and with each exhale, sir duncan begins to move you up and down, impaling you on his veiny girth cock, in a slow, deep rhythm that fills you completely.
pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!oc , daeron targaryen x oc
Chapter 5.5: I've dreamed of you, Clarice of the Eyrie (Part II)
"You could try to hold my head under the stew, Aerion," she replied, without blinking, her voice a cool, conversational hum. She turned her head just enough so her lips were a hair's breath from his. "But my dinner knife would find your beautiful throat before I drowned. And it would truly break my heart to ruin your pretty face and your new velvet doublet all in one evening."
Aerion stared at her, his chest heaving. For a terrifying second, she thought he might actually strike her. She saw the calculation in his eyes, the violent urge warring with his twisted affection for her defiance.
A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. The murderous rage evaporated, replaced by that manic, amused delight he reserved solely for her sharp tongue.
"You are a wicked, unbearable… delectable creature, wife," he murmured fondly.
masterlist here
Clarice woke to the smell of old paper, rain, and the faint, sweet spice of Arbor red. For a fraction of a second, suspended in the hazy, drowsy space between sleep and waking, she did not know where she was. There was no heavy, suffocating arm draped across her chest. There was no scent of chewed cloves and metal. There was only a gentle, steady warmth radiating against her back, and the soft, even breath fanning the hair at the nape of her neck.
She opened her eyes. The library of Summerhall materialized in the gloom, its high arched windows weeping with the relentless downpour of the summer storm.
Memory returned, not with the sharp, panicked jolt she was accustomed to, but with a slow, blooming warmth that settled deep in her marrow. Daeron.
She turned her head slightly. Daeron was still asleep, his face pressed against her shoulder. In the dim glow of the morning daylight, stripped of the wine cup and the defensive, sardonic sneer he wore for the world, he looked impossibly young. The lines of exhaustion around his mouth had smoothed out. His silver-gold hair was a tangled mess against the dark wool of the Myrish rug. He looked peaceful, unburdened.
It was a terrifying sight. Peace, in Clarice’s experience, was only the deep breath a monster took before it roared.
She shifted her weight, intending to sit up, but Daeron’s arm tightened instinctively around her waist. He let out a soft, questioning murmur, pulling her closer until her back was flush against his chest.
"Don't," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and rough like choppy tides. "The dragons are quiet. Let them sleep."
Clarice’s heart gave a painful, treacherous flutter. She rested her hand over his forearm, her thumb tracing the pale skin of his wrist. "The dragons may be sleeping," she whispered, "but the sun is not. It will be dawn soon, Daeron. The castle will wake."
Daeron groaned, a sound of profound, existential reluctance. He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, his lips warm against her skin, and then slowly withdrew his arm. The loss of his warmth was immediate and chilling; agonizing, almost.
Clarice sat up, pulling the edges of her pale rose shift together. The silk was wrinkled, carrying the scent of him; a scent she would somehow have to scrub from her skin before her husband returned. The thought of Aerion was a bucket of ice water down her spine.
She reached for her shawl, which had been tossed haphazardly near the hearth, when her eyes caught something dark staining the intricate patterns of the rug.
It was the wine.
When Daeron had practically launched at her, he had knocked over his goblet. The dark, rich Arbor red had soaked deep into the pale wool, spreading into a jagged, irregular puddle. In the low light of the embers, it looked exactly like old blood.
Clarice stared at it. Daeron sat up beside her, muffling a yawn with his fist, following her gaze. He rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He looked at the stain, then at Clarice's pale, frightened face. The mask of the tragic, cynical prince slid back into place, though the edges were softer than usual.
"I'll have the servants remove the rug," Daeron said dismissively. "I will tell them I threw a goblet at a rat. It wouldn't be the most eccentric thing I’ve done."
"You can't just remove a Myrish rug from the royal library without Maekar noticing," Clarice said, her voice tight. She began to quickly lace her shift, her fingers trembling slightly. "He notices everything. He will ask questions."
"Then I will tell him I ruined it," Daeron countered, reaching out to catch her frantic hands. He stilled her fingers with his own. "Clarice. Look at me."
She didn't want to. She wanted to retreat behind her walls, to don the armor she wore to survive her marriage. But she looked up, meeting those grieving lilac eyes. He smiled, a weak, affectionate thing. Clarice fought the urge to kiss him.
"It is just spilled wine," he promised her, his voice low and steady. "I will handle it."
"Aerion will return today," she whispered, the confession tasting like ash. "If he finds out... Daeron, he will kill you. He won't even challenge you. He will just burn you."
Daeron quirked a sad, lopsided smile. "Aerion has been trying to find an excuse to kill me since we were children in the nursery. At least this time, the crime was worth the execution."
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. It was a chaste, reverent gesture that somehow felt more intimate than everything they had done on the rug. "Go. Wash. I’ll handle this, you don’t need to worry."
Clarice nodded. She stood up, her bare feet silent on the stone. She took a few steps toward the door before pausing. The heavy silence of the room, broken only by the fading storm outside, seemed to pull her back. She turned, her pale rose shift catching the last embers of the fire, and crossed the space between them. Before Daeron could question her return, she leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He let out a muffled sound of surprise against her mouth, his eyes widening briefly before fluttering shut as he leaned into the touch, a genuinely pleased and wondrous smile breaking through his exhaustion. She pulled away just as quickly, offering him a faint, daring smile, and slipped out of the library like a ghost, leaving Daeron alone in the dark with the dying fire, the stain that looked like old blood, and the lingering phantom of her warmth.
The water in her bathing basin was tepid already, but Clarice scrubbed her skin until it was raw and pink and hurting.
She felt frantic. She used a heavy scented soap, rubbing it over her collarbones, her neck, her breasts and thighs, terrified that Aerion’s predatory nose would catch the smell of his brother on her skin. She washed her hair, combing out the tangles where Daeron’s fingers had been, watching the water turn cloudy in the basin.
When she stepped out, shivering in the cool morning air, Ellyn was waiting with a towel. The maid looked tired, her eyes darting nervously toward the heavy oak door of the bedchamber.
"The Prince has returned, my lady," Ellyn whispered, wrapping the linen around Clarice’s shoulders. "He rode into the courtyard not ten minutes ago."
Clarice’s stomach turned. "Was the hunt successful?" She asked, though she knew the answer already.
Ellyn shook her head rapidly, her eyes wide. "No, my lady. The Master of the Hunt said they found no tracks. Only mud and rain. The Prince... he is not in a pleasant humor."
Clarice closed her eyes. Aerion had ridden out into a torrential storm to prove his superiority, chasing a phantom white hart that Daeron had conjured out of thin air just to get him out of the castle. And now, he had returned wet, exhausted, and humiliated in his lack of success.
She was seated at her vanity, Ellyn pulling the silver pins through her damp hair, when the door to the bedchamber didn't just open —it practically exploded inward.
The heavy oak slammed against the stone wall with a crack that made Ellyn shriek and drop the comb.
Aerion stood in the doorway. He was a portrait of drowned fury. His riding leathers were soaked through, dripping a steady puddle of muddy water onto the floor. His silver hair was plastered flat against his skull, entirely stripped of its usual manicured perfection. His boots were caked in thick, mucky mud.
He looked absolutely murderous.
"Out," Aerion snarled at the maid. He didn't even look at her; his raging violet eyes were locked entirely on his wife.
Ellyn didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled past him, practically climbing the walls to avoid touching his wet cloak, and vanished into the corridor.
Clarice didn't move. She sat perfectly still at the vanity, her hands resting in her lap. She met his gaze in the bronze mirror, her face a mask of porcelain indifference. Inside, her heart was a trapped bird beating frantically against her ribs. She could still feel the phantom weight of Daeron’s body on hers, a treacherous warmth she had to bury beneath layers of stone.
"Husband," she said smoothly, not turning around. "You look as though you tried to swim the Mander in your leathers. Was the white hart a water dancer?"
It was a risk. A massive, yet calculated risk. She knew that if she showed fear, he would smell it. She had to attack first.
Aerion crossed the room in three long, muddy strides. He didn't stop until he was standing directly behind her. He smelled of wet leather, horse sweat, and pure, concentrated rage.
"There was no white hart," he said, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating frequency that usually preceded the breaking of bones. "We rode for fourteen hours in the blinding rain. The dogs lost the scent before we even reached the treeline. The Master of the Hunt is a blind, incompetent fool."
"Then you should have him flogged," Clarice mocked him coolly, picking up her brush and running it through the ends of her hair. "Instead of dripping mud all over my bedchamber."
Aerion’s hands slammed down on her shoulders.
Clarice froze, the brush halting mid-stroke. His leather gloves were soaked and freezing cold. The chill seeped instantly through the heavy grey velvet of her gown. His grip was vice, his thumbs pressing painfully into her collarbones.
He leaned down, his wet cheek brushing against her crimson ones. He stared at her reflection in the mirror, their faces framed together in the bronze.
"You look flushed," he whispered, his eyes narrowing as they searched her face.
Clarice’s breath caught in her throat. She forced herself to blink slowly, lazily. "The maids built the fire too high before I woke," she lied, her voice steady. "And you are freezing. Let me go, Aerion, you are ruining my dress."
He didn't let go. He leaned in closer, his nose pressing into the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply. Clarice squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, praying to every god she knew that the heavy lavender soap was enough.
"You smell like flowers," he murmured, the anger in his voice warring with a sudden, dark possessiveness.
"I took a bath. It is customary for us civilized people."
Aerion scoffed, finally releasing her shoulders. He pulled away, stripping off his wet gloves and tossing them onto the floor. "Civilized people do not spend their days reading fairy tales while their husbands are away fighting the elements."
He began to strip off his wet riding leathers, tossing them haphazardly across the room. "Someone lied," he said, pacing back and forth in his breeches. "The Master of the Hunt swore a tracker saw the beast. But there was nothing. No droppings. No broken branches. It was a ghost. Someone sent me out there on a fool's errand."
Clarice kept her eyes on the mirror, carefully setting the brush down. "Perhaps the ghost simply outsmarted you, Aerion. Or maybe the poor beast heard you complaining about the mud from three leagues away and decided to flee for its sanity.”
Aerion stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his violet eyes narrowing at her insolence. For a moment, the tension spiked so sharply it felt brittle, but instead of a blow, a dark, humorless chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Careful, sweet bird," he murmured, leaning over to rest his hands on the back of her chair. "Keep chirping like that, and I might decide to hunt you instead. You wouldn't outsmart my hounds."
He met her gaze in the mirror, a terrifyingly lucid clarity breaking through his manic frustration. The amusement vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by cold certainty. "No. This was no beast's cunning. It was a man's trick.”
“Honestly, dearest,” Clarice sighed, “who would waste their time to play a trick on you, Aerion?"
“Someone who thinks they can mock me. Someone who has nothing to lose and holds their life with the smallest of regards." He tilted his head. "Pray, where is Daeron?"
The name hit Clarice like a physical blow. She fought the instinct to flinch, to tighten her jaw, to do anything that would give her away. She channeled every ounce of Arryn stoicism she possessed.
"I imagine he is at the bottom of a wine barrel," Clarice said dismissively. "Where he usually is. Why?"
"He was the one who told me the hunt was called," Aerion mused, his eyes narrowing to slits. He was pacing again, faster now. "He was the one who relayed Father's supposed 'message'. The drunkard. He set me up. He made me look like a fool in front of the entire retinue."
Aerion stopped. The realization settled over him, turning his face into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom. He looked like a dragon preparing to exhale.
"He thinks he is clever," Aerion whispered, a terrible, bright smile stretching his lips. "He thinks his little jests are harmless. I will show him what a jest truly is."
He turned and marched toward the door.
"Aerion," Clarice called out, standing up from the vanity. "Where are you going? You are half-dressed and freezing."
He paused at the threshold, turning back to look at her. The smile remained, sharp and blazing.
"To prepare for dinner, sweet wife," he said. "Tonight, we feast with my family. And I am going to make my dear brother swallow his own teeth."
The dining hall at Summerhall was designed for light and laughter, with tall windows that looked out over the terraced gardens and the setting sun. Tonight, however, it felt like a tomb.
Prince Maekar sat at the head of the heavy oak table. He was a man carved from granite, devoid of the whimsical, ethereal beauty that plagued the rest of his family. His hair was cropped short, his jaw set in a perpetual line of severe disappointment. He did not speak unless spoken to, and even then, his words were clipped and heavy with duty.
Aerion sat to his right, and Clarice sat beside her husband.
Aerion was a coiled spring. He had dressed impeccably in black velvet slashed with crimson, his silver hair brushed and shining. He looked perfect, and he looked deadly. He was drinking heavily, but unlike Daeron, the wine did not make him sleepy; it merely threw oil onto his internal fires.
To Maekar's left, an empty chair sat, mocking them.
The first course, a thick stew of barley and venison, was served in suffocating silence. The only sounds were the clinking of spoons against porcelain and the crackle of the hearth.
"The hunt was unsuccessful, I am told," Maekar finally rumbled, not looking up from his bowl. It wasn't a question.
Aerion’s knuckles turned white around his goblet. "The trackers were incompetent, Father. They chased shadows. I suspect the smallfolk fabricated the beast entirely to curry favor."
"A true hunter does not blame his hounds when he returns empty-handed," Maekar replied smoothly. "He questions his own eyes."
Aerion’s jaw ticked. He opened his mouth to snap back, to unleash the fury that had been simmering to the point of boiling all day, but the heavy oak doors of the dining hall swung open.
Daeron strolled in.
He was a portrait of disaster. He wore the same dark breeches from the night before, but his shirt was half-unlaced, his hair a wild, golden tangle. He carried a half-empty flagon of wine in one hand, swaying slightly as he navigated the long walk from the door to his chair.
Clarice felt the air leave her lungs. She looked at him, searching for the gentle, reverent man who had worshipped her on the library floor hours ago. He wasn't there. Daeron had completely submerged himself in his armor of insobriety.
"Apologies, Father," Daeron slurred, pulling out his chair with a loud, obnoxious scrape against the stone floor. He collapsed into the seat, waving a careless hand. "I was... unavoidably detained by a particularly stubborn cork."
Maekar closed his eyes for a long, painful moment. He looked like a man who carried the weight of the sky on his shoulders, only to have his sons constantly chip away at his kneecaps.
"Sit up, Daeron.” Maekar said, his voice flat, stripped of all paternal warmth. “And put that flagon away while you are at my table."
"As you command," Daeron said, offering a mock salute before taking a defiant, long gulp from the flagon and setting it heavily on the table. He looked across the table at Aerion. "Brother. You look positively radiant. The rain clearly agrees with you. Did you catch your prey?"
Clarice’s heart stopped. She shot Daeron a look of pure, panicked warning.
Aerion set his goblet down. The clack echoed loudly in the silent room.
He didn't yell. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, steepling his long, elegant fingers. He smiled at his brother. A sweet, almost boyish, perfectly deceiving smile.
"No, sweet brother," Aerion said, his voice terrifyingly soft. "I did not catch the ghost. It seems it was a fabrication. A lie constructed by a coward who spends his days hiding at the bottom of a cup."
Maekar frowned, looking confused and slightly depleted between his two sons. "What is this about, Aerion?"
"Ask him," Aerion sneered, gesturing lazily toward Daeron. "Ask your seer. He is the one who claims to have visions. Tell us, Daeron. Did you foresee me riding into a storm for nothing? Was it a prophecy, or just your own pathetic, worthless attempt at a jest?"
Daeron didn't flinch. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the remaining wine in his cup, an infuriatingly blank expression on his face. He caught Clarice’s eye for a fraction of a second. The look was entirely empty, giving nothing away.
"I only foresee the important things, Aerion," Daeron drawled, his voice thick with fake lethargy. "Dead dragons. Burning castles. I rarely waste my sight on your bruised ego. It is far too fragile a subject."
Aerion stood up. The movement was so sudden, so violent, that his chair toppled backward, crashing onto the stone floor.
"Aerion!" Maekar barked, slamming his own hand on the table. "Sit down!"
"He set me up!" Aerion roared, pointing a trembling finger at Daeron. The manic energy had broken its leash. "He humiliated me! He thinks he can mock me, just because he has your pity! He is a useless, lonely and bored, broken drunk who cannot even hold a sword, let alone a woman!"
Clarice flinched violently at the word woman.
Aerion caught the flinch out of the corner of his eye. He stopped. The roaring ceased, replaced by that terrifying, reptile-like stillness. He slowly turned his head to look down at his wife.
"Why did you jump, Clarice?" he asked softly.
The silence in the room became absolute. Even Maekar seemed to hold his breath, sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in the atmosphere.
Clarice looked up at him. She was suspended over the abyss. One wrong word, one stutter, and he would push her. She could feel Daeron staring at her from across the table, his fake drunkenness evaporating entirely, his body tensing to launch himself across the wood if Aerion touched her.
She could not let him. Daeron would die.
Clarice looked her husband dead in the eye. "I jumped," she said, her voice dripping with ice and utter disdain, "because you are shouting like a fishmonger, Aerion. You just knocked a chair over during the soup course. You are embarrassing yourself."
Aerion blinked. The sheer audacity of her insult derailed his train of thought.
"I am embarrassing myself?" Aerion hissed, stepping closer to her.
"Yes," she countered, refusing to back down, refusing to look away. "You let Daeron trick you. You let a man who can barely stand up straight outsmart you into riding in the rain all day. And instead of ignoring it like a prince, you are screaming about it like a petulant child. You look ridiculous."
Maekar let out a low, shocked sound —a half-cough, half-laugh of disbelief.
Aerion’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. His vanity, his colossal, fragile vanity, had been struck dead center. He forgot about Daeron. He forgot about his suspicions. All he saw was his wife, looking at him with the one expression he could not tolerate: pity.
"You forget yourself, wife," he whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from her face. "I should have had you poisoned the day we wed. Or perhaps I'll just hold your head under this stew right now and save myself the headache."
The entire table seemed to hold its breath. Maekar's jaw tightened into stone, and across the table, Daeron froze, his knuckles turning white around his flagon.
“Aerion!” Maekar began, slightly scandalised, but Clarice was faster.
"You could try to hold my head under the stew, Aerion," she replied, without blinking, her voice a cool, conversational hum. "But my dinner knife would find your beautiful throat before I drowned. And it would truly break my heart to ruin your pretty face and your new velvet doublet all in one evening."
Aerion stared at her, his chest heaving. For a terrifying second, she thought he might actually strike her. She saw the calculation in his eyes, the violent urge warring with his twisted affection for her defiance.
And then, the tension snapped.
A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. The murderous rage evaporated, replaced by that manic, amused delight he reserved solely for her sharp tongue.
"You are a wicked, unbearable… delectable creature, wife," he murmured fondly.
To the absolute horror of everyone else at the table, he leaned in and pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, completely unbothered by his father's presence.
He pulled back, his violet eyes dancing, and bent down to right his chair. He sat down heavily, his dark mood miraculously dispelled by the sheer audacity of her venom.
"You will pay for that," he promised softly, though this time the threat was laced with a dark, private, and lustful amusement rather than fury.
"I pay for it every day," she replied quietly, taking another bite of her stew. It tasted like ash, but she chewed and swallowed it anyway.
Across the table, Daeron slowly let out a breath. He slouched back into his chair, raising his flagon to his lips. He hid his face behind the vessel, but over the rim, his lilac eyes met hers.
They were swimming with a mixture of terror, profound awe, and a deep, agonizing sorrow. He knew what she had just done. She had thrown herself onto Aerion’s sword to protect him. She had drawn the fire.
And as the meal continued in suffocating silence, Clarice stared at the heavy oak table, feeling the heat of Aerion’s fury beside her, and the crushing weight of her secret.
**************
Highgarden smelled of roses, naturally.
A month had passed since the storm at Summerhall. The royal retinue had moved west, following the Mander through fields of gold and green until they reached the seat of House Tyrell. It was a place of impossible, dizzying beauty. The air was thick with the scent of blooming roses, jasmine, and crushed mint.
It was a suffocating scent, sweet enough to rot the teeth in one’s head, masking the underlying stench of ambition that permeated the Tyrell court. Daeron sat slumped in a chair that was far too plush for his liking, swirling the Arbor gold in his goblet. The liquid was a pale, shimmering yellow, catching the light of a thousand beeswax candles that floated in the rafters of the Great Hall. It was a beautiful sight, objectively speaking. The Tyrells knew how to throw a party, he had to give them that. They drowned their guests in wine and smothered them in petals.
He took a long drink. It was sweet. Too sweet. He preferred the Dornish reds; they tasted of sand, blood, and the honest, bitter and cynical reality of the world.
"You look as though you are attending a funeral, nephew," a voice boomed beside him.
Daeron peeled his heavy eyelids open to see his uncle, Baelor, taking the seat to his right. The Hand of the King looked irritatingly regal, even while eating a lemon cake. He had that infuriating ability to command a room simply by existing, a trait Maekar desperately coveted and Aerion mimicked with the grace of a rabid dog.
"I am mourning the death of sobriety," Daeron drawled, lifting his cup in a mock toast. "It died an hour ago, somewhere between the third course and the second ballad about Garth Greenhand’s fertility. Tragedy, really."
Baelor chuckled, a warm, grounding sound. "Lord Tyrell enjoys his history."
"Lord Tyrell enjoys the sound of his own voice," Daeron corrected. "But the wine is fine, so I shall endure his prose."
He turned his gaze back to the high table, his eyes drawn, as if by a magnetic pull he couldn't resist, to the center of the storm. Across the table sat the nightmare and the dream.
His brother was dressed in black velvet slashed with veins of gold, a jagged tear in the floral tapestry of the hall. He looked sharp, dangerous, and utterly bored. He was toying with a steak knife, spinning it on the table with a rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack that was slowly driving the Lady of Highgarden to madness. Beside him sat Clarice.
Daeron took a long, heavy pull of his wine.
She wore maroon tonight. A deep, lush burgundy that turned her eyes into shards of sea glass. She was listening to Leo Longthorn with a polite tilt of her head, but Daeron saw the tension in the line of her neck, the way her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass like talons. She was waiting, bracing herself for the inevitable.
Daeron felt a familiar, dull ache in his chest. It wasn't heartburn, though with the amount of wine he’d consumed, it rightfully should have been. It was the crushing weight of a secret he had been carrying for months now, a secret that tasted better than any vintage in the Reach, and that translated into a desire so burning not even alcohol could drown. If anything, it fueled it.
"He seems... calm tonight," Baelor noted, following Daeron's gaze.
"The night is young," Daeron murmured. "And the singers haven't started on the dragon songs yet. Give him time."
As if summoned by the words, Aerion stopped spinning the knife. He didn't look up. He simply drove the point of the blade into the heavy oak of the table, deep enough that it stuck, quivering like a struck tuning fork.
The conversation at the high table died instantly. Lord Tyrell stopped mid-sentence about the fertility of the Mander.
Aerion turned to Clarice. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. Daeron couldn't hear the words across the din of the hall, but he could read the shape of them. He saw the way Aerion’s jaw tightened, the way his eyes flared with that sudden, white-hot violence. He reached out, his hand snapping around Clarice’s wrist, pinning it to the table next to the knife.
Daeron felt a cold stone drop into his stomach. His hand tightened on his goblet until the metal groaned. He shifted his weight, his legs tense, ready to stand, ready to make a scene, ready to do something foolish and useless that would get their heads on a spike most likely.
But Clarice didn't flinch.
She didn't pull away. She didn't look at the knife vibrating inches from her fingers. She simply turned her head, met Aerion’s violet gaze with her own icy blue, and smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was a baring of teeth, a mirror held up to a monster. She leaned forward, closing the distance until her lips brushed his ear. She whispered something.
Aerion blinked. The rage, which had been gathering like a storm front, faltered. He looked confused for a split second, and then... delighted. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He released her wrist, only to slide his hand up her arm, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of her inner elbow. He laughed.
Clarice laughed, a sound that carried over the music, bright and melodic, making his heart flutter.
Daeron let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, sinking back into his chair. The adrenaline faded, leaving him feeling hollow and foolish.
"She manages him," Baelor mused, sounding almost impressed. "I haven't seen anyone talk him down from a mood like that. Usually, something has to break first."
"She speaks fluent monster," Daeron muttered, draining his cup with a famished gulp. "It’s a required dialect in her marriage, I hear."
Daeron watched them for a moment longer. He watched Aerion whisper something back to her, biting her earlobe, and he watched Clarice allow it, her eyes scanning the room with the cold calculation of a general surveying a battlefield.
And Daeron, sitting in the audience, felt a surge of jealousy so potent it tasted like bile. He hated him. He hated Aerion for having her, for hurting and haunting her, for being able to hold her and kiss her in front of everyone. And he hated himself for not being brave enough to kill him, to finally make Clarice a widower.
"I need air," Daeron announced abruptly, standing up. The room spun slightly, a pleasant, familiar vertigo. "If Lord Tyrell asks, tell him I have gone to contemplate the integrity of his garden maze."
The Tyrells were hosting a masquerade in the famed briar maze. Thousands of paper lanterns, painted in shades of emerald and gold, hung from the towering hedges, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the winding paths. Music drifted through the leaves —the high, sweet notes of the high harp and the thrum of lutes, mixing with the trilling laughter of the Reach lords and ladies.
Aerion despised it.
"They are practically drowning us in petals," he sneered, tossing a half-eaten candied plum onto a silver platter. He was dressed as a dragon, naturally, though he had refused to wear a mask. Instead, he had allowed the servants to paint scales around his temples in shimmering red and gold dust. It made him look ethereal, predatory, and other-wordly in his beauty. "Look at them. Prancing about like overgrown children in a garden. If the Ironmen attacked tonight, the Tyrells would try to fend them off with bouquets."
Clarice sat beside him on a stone bench near the entrance of the maze. She wore a gown of deep burgundy, the colour of red wine, a half-mask of silver filigree resting on her lap. "It is a celebration of the harvest, Aerion. They are showing their wealth."
"They are showing their softness," he corrected, his violet eyes tracking a group of giggling maidens as they disappeared into the maze. He looked bored, the manic energy beneath his skin searching for an outlet. "There is no steel here. Only silk and sugar. It makes my teeth ache."
He stood abruptly, the sudden movement causing the Tyrell guards nearby to stiffen.
"I am going to find someone to entertain me," Aerion declared, looking down at her. "Perhaps I can convince one of these gilded fools to play a game of cyvasse where we wager limbs instead of coins. Wait here. I want you to see me rip a man’s finger."
He didn't wait for her to agree. He swept away, a streak of black and crimson disappearing into the throng of masked revelers.
Clarice let out a slow, measured breath. The moment he was out of sight, the invisible band around her chest loosened. She picked up her silver mask, tied it over her eyes, and stood up. She didn't wait. She slipped into the maze.
The briar walls were high enough to block out the rest of the castle, turning the paths into a private, green world. Clarice moved with purpose, her maroon skirts rustling softly against the crushed gravel. She turned right, then left, bypassing a couple stealing a kiss in an alcove, plunging deeper into the labyrinth where the lantern light grew sparse and the shadows stretched long.
She felt the hand on her waist before she saw him.
Fingers, warm and slender, curled around her hip and pulled her swiftly into a narrow, shadowed break in the hedges. Clarice gasped, her hand flying instinctively to the hidden dagger in her boot, but a familiar scent hit her before the blade could clear the silk: old paper, wine, and a sharp, clean scent of rain that had nothing to do with roses.
Daeron pushed her gently back against the thorny wall of the hedge, his body caging hers in.
He wore no mask. His silver-gold hair was tied back in a loose updo, catching the faint, emerald light of a nearby lantern. He looked down at her, his lilac eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that made her pulse hammer wildly in her throat.
"You are late, Clarice of the Eyrie," he murmured, his breath ghosting over the curve of her cheek.
"My husband was busy critiquing the local folklore," she whispered back, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. The velvet of his doublet was soft beneath her fingertips. "He finds it lacking in violence."
"My brother considers any flower that doesn't draw blood to be unworthy of its soil," Daeron replied dryly.
He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, a soft groan vibrating in his throat. "Gods, I missed you," he muttered against her skin. "I've been watching you for three hours. It's torture. I hate that I have to watch you sit next to him for four hours while he picks at his food like a vulture."
Clarice tilted her head, giving him better access, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Then stop talking about your brother, Daeron, and kiss me."
He didn't need to be told twice. He captured her lips with a desperate, crushing intensity. There was nothing slow or reverent about it tonight. It was the kiss of a starving man. He tasted of wine and craving. Clarice opened to him instantly, matching his fervor, pouring all the suffocating tension of the evening into the frantic slide of their mouths.
His hands were everywhere —tangling in her hair, tracing the curve of her spine, pulling her hips flush against his. She felt the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire pressing against her through the layers of silk and velvet.
This was what their affair had become. A series of stolen, frantic collisions in the dark corners of whatever castle the king ordered them to occupy. It was a dangerous, intoxicating game played inches from the edge of the blade.
Daeron pulled back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against hers. His chest was heaving. "Come away with me," he whispered, the words tumbling out of his mouth hand in hand with a playful grin. "Tonight. I know a smuggler in Oldtown. We could be in Lys by the turn of the moon."
Clarice's heart hammered against her ribs. She thought of Aerion's cruelty, of the suffocating weight of her title. A wicked, desperate smile touched her lips. "If we go to Lys, Daeron Targaryen, I expect you to buy me a palace. I will not trade one monster, no matter how overbearing, for a smuggler's hovel."
"A hovel?" Daeron feigned deep offense, pressing a kiss to her chest. "I'll have you know my smugglers have excellent taste in hovels. Besides, a palace means servants, and servants mean I'd have to wear pants more often than I'd like. And that you’d have to wear gowns far more often than I’d like, which is never."
"You wear pants entirely too rarely as it is," Clarice retorted, a genuine laugh bubbling in her throat. "Fine. A very large hovel, then. With a silk-lined roof."
"Done and done," he murmured, his lips brushing hers again. "I'll line the roof with gold if it gets you away from him."
Before Daeron could kiss her again, the sharp crunch of gravel and the distinct rustle of dry leaves echoed from the adjacent path.
Clarice froze. Voices, low and jovial, likely a pair of wandering Tyrell guards on patrol, drifted through the thick briar wall, drawing perilously close to their hidden alcove.
Daeron's grip shifted instantly, his arm wrapping around her waist to pull her flush against the thorny hedge, deeper into the blackest stretch of the shadows. He pressed his lips to her ear, his breath hot and frantic against her skin.
"The old summerhouse," he whispered, his voice barely a sliver of sound beneath the approaching footsteps. "At the eastern edge of the gardens, past the weeping willows. It's empty tonight. Give me five minutes to ensure the path is clear, then follow me."
Clarice nodded frantically, her pulse roaring so loudly she was certain the guards would hear it. "Five minutes," she breathed back.
The old summerhouse was suffocating in its smell of flowers. The air inside was thick, trapping the lingering heat of the day beneath a domed glass roof. Moonlight filtered through the overgrown vines, casting fractured, emerald shadows across the dusty marble floor.
Clarice pushed the heavy wooden door shut behind her, the latch clicking with a comforting finality.
Daeron was already there. He sat slouched in a faded, plush velvet armchair in the shadowed corner of the room, one long leg draped carelessly over the armrest. He held a silver flask in one hand, but he wasn't drinking from it. His lilac eyes were fixed on her steps, catching the pale moonlight as they tracked her entrance with a dark, hungry anticipation.
"The roses are overwhelming," he murmured, as she crossed the room to where he was sitting. "I feel as though I've been beaten with a bouquet."
"Aerion is playing a game of cyvess that allows for the opponent’s maiming," Clarice reported, looking down at him. "Which means he will be entertained until dawn. We have time."
"Good."
He didn't waste time with pleasantries. He grabbed her lower back to pull her down on top of him, and kissed her.
It was a kiss of familiarity, of routine. It was the kiss of a lover who knew the map of her mouth as well as he knew his own. They moved together with a seamless, silent efficiency that spoke of the last two months. Stolen hours in Summerhall, quick encounters in the stables, quiet moments in the godswood. They had become experts in the art of disappearance.
Daeron unlaced her bodice with deft fingers. He knew the trick of the knot now; he didn't fumble. Clarice pushed his tunic off his shoulders, her hands skimming over the familiar scars, the sharp line of his collarbone.
"You smell of wine," she noted, pressing a kiss to his throat.
"And you smell of lavender," he replied, his hands finding her waist, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. "A much better vice."
He sat upright on the divan and pulled her to straddle his lap. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation. Clarice settled over him, taking him in with a soft sigh of pure, perfect relief.
They moved together slowly, a rocking rhythm that was quiet and deep. Daeron’s head fell back against the cushions, his eyes half-closed, watching her. His hands roamed her back, her hips, exploring her with a possessive, gentle touch.
"Look at you," he rasped, gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. "So proper at the table. So distinct."
Clarice gasped, her head thrown back, her neck a pale arch in the darkness. "And you... the drunkard... who knew you could be so... attentive?"
"I’m full of surprises," he panted, thrusting upward to meet her.
She sank down again, a low, guttural moan tearing from her throat that vibrated against his chest. She rose and fell with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, dragging a broken, high-pitched noise from Daeron’s throat that he couldn’t suppress. He bit his lip to stifle it, but the friction was electric, maddening, wringing another helpless whimper from him.
It wasn't just sex; it was a conspiracy. It was the only place they could be honest. In this room, with Daeron deep inside her, Clarice wasn't the icy Lady Arryn, and Daeron wasn't the drunken disappointment.
Clarice quickened the pace, needing the release. Daeron matched her, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her.
"Clarice," he gasped, his composure fracturing. "Ah, Gods… darling, please."
She rode him through the finish, muffling her own cry against his shoulder. He came moments later, a shuddering release that left him breathless and clinging to her.
They stayed like that for a long time, Clarice resting her head on his chest, listening to his heart slow down. The silence was comfortable, heavy with the things they didn't need to say.
"We are going to get caught," she whispered into his neck.
"Eventually," Daeron agreed, staring at a dusty tapestry of a hunt on the far wall. "All tragedies have an ending, sweet sister. Ours will likely be sharp."
"You are morbid."
"I am realistic. It's my only virtue."
Clarice laughed, a sound that Daeron muffled with a peck on her lips.
"We should go back," Clarice whispered after a while, tracing the line of his jaw. "Before they send the hounds."
"Let them," Daeron mumbled, his eyes closed. "I’ll fight them off. I have a very sharp wit. I’ll bore them to death."
Clarice laughed softly, standing up and adjusting her skirts. She looked like a goddess of the chaotic aftermath —hair wild, lips swollen, eyes bright. "You are a fool, Daeron Targaryen."
"I know," he said, looking up at her with a crooked, sad smile. "That’s why you like me."
"Maybe." She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Wait ten minutes. Then follow."
"As my lady commands."
He watched her leave, the maroon dress vanishing into the shadows of the maze. Alone in the dark, the silence rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. Daeron reached for his flask, which he’d had the foresight to bring, and took a drink. It didn't taste nearly as good as she did.
**************
Time was a cruel jester. It dragged when you suffered and vanished when you were happy.
The transition from the lush, cloying heat of Highgarden to the suffocating, political rot of King’s Landing took five months.
Aerion had grown bored of the Reach, insulted a half-dozen lords, and demanded they return to the capital. The journey had been long, and upon their arrival at the Red Keep, the true nightmare began.
King Daeron the Good was failing, the realm was restless, and Aerion was thriving in the chaos. The Red Keep was a viper's nest of whispers and betrayals, and her husband swam through it with the terrifying grace of a sadist.
And then, the sickness had set in.
It started as a faint nausea in the mornings, a sudden aversion to the smell of roasted meats or the heavy perfumes of the court ladies. Clarice had blamed the transition, the heat of the city, the stress of Aerion’s escalating moods. But when her moon blood did not come for the second time, the truth settled over her like a suffocating shroud.
She was with child.
She had stood before the bronze mirror in her chambers in the Red Keep, pressing her hands to her flat stomach, her heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm.
She was only nineteen, barely more than a girl herself. Staring into the polished bronze, she searched her own icy blue eyes for some spark of maternal warmth, some fierce, sudden rush of devotion, but found only a profound, chilling detachment. She did not know if she had it in her to be a good mother. Surviving Aerion required her to be entirely made of steel, sharp, cold, and unyielding, and she terrified herself with the thought that there was no softness left within her, nothing tender enough to nurture a baby in a castle built on violence.
And she had not seen Daeron in five months.
When they had left Highgarden, Maekar had commanded Daeron to remain at Summerhall to oversee a series of meaningless renovations; a transparent excuse to keep his most embarrassing son out of the capital while the King’s health failed. Clarice had been dragged to King's Landing, severed from her only source of peace without so much as a goodbye.
She had spent the first month weeping into her pillow when Aerion was not there. She had spent the second month burying the grief beneath books Daeron had gifted her.
When she finally told Aerion, his reaction had been a terrifying brew of megalomania and possessive joy.
A dragon, he had whispered, falling to his knees and pressing his face to her stomach. You are carrying a dragon, Clarice. My legacy. He had become unbearable. He paraded her around the court as if she were a trophy he had personally forged in a fire. His cruelty didn't lessen; it merely shifted focus. He became fiercely protective, threatening to cut the tongue out of a servant who brought her cold tea, demanding the Maesters check her pulse twice a day. He loved the child already, but he loved it as an extension of his own colossal vanity.
Now, at five months, the pregnancy was impossible to hide. The child had blossomed into a heavy, pronounced swell beneath her gowns, shifting her center of gravity and making her back ache with a dull, constant throb.
Tonight was the King's nameday feast. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was packed with a thousand lords and ladies, a sea of silk, velvet, and sweating bodies. The air was thick with the smell of roasted boar, heavy wines, and the underlying stench of the city that even the King's incense could not mask.
Clarice sat at the high table, dressed in a gown of dark indigo silk. The fabric was tailored expertly to accommodate her belly, the silver embroidery tracing the line of her waist. She looked regal, beautiful, and entirely tired beyond her years.
Aerion sat to her right, holding court. He was engaged in a vicious, intellectual dismantling of a minor lord from the Crownlands, his violet eyes dancing with cruel amusement.
Clarice stared at the crowd, her mind numb. She was half-listening to Aerion, ready to intercede if he decided words were no longer enough, when the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall opened.
The herald banged his staff. "Prince Daeron of House Targaryen!"
Clarice’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands, resting lightly on her swollen stomach, tightened into fists.
She hadn't known he was coming. Aerion hadn't told her. And unless he had by chance heard from one of Aerion’s letters to Maekar, he did not know Clarice was pregnant.
Daeron walked down the center aisle. He looked awful. The five months had not been kind to him. He was thinner, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, his silver-gold hair longer and unkempt. He wore a simple, dusty riding cloak over a black tunic, looking entirely out of place amidst the peacocking lords of the court. He moved with that familiar, loose-limbed sway of the heavily intoxicated, though his eyes were sharp as he scanned the high table.
Aerion paused his torment of the Crownlands lord, his eyes narrowing as he spotted his brother. "Look what the tide washed in," he murmured, his lip curling. "Father must be desperate for numbers if he dragged the drunkard from Summerhall."
Clarice couldn't speak. She could only watch as Daeron approached the dais. He offered a sloppy, exaggerated bow to Baelor, who sat in the King's stead, and then his gaze drifted down the table.
He found her.
From fifty feet away, across a sea of noise and firelight, their eyes locked.
Daeron’s mocking smile faltered. The drunken sway ceased. He stood perfectly, terrifyingly still.
Clarice saw the exact moment the realization hit him.
His lilac eyes traveled from her face, down the line of her throat, and landed on the pronounced, undeniable swell of her stomach draped in sapphire velvet.
He didn't gasp. He didn't make a scene. But Clarice, who knew the geography of his face better than her own, saw the absolute, earth-shattering devastation that cracked across his features. He did the math. Summerhall. The godswood. Highgarden.
A ghost of a flinch rippled through his shoulders. He looked like a man who had just been informed of his own execution, only to be told he had to watch someone else swing from the rope.
"Brother!" Aerion called out, his voice cutting through the din of the hall. He raised his goblet, a mocking, triumphant gesture. "Come, join us! You're just in time to toast to my heir! Have you heard the news, or does news not travel to the bottom of your wine casks?"
Daeron tore his eyes away from Clarice’s stomach and looked at Aerion. The mask slammed back into place, but the edges were jagged and bleeding.
"News travels, Aerion," Daeron rasped, his voice carrying clearly over the music. "Even to the bottom of the cask. Congratulations. I am sure the realm is trembling with anticipation."
He did not approach them. Instead, he took his place at the far end of the table, next to some lowland Lord from the Reach.
Clarice felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. The baby kicked, a hard, sharp jab against her ribs, as if sensing the sudden spike of terror in her blood.
"Pathetic," Aerion muttered, turning back to his food. "He can't even offer a proper congratulations without reeking of sour wine. I pray to the Gods this child inherits none of his weakness."
Clarice placed a hand over her stomach. Gods, she prayed silently. Please.
Two hours later, the feast had dissolved into a chaotic, drunken revelry. Aerion had grown bored of the high table and ventured down to the floor to intimidate a group of squires.
Clarice felt eyes on her. She turned her head slightly, scanning the room until she met his gaze across the sea of heads.
Standing against a column, Daeron was staring at her. He looked at her stomach, then at her face, then back at her stomach. He set his cup down on a passing tray. He straightened his doublet. For the first time in years, he moved with purpose.
He cut through the crowd. He didn't stumble. He walked with a smooth, fluid grace that reminded everyone, briefly, that he was a prince of the blood.
He reached her just as the musicians struck up a slower, courtly dance.
"Lady Arryn," he said, bowing low. His voice was steady, though his eyes were dancing with a dark, secret mirth. "You look... radiant. And substantial."
Clarice curtsied as best she could. "Prince Daeron. I am cultivating mass, I'm afraid. It is the fashion this season."
"A bold fashion," he murmured, his eyes flicking to her midsection before returning to her face. "May I have this dance? Or is the... weight... too cumbersome?"
"I can manage a pavane, my prince," she replied coolly. "If you can manage not to step on my feet."
He offered his arm. She took it. A ripple of whispers went through the nearby lords, but they subsided quickly. It was only the drunkard prince dancing with his sister-by-law. There was no scandal there.
They moved to the center of the floor. Daeron placed one hand on her waist, carefully, lightly, and took her other hand in his. They began to move, stepping in time with the lute and the drum.
"You have been busy, Lady Arryn," Daeron murmured, leaning in close as they turned. His voice was a hush, barely audible over the music.
"Ideally, yes," Clarice replied, her gaze fixed over his shoulder. "One does need a hobby in the Red Keep."
"A productive hobby," he noted. "And a timely one. The Summer air must have been... fertile."
"The Maesters say the country air is good for the constitution," she said, her voice dry as bone.
Daeron laughed chastly, a vibration she felt through their joined hands. "And the library? Was the air in the library good for the constitution as well?"
"I found it invigorating," she whispered.
He spun her slowly. For a moment, his hand brushed against the side of her belly. It was a fleeting touch, easily dismissed as a clumsiness of the dance, but Clarice felt the heat of it through the fabric.
"Aerion must be pleased," Daeron said, his tone dripping with irony. "His ego likely doubled in size."
"He calls it Maegor," Clarice said. "He speaks to it of fire."
Daeron winced. "Poor creature. To be burdened with such expectations before it even draws breath."
"It will survive," Clarice said, meeting his eyes. "It has strong blood."
Daeron held her gaze. The bleakness softened into something warmer, something deeply affectionate that he hid behind a mask of drunkenness.
"Yes," he agreed softly. "It does. Very strong blood. Stubborn, I'd wager."
"And hopefully," Clarice added, "with a better head for wine than its uncle."
Daeron grinned. "That is a low bar to clear, my lady."
The music ended. Daeron bowed, pressing a kiss to her hand that lingered a fraction of a second too long.
"Thank you for the dance, sister," he said loudly, for the benefit of the onlookers. "You move gracefully for a woman carrying a dragon."
"And you move well for a man carrying a flagon," she retorted.
He retreated into the crowd, heading straight for the wine casks, leaving Clarice standing in the center of the hall, her heart beating a ragged, fluttering rhythm against her ribs.
Hours later, the Red Keep was silent.
Aerion had not returned. He was likely in the courtyard, or perhaps the armory, polishing his armour. Clarice was laying on the bed, staring out at the Blackwater Bay. She wore a dressing gown of white wool, her hair loose over her shoulders.
Daeron slipped into the room like a shadow.
"You are out of your mind," she said, turning towards him.
"Certified," Daeron agreed, locking the door behind him. "It runs in the family. Along with the incest and the bad tempers."
He leaned against the heavy oak of the door, as if he needed the solid wood to keep himself upright. Across the dimly lit expanse of the bedchamber, their eyes locked. Clarice searched the lilac depths of his gaze for the mocking, cynical prince she had danced with hours ago, but found only a raw, devastating vulnerability. He was staring at her, tracing the tired lines of her face and the heavy swell of her stomach with an agonizing reverence.
"Why are you here, Daeron?"
"I missed you," he said. It was the only truth he had left.
Clarice closed her eyes. "I missed you too."
He stopped by the bedside. He looked down at her. The humor from the dance floor was gone, replaced by a quiet, overwhelming wonder.
"May I?" he whispered, gesturing to the sheets.
Clarice nodded.
Daeron sat on the edge of the mattress.
He reached out.
His hand, usually trembling, was perfectly steady as he reached toward her. Clarice didn't pull away. She held her breath as his palm made contact with the sapphire velvet of her gown, resting gently against the firm swell of her womb.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Daeron stared at his hand resting against her, his chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic breaths.
Then, the baby moved. A slow, distinct roll against Daeron’s palm.
Daeron let out a broken, choked gasp. He closed his eyes. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since he saw her in the Great Hall.
"Hello," he whispered into the silence. "Hello, little bird.”
Clarice placed her hand over his. "He kicks at night," she said softly. "He is restless."
"Good," Daeron smiled, keeping his eyes closed, savoring the warmth. "He's dreaming. He's running in his sleep."
"Aerion thinks he is fighting."
"Aerion is a fool," Daeron murmured. He opened his eyes and looked at Clarice. "He's not fighting. He's dancing. Like his mother."
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder. They stayed like that for a long moment, in the quiet intimacy of the room that belonged to another man.
Daeron pressed a kiss to her stomach. He lingered for a moment longer, soaking in the peace of the stolen moment. Then, he stood up.
“Do you…” he stuttered, pacing around, “do you know…?”
The words died in his mouth, and they simply stared at each other for a while.
"Does it matter?" she whispered finally.
"It matters to me," he said, his voice raw.
"I don't know, Daeron," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Daeron flinched. "You don't know."
"I slept with him, Daeron," she said, her voice hard, pragmatism armoring her against the pain. "I am his wife. I share his bed. Before Highgarden... before us... nothing happened for a year. But since you..." She shook her head. "I cannot know. No one can."
"But you hope," he whispered.
The dates, the barren year, the summer; it was a half-written truth in the air between them, but one neither dared to admit.
Daeron watched her wince. He felt a strange, cold numbness spreading through his chest, settling the nausea. The ambiguity was perfect. It was the punchline to the cosmic joke of his life. Of course he wouldn't know. Of course the gods would leave it to a coin toss.
She looked at him, pleading. "For its safety... for our safety... it has to be his. Do you understand? It has to be Aerion’s. Because if it is yours... if Aerion thought for one second that you touched me..."
"He would kill us all," Daeron finished. "Yes. I know. But he won't suspect a thing. He is too arrogant to believe anything belonging to him could ever be tainted by me. He looks at you and sees a mirror reflecting his own greatness."
She looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears. "I am sorry. I am so sorry, Daeron. I cannot give you what you deserve. I want to... gods, Daeron, you know I want to."
Clarice broke then. She sank back into the pillows, burying her face in her hands. She wept. Not the polite, silent tears of the court, but ugly, racking sobs of pure despair.
Daeron watched her weep, with the impassiveness of a starving man who knows that to beg for a single crumb would only invite the executioner's blade. And then, he chuckled.
It was a terrible sound. Dry, scratching, and utterly devoid of humor.
Clarice looked up, startled, tears streaking her face. "Daeron?"
"Gods, you're apologizing?" he said in disbelief, shaking his head. "Clarice, look at me."
He gestured to himself —his shaking hands, his wine-stained tunic, the hollow exhaustion in his face.
"You've done me a kindness," he said, a cynical smirk twisting his lips. "Imagine if it were mine. Truly mine. What a disaster that would be."
"Daeron-"
"I am a walking nightmare," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I am a drunkard who sees ghosts. I drown myself in wine to stop the screaming in my head. What would I do with a child? Raise it to fear its own shadow? Teach it which vintage pairs best with an upset stomach?"
He laughed again, but it sounded like glass breaking.
He reached out, his hand hovering over her stomach for a second, trembling violently, before he pulled it back into a fist.
"I wouldn't know how to love something without breaking it anyway," he whispered. "It runs in the family."
"I won't say a word," Daeron then promised. "I will play the drunk. I will play the fool. I will watch him raise him, and I will smile, and I will drink until I forget how much it hurts."
Clarice sobbed, bringing her hands up to grip the lapels of his tunic. "I am so sorry, Daeron. I am so sorry."
"Don't be," he whispered, kissing the tears from her cheeks. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. He offered her a smile: a broken, tragic, beautiful smile that shattered her heart into a thousand pieces.
Clarice stared at him. She loved him, she realised then. She saw the pain behind the cynicism, the structural self-loathing that held him together. She didn't try to argue. She saw that he needed this narrative to survive.
"You are not broken, Daeron," she whispered, though she sounded unconvinced.
"I am shattered, sweet sister," he corrected. "And it is better that way. No one expects anything from the shards."
He stood up, groaning slightly as his knees cracked. He needed to leave. The air in the room was too heavy. It was choking him.
"Well," he said, clapping his hands together softly, forcing a brightness into his tone that felt like brittle parchment. "That was sufficiently depressing. I think I've met my quota for emotional devastation for the month."
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. He looked back at her. She looked small in the big bed, her hands protecting the mystery in her womb.
"Cheer up, sister," he said, offering a wink. "We shall see each other again soon enough. The tourney at Ashford is only a month away. Aerion intends to ride, his own vanity wouldn’t have it other way of course."
Clarice managed a weak, watery smile. "I will be there. Assuming I haven't exploded by then."
"Save me a seat in the wheelhouse," Daeron said. "I suspect I shall need a place where I can lay horizontally."
He paused, a genuine softness entering his eyes.
"And save a seat for Egg," he added.
Clarice frowned. "Aegon? Why?"
"Father has decided it is time for him to learn the ways of the world," Daeron explained, rolling his eyes. "He wants him to squire. For me. Can you imagine? Me, with a squire. The poor boy will spend more time fetching me wine than learning how to polish a sword."
"Is that wise?" Clarice asked, a small laugh bubbling up. "Giving you a child to look after?"
"It is categorically unwise," Daeron agreed. "But Maekar is desperate. He thinks responsibility will cure me. He forgets that I am allergic to it."
He opened the door, checking the corridor. It was empty.
"I will try not to corrupt him too much," Daeron promised, looking back at her one last time. "As long as I don't lose him on the road. That would be awkward."
**************
a/n: hi everyone, I hope you enjoy it and hopefully you don't find it too devastating <3 again, I apologise if the story has dissapointed you in the direction it took hopefully you guys are able to enjoy it nonetheless.
as always, I appreciate all of your support and comments!
pairing: daeron targaryen x oc , aerion targaryen x wife!oc
Chapter 5.5: I've dreamed of you, Clarice of the Eyrie (Part I)
"I am no angel, my prince. Only Clarice. O-Of the Eyrie."
The man let out a soft laugh, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Well, Clarice of the Eyrie," he drawled, rocking back on his heels. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Daeron." He swept into a clumsy, seated bow, one hand pressed to his heart. "Your delightful husband's brother, at your service."
Clarice giggled. It bubbled up from her chest, a chirpy, unexpected sound that she hadn’t heard from herself in what felt like ages. It was the sound of a bird finding an open window.
"It's good to meet you, Daeron," she whispered, a shy smile tugging still at the corners of her mouth.
"It's good to meet you too, Clarice," he echoed immediately. His grin was crooked and bright, and utterly adoring.
warnings: sex
masterlist here
Summerhall was a palace built on a dream. Prince Daeron the Good had envisioned a great summer seat for his family, a place of peace and poetry far from the blood-soaked stones of the capital. He had become King before the first stone was laid, now tucked away at the mercy of the Red Keep, but his vision lingered in the honey-colored walls, in the wide windows that drank the sunlight, in the gardens that spilled down the hillside in terraces of green and gold.
Clarice had been at Summerhall for three days, and already she understood why the Targaryens kept returning to this place. It was softer than the Red Keep, gentler. The air smelled of lemon blossoms and sun-warmed stone, not smoke and river mud. The servants moved quietly, the corridors were wide and airy, and for the first time since her wedding night, she could breathe without tasting the edge of a blade.
But Aerion was restless.
Clarice had been married to Prince Aerion for just over a year, and in that time, she had learned the geography of his moods as a sailor learns the tides: the treacherous calm, the sudden squall, and the crushing pressure of the deep. Summerhall was meant to be a respite, but Aerion did not retreat; he merely brought his own weather with him.
It was past the hour of the owl. Aerion was asleep, sprawled across their bed like a fallen conqueror, one arm thrown possessively over the space where she had been. He slept deeply, the sleep of a man who fears no consequence, but Clarice found the silence of the room suffocating. The corridors of Summerhall were silent, save for the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the gardens and the soft, ghostly rustle of Clarice’s hem against the stone.
She walked alone. It was a risk, of course. She wore only her shift. It was a slip of pale rose silk, so thin it was essentially a whisper against her skin. In the torchlight of the corridor, it was scandalously translucent, outlining the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts, but Clarice found she could not bring herself to care. Propriety felt like a winter coat in this heat, and she had shed it along with her patience. Her hair, usually pinned and plaited into submission, fell loose to her shoulders, a cascading curtain of blonde that shimmered with red gold in the torchlight.
In her hand, she clutched a book. It was a heavy, leather-bound volume on the mythology of Essos, filled with woodcuts of Sphinxes and Manticores. It was her shield and her escape, a tome that lived perpetually in her grip because Aerion rarely granted her the peace to read it.
"...and it is said that the Sphinxes of Valyria spoke in riddles not to confuse," she read aloud, her voice a barely audible murmur, "but because the truth was a fire that would burn the tongue of the speaker..."
She stumbled over the High Valyrian translation, frowning. Her finger traced the ink.
"A fire that consumes the... the vessel?" she whispered, squinting at the faded script.
"Consumes the hearer," a voice corrected nearby.
Clarice didn't have time to stop.
The figure stumbled out of the shadows of an alcove, moving with the loose- limbed, liquid unpredictability of the profoundly intoxicated. They collided with a soft thud of bodies. Clarice gasped, stumbling back, her bare feet slipping on the polished stone.
The book slipped from her fingers.
It hit the floor with a heavy, echoing clap that sounded like thunder in the quiet corridor.
"Oh, bloody hell," a voice slurred, deep and rasping.
Clarice dropped to her knees instinctively to retrieve the volume, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. At the same moment, the stranger swayed and sank down, reaching for the same object with clumsy, delayed gallantry.
Their hands brushed against the leather cover at the same time.
Clarice looked up.
The man was young, though his eyes held the exhaustion of a century. He had the silver hair of the Targaryens, though it was golden and disheveled, falling across his forehead in messy waves. His face was pale, the skin drawn tight over high cheekbones, and he smelled of strong Arbor red and something much bitter, like herbs.
But it was his eyes that arrested her. They were a softer shade of violet than Aerion’s; not the bruised purple of a storm, but the pale, grieving lilac of early morning. And they were looking at her with an expression she had never seen directed at her before: absolute, unadulterated wonder.
Time seemed to curdle and slow. The moonlight pouring through the window above them caught the dust motes dancing in the air, turning them into a halo around his head. He didn't move. He didn't pull his hand away. He just stared at her, his lips parting in genuine, slack-jawed wonder.
He looked surprised. He looked amused. But mostly, he looked utterly entranced, as if he had stumbled into a fable and found the maiden waiting.
"I've dreamed of you," he whispered abruptly.
The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. It wasn't a teasing line, nor a lewd jest. It was the confession of a man who had been chasing a ghost for a lifetime, only to find it suddenly solid and breathing and utterly stunning before him.
Clarice blinked, her breath catching in her throat. She gripped the book, pulling it slightly toward her chest. "My prince?"
He smiled then. It was a crooked, lopsided thing, charming in its lack of artifice. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze drifting over her face, drinking in the blue of her eyes, the loose hair, the pale rose silk, translucent against her skin.
"You are..." He shook his head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs. "You are even prettier in the waking world. The dream didn't get the nose right. It wasn't... sharp enough."
Clarice felt a flush rise to her cheeks, heat blooming under her skin. She should have been scandalised. She was a married woman, half-naked in a hallway with a drunkard. But there was no threat in him. There was only a gentle, sloppy adoration.
"You are drunk, ser," she said softly, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
"I am," he agreed solemnly. "Painfully so. But my eyes work. Gods, they work too well."
"What are you doing here?" she asked, clutching the book tighter. "It is the hour of the owl. The palace sleeps."
"I heard a voice," Daeron answered simply. He gestured vaguely with a hand that trembled slightly. "Talking about Sphinxes and riddles. I thought, 'Daeron, old boy, finally, the madness has come to claim you.'" He looked at her pointedly. "I was following the voice of an angel. And it led me to you."
Clarice felt the blush deepen, spreading down her neck. She looked down at her bare feet, then back up at him. "I am no angel, my prince. Only Clarice. O-Of the Eyrie."
The man let out a soft laugh, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Well, Clarice of the Eyrie," he drawled, rocking back on his heels. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Daeron." He swept into a clumsy, seated bow, one hand pressed to his heart. "Your delightful husband's brother, at your service."
Clarice giggled. It bubbled up from her chest, a chirpy, unexpected sound that she hadn’t heard from herself in what it felt like ages. It was the sound of a bird finding an open window.
"It’s good to meet you, Daeron," she whispered, a shy smile tugging still at the corners of her mouth.
"It’s good to meet you too, Clarice," he echoed immediately. His grin was crooked and bright, and utterly adoring.
Their eyes locked again. It felt mythical. It felt like the snap of a puzzle piece finally finding its place after years of being lost under the rug. In the silence of the corridor, with the smell of wine and lavander between them, something invisible and iron-strong tethered them together.
"Daeron!"
The sharp bark of her husband’s voice shattered the strange, magical intimacy of the moment.
Clarice flinched, scrambling to her feet. Daeron tried to follow suit, but gravity was a harsh mistress; he wobbled and ended up leaning heavily against the wall.
Aerion stood at the end of the corridor. He was wrapped in a dressing gown of black silk, his hair tousled, his feet bare on the stone. He didn't look sleepy. He looked instantly, vibrantly awake, his eyes darting between his wife in her shift and his brother on the floor.
"Look at you," Aerion sneered, walking towards them. He didn't look jealous. He looked bored. "Crawling through the halls like a rat. Have you mistaken the gallery for a tavern, brother?"
Daeron wiped a hand over his face. "Brother, I was just introducing myself to your lovely wife, since you failed to do so at your wedding. She holds a candle better than you hold a temper."
"I didn't think you'd remember her name by morning," Aerion spat. He turned to Clarice, his hand snapping out to grip her upper arm. "And you. Wandering the halls in your shift like a whore. Have you no shame?"
"I was reading," Clarice said, her voice defensive.
Aerion snorted, his grip tightening on her arm. "Come back to bed. The air is damp. You'll catch a chill, and then I shall have to listen to you cough for a fortnight."
"You prefer the sound of your own voice above all else, husband," she retorted, offering him a sharp, thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Surely a little coughing would provide a welcome harmony to your usual monologue."
Aerion’s jaw tightened, the violet of his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second. He let out a short, sharp scoff —half annoyance, half twisted admiration.
"Your tongue is sharp tonight," he muttered, steering her away. "Let’s see if you cut yourself with it."
He led her back toward their chambers, dismissing his brother as one might dismiss a piece of furniture.
Clarice let herself be led, but she glanced back over her shoulder. Daeron was still leaning against the wall, bathed in moonlight, watching her go. He looked lonely. He looked sad. But as he caught her eye, he offered a small, secret wink.
Clarice turned forward, her heart beating fast. He was cute. He was sweet.
Daeron Targaryen was intriguing, Clarice decided.
***********
The days at Summerhall fell into a rhythm, oppressive as the heat. The mornings were for hawking or riding, displays of martial power that Aerion demanded she witness. The afternoons were for avoiding Aerion’s temper, which flared hotter than the Dornish sun. And the evenings were for feasts that Prince Maekar presided over with a face carved of granite, disappointed in everything his eyes touched.
Clarice found herself looking for the silver-gold head that wasn't Aerion’s.
Daeron was rarely seen before noon, and when he did appear, he was usually nursing a cup of wine and a headache, moving with the fragility of spun glass. Yet, Clarice found herself reaching for him.
It wasn't overt. It was a glance across the breakfast table as Aerion dissected a pomegranate with surgical violence. It was a lingering look in the gardens. And Daeron was always there, usually with a cup in hand, usually half-asleep slumped in a chair, but always watching.
They formed a quiet, illicit friendship. It existed in the spaces between Aerion's spurts of anger.
"You're eating that peach wrong," Daeron murmured one afternoon in the solar, watching her slice the fruit.
"I am eating it with a knife, Daeron," Clarice replied without looking up. "Is there a Valyrian technique I am unaware of? Do dragons swallow them whole, pit and all?"
"Dragons roast them first," Daeron drawled, emptying a goblet of Dornish red. "But I meant you're too neat. A peach demands mess. It demands juice on the chin. You eat like you're afraid the fruit will bite back."
"I am married to your brother," she retorted, flashing him a quick, sharp grin. "I am accustomed to things biting back."
Daeron laughed, a sound that was easily becoming her favorite noise in the castle. It was dry, nihilistic, and utterly warm. "Ah,"
He was clever. That was what surprised her most. Beneath the layers of wine and self-loathing lay a mind that was razor-sharp. He knew history, he knew philosophy, and he possessed a sardonic wit that matched her own. Where Aerion's humor was cruel, Daeron's was absurd. He found the world ridiculous, and he invited her to laugh at the joke.
One afternoon, she found him in the library. He was sprawled on a rug near the window, a book resting on his chest, eyes closed.
"It is a treatise on the economic impact of the Dornish wars," Clarice said, standing over him. "I suspect you are using it to block the sun rather than absorb its knowledge."
Daeron opened one eye. "The sun is intrusive," he murmured. "And the economic impact can be summarized in two words: 'expensive' and 'bloody'. There. I have saved you four hundred pages of reading. You're welcome."
Clarice smiled. She sat in the armchair nearby, opening her own book. "You are smarter than you pretend to be, Prince Daeron."
"And you are unhappier than you pretend to be, Clarice of the Eyrie," he countered, closing his eye again. "We all have our masquerades."
It became a pattern. They would sit in silence, or trade barbs that were sharp but never cruel.
He began to anticipate her.
During dinner, when Aerion would launch into one of his tirades about the incompetence of the serving staff or the inferiority of the Dornish, Clarice would open her mouth to retort, to slide the needle in, but Daeron would speak first.
"Truly, brother," Daeron would mock him from his end of the table, swirling his wine. "The soup is lukewarm. It is clearly a conspiracy by the Martells to weaken your constitution. We should declare war immediately. I shall lead the vanguard with a spoon."
Aerion would turn his fury on Daeron, calling him a fool, a drunk, a disgrace. Clarice would be spared the fight. She would catch Daeron’s eye across the table, and he would offer her a subtle, imperceptible shrug.
Then came the day in the library.
Clarice was seated in a window niche, reading the Essosi mythology book again, lost in a chapter about the Doom of Valyria; her mind a whirl of images of monsters and greatness and utter delirium; an expectant smile tugged at her lips as her breath shortened, her fingers hastily turning the page as her eyes hungrily searched for the next paragraph, when the book was suddenly ripped from her hands.
"Pay attention to me," Aerion demanded.
Clarice jumped, her heart skipping a beat. Aerion stood over her, holding the book out of reach. He looked agitated, his energy frantic and spiky and thunderous.
"Give it back, Aerion," she sighed, reaching for it. "I was reading."
"You are always reading," he snapped, flipping through the pages with disdain. "Why do you fill your head with this trash? Harpies and sphinxes. It is nonsense. Look at me when I speak to you."
"I look at you all day," Clarice countered, standing up. "Can I not have one hour to look at something that doesn't demand my adoration?"
"No," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You are mine. Your eyes are mine. If I have to burn this library to the ground to get your attention, I will."
He raised the book, as if to throw it across the room.
"Father is looking for you."
The voice came from the doorway. Daeron stood there, leaning against the frame, looking bored and slightly disheveled.
Aerion froze. He turned slowly. "What?"
"Maekar," Daeron said, inspecting his fingernails. "He's in the yard. Something about the new coursers. He said he needed... what was it? Ah, yes. 'A son who knows a stirrup from a saddle.' I assumed he meant you, since I clearly don't."
Aerion puffed up instantly; immense vanity overtaking the rage. "Of course he needs me. He realizes you are useless."
"Painfully so," Daeron agreed easily, taking a sip from a flask. "Better hurry. He hates to wait."
Aerion sneered at Daeron, then gave the book back to Clarice. It hit her chest with a thud. "Look for me in the courtyard later," he warned her, before sweeping out of the room.
Silence settled over the library, and Clarice welcomed him like an old friend.
Daeron walked over, his boots soft on the Myrish rugs. He watched the empty doorway for a moment, then looked at Clarice.
He took a moment simply to drink her in. She was wearing a gown of pale lilac, a shade as soft as a bruised dawn, the linen fine enough to cling to her figure in the heavy warmth of the afternoon air. Her hair fell loose and straight to her shoulders, a cascade of gold that shimmered with the fierce, copper fire of her Tully blood where the sunlight touched it. She looked absolutely breathtaking.
"He isn't, you know," Daeron said.
"Isn't what?" Clarice asked, opening the book again where she’d left it.
"Looking for him. Father is asleep in the solar. But Aerion... Aerion is easy to herd if you dangle a shiny mirror in front of him."
Clarice smiled. "You lied."
"I improvised," Daeron corrected. He sat down on the window seat in front of her, patting the space beside him. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over."
Clarice hesitated, then sat. "Thank you," she said softly.
"Don't thank me," Daeron muttered, offering her his flask. "It's self- preservation. If he starts shouting, my headache gets worse."
Clarice took the flask. She took a swig. It was strong wine, heavily spiced. She coughed, wiping her mouth.
"You've been reading that book since you arrived," Daeron noted, pointing at the volume on her lap. "You're a terribly slow reader for someone so frighteningly clever."
Clarice laughed. "Aerion is... time-consuming. It is hard to focus on the Doom of Valyria when one feels as though is living through it."
Daeron chuckled, leaning his head back against the stone arch. "Hell is what awaits for us after our deaths, they say. But I think Hell is specifically being Aerion's wife. I don't know how you do it. Without drinking, I mean."
"I have my ways," she said cryptically. "Breathing patterns help."
"Ah. A useful skill." He took the flask back. "I prefer drowning."
He took a long drink, his eyes closing. Clarice watched him. She saw the tremor in his hands, the lines of strain around his mouth.
"Why do you drink, Daeron?" she asked bluntly. It was a bold question, intrusive, but the air between them felt safe enough to hold it. "Is it just the boredom?"
Daeron opened one eye. "Boredom? No. Boredom would be a blessing." He sighed, swirling the wine. "It's the dreams, Clarice,” he almost chuckled, “the dragon dreams. The curse of our blood. Some get madness, like Aerion. Some get greatness, like Baelor. And some... some get the sight."
Most noble houses scoffed at the Targaryens' claims of prophecy, viewing it as arrogance. But Clarice had seen enough of Aerion to know that there was something supernatural in their blood, something ancient and dangerous. She leaned forward, "I have heard the stories. Do you truly see... the future?"
"I see things," Daeron said, his voice turning flat. "Flashes. Metaphors. Dead dragons. Great halls burning. Sometimes they come true. Sometimes they are just madness. But they are always loud. The wine... it muddies the water. Makes the images blurry."
"Are they all bad?" she asked gently.
Daeron turned to look at her. The afternoon sun lit up his violet eyes, turning them transparent.
"Not all of them," he murmured. A small, crooked smile touched his lips. "Sometimes I see... hope. I see dragons returning to the world. Real dragons. Hatched from stone, three of them." A shadow crossed his face, then lifted. "And... I've seen you."
Clarice froze. "Me?"
"Yes." A slow, roguish smile spread across his face, entirely at odds with the prophetic gloom of a moment ago.
"Where was I?" she asked, her curiosity piqued, her tone playful.
Daeron leaned in closer, the smell of spices and wine enveloping her. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Under me," he said.
Clarice stared at him. It was bold. It was improper. It should have been offensive. But the way he said it, with a wry, self-deprecating tease, as if mocking his own subconscious desires, robbed it of any actual threat.
She raised her eyebrows, a smile playing on her lips. "Is that so?"
Daeron burst out laughing. It was a deep, gut-level laugh that shook his shoulders. "You are a marvelous creature, Clarice of the Eyrie," he declared, wiping a tear from his eye. "Most women would have slapped me."
"I considered it," she admitted. "But I was curious about the logistics. You can barely stand up half the time."
"You wound me, my lady," Daeron winced, placing a hand over his heart. "Fair point. In the dream, I was remarkably coordinated."
"Ah, it was just the madness, then" she scoffed, with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Daeron looked at her then, the laughter fading into a soft, affectionate gaze. "Perhaps," he whispered.
***********
Two days later, the sky turned the color of a bruise.
The heat broke in a violent shattering of the sky. Thunder rolled down from the Red Mountains, shaking the foundations of Summerhall, and rain lashed against the glass gardens like handfuls of sand.
Aerion was gone.
He had ridden out at dawn for a hunt, a grand affair chasing a rumored white hart in the Kingswood. He had taken his dogs, his horses, and his foul mood, taking the noise and the violence of the world with him. He had left Clarice with a mocking kiss and a command to "not wither" in his absence.
Clarice had spent the day in a state of deep relaxation, reading, soaking in a bath, eating figs without judgment, and simply breathing air that didn't smell of potential violence.
As evening fell and the storm worsened, she made her way to the library. The castle felt empty, the servants busy securing shutters against the wind.
Clarice wore the same pale rose shift she had worn that first night. It was too warm for velvet, and with Aerion gone, she felt bold. She threw a light shawl over her shoulders, but left her hair loose, a shimmering cascade of gold in the flickering torchlight. Her face was scrubbed clean, devoid of powders, her skin glowing with the humidity.
She pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library.
A fire was crackling in the hearth, fighting back the gloom of the storm. And there, sitting on a rug before the flames, was Daeron.
He looked different. Cleaner. He wore a shirt of black linen, open at the throat, and breeches of dark wool. His face was shaved, save for a day's worth of stubble that shadowed his jaw, and his hair was tied back from his face, revealing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his features. He held a goblet, of course, but he didn't look drunk. He looked... untroubled, for once.
He looked up as she entered, and his eyes crinkled in amusement.
"Shouldn't you be embroidering or praying?" he called out over the crackle of the fire, his voice teasing. "Or whatever it is wives do when their husbands go off to murder the innocent wildlife?"
Clarice closed the door against the draft. "I am reading about dragons," she said. "I find it best to study the predator one lives with."
Daeron snorted. "A waste of time," he said, "the books say dragons are majestic beasts of fire and magic. They don't mention that they are also petty, loud, and smell of sulfur when they're wet."
"You speak of yourself with such kindness, my prince."
"I speak of my blood," he corrected, taking a long pull of the wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her, and the tome in her hands. “What is it that you’re reading now?”
Clarice simply lifted her book in response, a cheeky smile on her face.
"Ah. Essosi mythology again." Daeron lifted his cup in a toast. "Did you finally finish the chapter on the Doom?"
"I did," she said, settling onto the rug opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her shift. "Thanks to the silence. It is... remarkably peaceful today."
Daeron smirked, swirling his wine. "It must be strange, not hearing the sound of Aerion grinding his teeth. You're welcome."
Clarice paused. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "You?"
"The hunt," Daeron confessed, looking pleased with himself. "I may have... suggested to the Master of Hunt that a white hart had been spotted."
Clarice laughed, a bright sound that mingled with the thunder outside. "You lied? To get him out of the castle?"
"I facilitated Aerion with a ghost, since he’s so fond of catching them," Daeron corrected with a grin. "And I saved us both a day of his brooding. I consider it a public service."
"You are a manipulator, Daeron Targaryen," she said, shaking her head.
"I am a man who likes quiet, Clarice of the Eyrie," he replied softly. He reached for the bottle beside him and poured wine into a second goblet. He slid it across the rug towards her. "Drink. It's good. From the Arbor. Not that swill Aerion prefers."
Clarice took the cup. Their fingers brushed. The contact sent a jolt through her, warm and electric.
She took a sip. It was rich, velvety, tasting of blackberries and oak. "It is good," she admitted.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the storm rage outside. It felt like the world had shrunk down to the two of them. It felt intimate in a way that was dangerous and undeniable.
"You look..." Daeron started, then stopped. He looked at her, his gaze traveling from her bare feet to the curve of her throat, lingering on the rose silk that clung to her form. "You look like a dream tonight, Clarice."
Clarice felt her heart hammer. She thought of Aerion, hunting in the rain, cold and angry. She thought of his grip on her arm, his threats, his constant, suffocating demand for ownership. And then she looked at Daeron. Gentle, broken, brilliant Daeron, who lied, not to claim her peace for himself, but to give her a day of it for her own.
"Your dream," she whispered. "The one... about us."
Daeron went still. The playful mask slipped. His gaze dropped to her mouth, dark and hungry. "Yes?"
"Do your dreams always come true?"
"Every time," he rasped. "It is the curse of my existence."
Clarice smiled. It was a dangerous smile, full of Arryn steel and a sudden, reckless desire to reclaim something for herself.
"Well," she whispered, crawling forward on the rug until she was kneeling between his spread legs. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart through the linen. "What are we waiting for, then?"
Daeron let out a sound —half groan, half laugh. He set the cup aside, spilling a splash of red onto the rug, and reached for her.
He kissed her.
It wasn't like Aerion's kisses. It was desperate, yes, but it was giving. It was warm and wet and tasted of wine and yearning. He kissed her as if she were water and he had been dying of thirst in the desert.
Clarice made a soft sound in her throat, opening to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling her fingers in the silver hair she had wanted to touch for weeks.
He pulled her down onto the rug.
The wool was soft beneath her back. The firelight painted the ceiling in dancing shadows. Daeron hovered over her, bracing his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't crush her. He looked down at her, his violet eyes dark with desire, but soft with concern.
He didn't tear at her clothes. He undid the laces of her gown with trembling fingers, pausing to kiss the skin he revealed —her collarbone, the pulse of her throat, the slope of her breast. He was slow. He was teasing. His hands roamed over her skin, learning the curve of her body with a reverence that made her want to weep. He murmured praises against her skin, each one of them a prayer of worship.
When he finally entered her, there was no pain, only a feeling of immense, satisfying, longing fullness. They moved together in the rhythm of the storm outside, a slow, building crescendo. Clarice found herself clinging to him, arching into his touch, making sounds she had never made in her husband's bed. She felt needy, open, and utterly safe.
He moved with a slow, agonizingly sweet rhythm. He watched her face the entire time, cataloging every gasp, every flush. He talked her through it, his voice a low rumble in her ear. "That's it... look at me, Clarice... you're so beautiful... gods, you feel like heaven..."
She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to consume him, to feel him closer than what was physically possible. She ran her hands down his back, feeling the shudder of his breath, the beat of his heart against her own.
He thrust harder, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur. Clarice threw her head back, a cry tearing from her throat. “Oh, Gods—” Daeron swallowed the sound with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips.
He came with a growl, burying his face in her neck, his body shuddering against hers. Clarice followed him moments later, her world narrowing down to the smell of old books and the feeling of Daeron Targaryen shaking in her arms.
They collapsed together on the rug, a tangle of limbs and pale silk and dark linen.
The fire had burned down to embers. The storm was still raging, but it felt distant now.
Daeron rolled to his back, pulling her against his chest. He traced the line of her arm with his fingertips, looking at the ceiling shadows.
"Well," he said, his voice returning to that familiar, dry drawl, though it lacked its usual sadness. "I suppose my record as a seer remains unblemished."
Clarice laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound that surprised them both. She turned on her side, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "If you ever dream of me knitting socks, keep it to yourself. I have no interest in fulfilling that prophecy."
Daeron pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his arm tightening around her, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the realm. "I promise, Clarice of the Eyrie. I will only share with you the good ones."
***********
a/n: well, I hope you enjoy this! I swear it's so magical to write about daeron. hopefully you like this chapter, and clarice and daeron's relationship.
I do realise there are a few loopholes here, but worry not they're on purpose and will be adressed.
thank you all for your wonderful comments as always, I swear I would've already stopped posting if it weren't for you guys! see you on the next chapter
summary: steve harrington is good at getting girls to moan for him. really good. always has been. but getting you to moan for him, or better yet, moan his name is his personal favorite achievement. even when it gets him into trouble.
or, five times steve made you moan throughout your relationship and one time you got caught.
warnings: mild smut, light angst, fluff, fem reader, oral (f!receiving), pet names, getting caught, friends to lovers, steve is pathetically in love, soft dom!steve (if you squint), domestic fluff, steve loves eating girls out, heavy making out, kinda proofread.
word count: 3k
a/n: a little bit of everything. love the little glimpses of steve throughout a relationship <3
minors dni.
The Bedroom
The low hum of the radio competes with the sound of Steve’s breath for your attention in the quiet of his bedroom. It’s Friday night—the kind usually filled with discussing monsters or chasing around middle schoolers—but tonight, it is just the two of you.
Steve has you on your back, hovering over you with his weight braced on his elbows. He pulls back to look at you; your lips looking swollen and thoroughly kissed. Your hair fanning out across his navy-blue pillowcase. Your eyes look up at him with an admiration he doesn’t feel he’s earned yet—or deserves at all, if he’s being honest. But when your eyes are on him, he feels like maybe he could be worthy of it. He wants to be.
He has pictured you here so many times, beneath him on his bed, spread across his comforter, tangled in his sheets with him. Finally having you here feels like a dream, and he needs a moment to take it in.
“You’re staring,” you say with a shy laugh, your thumb stroking the back of his neck where your hand rests. You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks heat under his gaze.
“Prettiest girl in Indiana.” He raises his eyebrows, smirking down at you, fingers tracing along the skin of your cheek.
You feign your best look of dejection and whisper, “Just Indiana?” You hope your tone sounds as hurt as you want it to.
He falls for it, because he’s Steve.
His smile fades instantly and mild panic flashes in his eyes. “N-no, I didn’t mean it like that, I just—”
You giggle as he stammers and he groans then, burying his face in your neck. “You’re so mean.”
He bites you gently and you let out a little yelp that turns into a soft moan, fingers digging into the flesh of his bicep. He chuckles and lifts his head, resting his forehead against yours.
“You love it.” Your free hand reaches up to ruffle his hair. He never lets anyone touch his hair, but he lets you do it without batting an eye. You never mention it but it’s one of those things that holds more weight to you than you think he realizes.
“I love you,” he says without thinking, eyes boring into yours. His voice is painfully honest, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. The words falling out before he can catch them or think twice.
Your heart does a leap in your chest, your breath catching as the reality of his words sinks in. You know it, you feel it when he touches you, you see it in his eyes when he looks at you—but he hasn't said it yet. You’ve certainly been too afraid to say it first, though you’ve loved him as long as you can remember.
“I’m sorry, I just—” he begins, but you cut him off, pulling him down by his neck into a rough kiss. He pulls back slightly, trying to talk against your mouth, but you don’t let him.
“I love you too,” you murmur against his lips, laughing and shaking your head in disbelief.
He looks down at you in awe, mouth agape, eyes soft and full of emotion. Slowly, a wide, toothy, Steve Harrington smile spreads across his face. He laughs with you before wrapping himself around you, burying his face in your neck. Steve has never felt so lucky, or so loved, in his whole life.
–
Lovers Lake
The view at Lovers Lake is as stunning as ever as the sun sets between the trees. It is as beautiful a view as you can get in Hawkins, the low sun casting a glow across the water that makes the atmosphere even more romantic. It’s one of those Indiana evenings where the heat doesn’t break even as the sun disappears; it lingers and clings to you.
Steve’s Beamer is parked just far enough off the path to be invisible to any passing cars, but close enough that the trees don’t stop the fading light from bouncing off the hood. Not that either of you are looking at your surroundings at the moment.
You are pressed firmly against the passenger door of the car, the familiar warmth of Steve’s chest against yours. One of his hands cradles the back of your neck while the other holds the small of your back, keeping you flush against him.
The kiss is dizzying. You can’t tell if the heat is from the outside air or the fact that every time Steve touches you, you feel like you are going to burn from the inside out. He tastes like the cherry Slurpee you shared at Hawk Theater earlier. Your fingers are hooked through the belt loops of his jeans, and every time you tug him a little closer, he lets out a low, ragged groan that makes your knees feel weak.
“Fuck,” he murmurs your name into your mouth in that way that always makes your heart flutter.
You chuckle breathlessly. “Can’t believe I’m all yours.”
He stills for a moment and pulls back to look at you, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen. He looks wrecked—cheeks flushed, hair tousled, and lips swollen. Your gaze shifts lower just briefly between your bodies to see his cock straining against his jeans; the sight makes your mouth water and your palms sweat.
“Say that again.”
“Can’t believe it,” you repeat, suddenly a little embarrassed by the statement.
He tilts his head. “Not that part.”
You gnaw on your lower lip and shrug. “I’m yours.”
The statement is casual because you are. You have been for a long time.
His eyes drop to your lips briefly and then he is on you again, his hand dropping from the back of your neck to the front of your throat—not squeezing, just resting there with a natural weight. “You’re gonna kill me, I swear,” he whispers before licking into your mouth so well that you can’t help the whimper that escapes you.
“That means those pretty little sounds are all mine, too.” The hand at your back slips under your shirt, gently kneading the soft skin there. His knee nudges your legs apart so he can rub against you right where you want to be touched most.
“Always, Steve,” you moan, your head falling back. His hand around your neck squeezes experimentally as you bare your throat for him. Your eyes roll back in your head, and your lips fall open at the euphoric feeling. The relinquishing of control—the realization of how much you trust him—hits you like a semi-truck.
Steve can’t even form words, so he just nods, his breath coming out in heavy puffs.
“So pretty, so perfect... I’m so lucky.” He rambles, drunk on you, rutting up against you, peppering sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the bare skin of your shoulder.
It is a little reckless, but the way you love each other makes you that way. Maybe you should care, but in this moment, neither of you cares about anything besides the feel of each other and the possibility of forever.
—
The Apartment
The kitchen of your modest apartment is filled with the smell of toast and bacon. Some Duran Duran song plays from the radio on the windowsill. You flip another piece of bacon as you bob your head and sway your hips to the beat.
“Did Henderson leave?” Steve pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes settling on you cooking and dancing. You look so in your element, so very much you, that it makes his heart ache.
“A few minutes ago. Why?” You furrow your brows, looking over your shoulder at him.
He groans in frustration. “That little shit. He stole my hairspray—my last can, too!” He runs a hand through his messy brown locks. “That is the last time he sleeps over.”
You roll your eyes and gasp dramatically, your voice dripping with heavy sarcasm. “Oh no! The King of Hawkins will have a flat mane for one whole day! What a tragedy. You know, I may just have to break up with yo—”
Steve doesn’t let you finish the sentence; he is on you as quickly as the words leave your mouth. He crosses the kitchen in two steps, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He grabs you, spinning you around and plopping you onto the opposite counter. The cool tile is jarring as it hits your thighs, your feet dangling. A squeal of surprise leaves your mouth in the process.
“Steve! I’m gonna burn the bacon!”
“The bacon can wait,” Steve murmurs, stepping between your knees. His hands go to your hips to pull you flush against him.
“See how clearly you think without all that aerosol?” you tease, looking at him with pure mischief in your eyes as your hands come to rest against his chest.
He grabs your waist then, his fingers giving your ribs a squeeze. You jolt and let out a little yelp. The sarcasm dies in your throat as his gaze darkens, dropping to your lips. Your faces are so close that his breath mingles with yours.
“You’re a real comedian today, huh? Real brave.” He leans in, his lips brushing yours. You rush to catch his mouth, but he moves to the side, trailing his lips along your jaw to that spot just under your ear that makes your brain short-circuit.
God, it’s so much fun to tease him.
“Mmmhh.” The sound is low and soft from your closed lips as your head falls back, resting gently against the cabinets.
The sound only spurs him on. He nips at your collarbone, his breath so hot against your skin that it makes you shiver. “You like that?”
“You know I do,” you respond breathily, your voice shaking as you try to think straight. One of his hands slides into the back of your hair, fisting it just enough to pull, and he holds you there. His mouth moves back to your throat, peppering open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin he can find.
Your eyes flutter shut, desire rushing through you. “Steve…”
“God, I love that sound,” he whispers, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that makes your toes curl. “Makes me want to forget that Robin will probably be home soon.” He sighs, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
You chuckle softly. “The door has a lock. We probably only have a few minutes, though.”
Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls back to smirk at you. “I can do a lot of damage in a few minutes.”
“That’s awfully cocky of you,” you scoff, raising your eyebrows.
“Challenge accepted. Lock the door, baby.”
—
The Phone Call
Steve is obsessed with eating you out. He has been from the moment you spread your legs for him for the first time. He loves spending ample time between your thighs. Some days he takes his time, making his way from your mouth to your neck, then to your chest, slowly working toward where you want him most. He loves to get you worked up first, wanting to hear you whine and arch for him; sometimes he even makes you beg a little so that by the time he arrives, you’re soaked for him.
Other days, he gives you no warning. One moment you’re kissing or lounging on the couch together, and the next, your legs are over his shoulders and he’s licking you so enthusiastically that you see black spots in your vision. Nothing else exists for him in those moments—just the taste of you on his tongue and the rest of the world muffled by your thighs pressed to his ears. His only focus is making you tremble. He is fueled by your praises and the euphoric sting of your fingers tugging on his hair.
Then there are days like today, which fall somewhere in between.
All you want to do is finish your phone call with Max. She called to ask for advice about a fight she and Lucas are having—something she does often—and you are always there for her. Your boyfriend, however, does not care. He has plans of his own.
You are leaning against the wall, one hand fiddling with the spiral phone cord. Suddenly, Steve is behind you, pressing his body against yours. His hands rub down your waist to your hips and then lower, before rising again to reach around and unbutton your jeans. You smile fondly at first, until you realize exactly what he is doing. Your eyes go wide and your cheeks flush instantly as he shucks your jeans down. And you let him—because, goddamn, this boy makes you crazy.
You can’t help the small gasp of surprise that leaves your lips as he rids you of your underwear and the cool air of the kitchen hits your bare skin. The sound causes Max to ask if you’re okay, but you don’t respond. Couldn’t form a goddamn word if you tried. Your chest heaves as you struggle to form even one coherent thought. Steve’s hand covers yours, pulling the phone from your grasp and bringing it to his ear.
“Hey, Max. Yeah, she’s gonna have to call you back,” he says into the receiver, his voice low as his chin hovers over your shoulder. You hear Max mutter her disgust before Steve chuckles and hangs up the phone.
“Damn kids, always taking my girl.” He mutters, more to himself than you, shaking his head and tucking your underwear into his back pocket. Christ.
Nervous excitement rushes through you.
He spins you so you are facing him, slowly lowering himself to his knees before you—a sight that makes your breath hitch. “Jesus, Steve.”
“What is it?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder as he looks up at you with hungry eyes. “You like the sight of me on my knees for you?” He leans forward to press a kiss right where you are nearly dripping for him.
Your head falls back with a broken moan, and you steady yourself with a hand against the wall.
“Nuh-uh, baby. Eyes on me,” he whispers, his hand grabbing your ass to pull you closer. “Want you to watch what I’m gonna do to you.”
—
WSQK
You follow Steve into the sound booth, shutting the door behind you. He lets out a breath it seems he’s been holding since it was decided that the party is moving forward with his plan. The sky is quite literally falling, and the lot of you are going to smack right into it. The stakes feel high, and the impending risk—and possible grief—feels heavy. You lean against the edge of the soundboard and cross your arms, tilting your head as you look at him.
“I’m not even going to try and convince you not to go, because I know you won’t, and you’ll tell me to shove it, but—”
“Not a chance in hell—” you start, but Steve puts his hands up.
He takes a step forward, closing the gap until he’s right up against you, hands rubbing your arms comfortingly. “I know, baby. I know.” He pauses. “I just—” He sighs, rubbing one hand down his face.
“I don’t want you up there any more than you want me to be, Steve. But I go where you go. We do this,” you gesture around you, “together. Vecna or no Vecna.”
He swallows, his jaw clenching. “This is the most I’ve ever had to lose, and it scares the shit out of me.” He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes falling shut.
Your hand comes up to rest on his cheek. “Me too.” Your voice shakes noticeably.
“Promise you’ll stay close to me?”
“Always,” you respond.
His mouth is on yours—not gentle or tender, but rough and full of pent-up emotion. If a kiss could bruise, you think this one should. His hands fist in the fabric of your jacket as your back arches to meet him. You kiss back with the same fervor, pouring every ounce of desperation and fear into the movement of your mouth against his.
He lifts you slightly so that you’re sitting on the soundboard. Your hands scramble for purchase as you steady yourself, pushing buttons and flicking levers, but you couldn't care less. He nudges your legs apart with his own, pushing his hips between them. His mouth is demanding; his hands drop to your thighs, kneading the flesh through your pants while your fingers find purchase in his hair.
His mouth drops to your neck, sucking at the space below your ear that always makes you melt. “Steve,” you moan, your voice trembling softly.
“God, I will never get tired of hearing that,” he breathes against your skin.
Sudden banging on the glass makes you both jump apart, hearts racing. “We, on the other hand, are VERY tired of it!” Murray’s voice is muffled but discernible as he yells, throwing his hands around.
Steve steadies you as you nearly slide off the soundboard and into him. Mortification is the only word that can accurately describe what you feel as you gape at him in pure confusion and embarrassment.
“You’re on the mic, lovebirds!” Murray yells again, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if you’re both idiots. He points to the speakers on the ceiling and the glowing ‘ON AIR’ light.
You bury your face in your hands as you feel the heat rush into your cheeks. Steve just shakes his head, rubbing his hands up and down your sides. “I just know Robin is somewhere cackling.”
-
a/n: thank you for reading my garbage and letting me dream out loud. writing is what i love more than almost anything and even though it's terrifying to post, everyone on here has been so kind <3
When arguments between your little trio get hard you each take your separate ways. But you wondered too far.
thanks so much for all the love and the INSANE requests, I'm getting through as many as I can, for now enjoy this little thing I had in my drafts :)
"Ok, that was too many stairs," complained Steve once the three of you had reached a suitable height.
Dustin was un-fazed, casting his light around. "Treasures are always hidden in the deepest depths of the dungeon."
"The treasure would be a way out of this place," you sighed to yourself, checking the walls were still as vine covered as usual. They were.
"So what is it, a treasure or a magic shield generator- keep your metaphors straight dude," lectured Steve.
Your hand whacked him in the chest, a stern look in your eyes that Steve frowned at.
For the past... however long, tensions were strained between the two, Steve and Dustin. One who cared too much and the other that cared too little. The tables had turned, where one used to be the other. Now, caught in the cross fire of the two constantly was you. Steve's girl, the official babysitter before he took the title.
When the looks got hard and the words got mean they glazed past you sometimes, like you weren't even there.
You were doing everything you could to hold the threads of them together.
"Analogy," Dustin corrected.
So far you weren't doing well.
The walls of vines gave way to swinging doors, letting you into a room of more vines and terrible lighting. The only difference was the rainbows on the wall and the kids toys littered around.
"Okay, did not expect to find a day-care in this hellhole. Holy shit, Henderson, you were right," said Steve, wandering over to a maze with silver balls winding around the bends. "Treasure." He chucked one in his direction.
Dustin caught it and threw it at the back of Steve.
"Dustin!" you lectured, forcing his arm down.
"You know what, Henderson-"
"No, you know what," Dustin snapped. "This is the perfect place for you and your arrested development. While I search the rest of the basement, you can stay here and play with your balls."
"Finally, yeah, a plan I can get behind," said Steve.
"I can imagine."
"Yeah well good luck finding your treasure- sorry, shield generator- I mean made up bullshit-"
"Thank you!"
You stood bridging the gap, standing in the doorway as Dustin miserably walked away and Steve sulked in the corner. "Dustin, stop," you followed after him, shining the torch on his back. "Hey, c'mon, we're supposed to be sticking together."
"I'm not sticking with him any longer," he snapped.
"Dustin-"
"Hey just leave me alone!" he yelled, his torch swinging around and glaring at you.
You were stunned with the finality in his voice, daring not to go after him as he carried on up the stairs. You stood there, catching your breath and worry in your throat.
Instead of following after the boy you stormed back into the day care, finding Steve leaning on a table. He'd already made himself busy with a Rubik's cube, twisting the lines of colours around.
Steve didn't even look up to you as you walked in. "That kid, he's got some attitude problem, I'm telling you."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you asked.
Steve looked up at you, his eyes blowing wide and lips parting. After years of having the privilege to be your boyfriend he'd learnt to abuse the power of his 'puppy dog eyes'. "Me?"
"He's grieving."
"Grieving? No, what he's doing is pushing away everyone that's ever cared for him and getting himself beaten up instead- that's what he's doing."
"It's an outlet!"
"Don't take his side!" argued Steve, still fiddling around with the cube.
You scoffed. "Take sides? What like we're twelve."
You couldn't pretend you were as close to Eddie as Dustin had been, but you'd been there when the boy had cried in your arms, re-playing the nightmare over and over again. You saw as the tears turned to stone and as the fun loving boy grew tough, the bruises under his eyes un-moving.
"He's the twelve year old!" snapped Steve, adjusting his seat on the edge of the table.
"Well you're supposed to be the twenty year old, Steve!" you argued. "You're supposed to look out for him."
"I can't keep my eyes out on everyone!" he snapped, shoulders sagging. "There are six of those kids and there's you, and Robin, do you not think I'm not trying to keep all of you safe!"
You took a deep breath. Shouting, snapping, it had never done you and Steve any good, not in your young love angsty stage of life and not stuck in the lab in the upside down. You'd seen the tension coiling between you and him, like a snake ready to strike. With so much on the line to lose and scared to say it out loud. It was no surprise really.
"Robin and I, we're adults who don't need looking after-"
"Then act like it," said Steve, his feet kicking back and forth furiously. "You, you always run off into danger little care for yourself or those around you."
"Hey, that's not fair you know I care more about those kids and you then I do myself!"
Steve gabbed a finger your way. "And that's the problem. I never know when you're gonna go and do something stupid!"
"Oh, so I'm stupid now?"
"Yes."
The air weighed heavy between the two of you. Words left un-spoken sinking in.
The lab turned colder than before, the vines slinking in closer.
"Baby-"
"I'm gonna-" you turn your torch away from him, hoping that with the light gone he won't see the effects the words had on you. Stupid. It was a low blow but you knew it was going to come at some point. Still, it didn't stop the sting. "I'm gonna get whatever good air I can in this place."
"Baby, I didn't mean to-"
You passed the doorway before Steve could finish the last of his sentence.
You carried yourself up the stairs. It was best to at least put distance between the two of you before the words you would only regret started to pour out. Even if splitting up seemed like a terrible idea at any time in the upside down, it was better than arguing with your boyfriend who you loved but could piss you off at times.
Instead, you walked up the building, maybe you could lend a hand to Nancy and Jonathon. You weren't particularly looking for Dustin's company either.
It was suddenly very lonely in the upside down.
You shone your torch up the stairs you walked, huffing at the burn in your thighs as you climbed up.
Eventually the sterile white walls marked with vines gave way to just... white walls. Sludges of white paste pouring down the walls. It got thicker as it went on, as you ventured further on. You had no idea what floor you'd gotten too, how far up the lab you'd travelled but there was no more sign of life.
"Nancy!" you called out. "Jonathon!"
Suddenly the lab shook violently, the floor under you shifting.
You threw yourself against the stair rail, cowering against it as dust fell from the ceiling above you. Still, the place trembled and you cowered, holding on. Your torch rolled out of your grasp, clattering down the stairs.
"Shit-"
You tried to reach for it when the building stopped its rocking. Was it an earthquake? Did the upside down get them? Was it Hawkins?
Slowly you got to your feet. You couldn't see around you, couldn't hear any scurrying of feet or yelling.
"Steve?" you called, wondering if you weren't far away enough to hear him.
Oh god, if this place was falling in. If something had happened and the last time you and Steve saw each other was an argument- no, it wouldn't be. It couldn't be.
Your torch sat at the bottom of the stairwell and you chased it.
One step down the floor gave way under you and you fell into darkness-
Your hands reached, grasping a hold of anything. Your fingers scraped against the floor, trying to catch yourself on anything. The rail hung awkwardly but you grasped a hold like it was an anchor. The only thing tethering you to life.
Beneath you your legs kicked out at nothing, at darkness. You felt nothing under you, no light, no surface on which to rest and you dared not look under there and find an abyss waiting for you. Any doubt could have you falling to what you assumed was death.
Your torch was out of sight, the walkie with Dustin. You were all alone.
Steve found Dustin was the rock of the building stopped. He'd been walking after the fight, trying to find you or Dustin before the bruises began on to form on his face.
Dustin was slumped on the wall, looking off into the distance, mumbling to himself. "Everything we thought about the upside down... was totally, catastrophically, wrong."
The upside down was a wormhole.
And you were lost in it.
Dustin looked at Steve finally, anger washed away by fear. "Where's Y/N?"
That was the question. Oh god.
Steve had his torch in hand like it was a weapon, using it to guide his way through the lab. Behind him Dustin stayed close, checking behind them for any sign of you, or Nancy, or Jonathon. Steve didn't want to panic- panic made him miss his steps and had his brain working on a short wire. No, he needed to focus up.
He called out for you as he tracked up the stairs, praying to god that was where you'd went. "Y/N? Baby!"
So far there was nothing. He worried that you'd gone down, taking the easier option but he felt that was all wrong.
You weren't stupid- far from it and those words should never have slipped out his mouth like they had. He didn't mean it, of course he didn't. It was all a stupid, messed-up situation you were all and stupid decisions where when you ran head first into danger. God, he hoped danger had not found you here. He hoped the rock of the building had you running back to meet him, that he'd find you half way down this stairwell.
The stairwell... he skid to a stop, Dustin slamming into his back.
There, a gaping hole in the stairwell, as if they'd melted away.
Steve peered over the edge, shining his torch down the hole, careful not to overstep. He called your name down but saw nothing but darkness.
"Alright-" there was nothing in this world that would keep him from you. Ignoring Dustin behind him Steve looked around. Sure, he could risk the jump, climb the un-steady rail but it wasn't good enough. He searched the floor for something, some wood or- ladders!
"What? What are you doing?" asked Dustin as Steve positied the ladder over the gap. "Steve!"
"What does it look like?" he didn't have the time to get into another pointless argument, or worse a fist fight.
"No, no Steve, it won't work, it's un-stable!" he yelled. "Don't, it's gonna fall!"
"It's un-stable, alright, I got it, I got it!" Steve tested the weight, yeah, it wasn't safe. But what if you needed him?
Dustin reached out to him. "No, don't- stop being an asshole!" he grabbed his jacket, yanking him back.
"I'm not being the asshole, you are!"
"You're always trying to get yourself killed and I can't let it happen again!" he yelled, holding Steve's jacket for the life of him. "Stop being so stupid and selfish, if you go out there, you're gonna die and I can't deal with it again- you can't die cause I can't deal with it again. Don't let it happen again, pleas-"
"Alright, alright-"
Dustin fell into his arms in tears. It was more than just the ladders, it was the death of Eddie, it was the pushing away finally collapsing on him. It was everything at once.
Steve looked back to the stairs but held the kid, patting his curls under his hat.
Suddenly there was a creak and the roof above them collapsed right over the ladders, sending them crashing down floors that he couldn't even see.
If he'd gone over, he'd be dead.
Dustin had saved his life.
"Steve!" a faint, desperate voice called out. "Steve! Anyone!"
The two parted. "Y/N!"
There was a moment's pause. "Steve!"
He rushed to the side, using what was left of the rail to look up. His torch shined, flaying legs dangling. "Y/N! Jus-just hold on, I'm- I'm coming!"
Just hold on, like there was anything else you could do. Your hands were gripping the rail with all your strength but every now and then it groaned in exasperation. You'd tried once to pick yourself up and the rail only fell more.
"Y/N!"
Steve. He was getting closer, climbing up to you.
Your arm stretched. You hoped he was close. Closer. "Steve, please-"
The stairwell groaned and the rail fell. The floor above you moved dramatically and Steve's flop of hair appeared.
"Baby- baby! I'm here, I'm here, I've got you." He was breathless, eyes blown wide.
"Steve-"
His arm reached down to you but he didn't touch, couldn't reach. He strained close to the edge, mumbling some sort of frustration behind him. He tried to get closer and his hand strained.
"God- damn it!" he yelled. "Baby, you're gonna have to reach."
"I can't, I-I can't-" you cried out. You made the mistake of looking down, to nothing.
"Hey, eyes on me! Eyes on me!" Steve yelled, getting your attention. "Just look at me, okay. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."
You trusted Steve, he'd never given you any reason to think otherwise. But this wasn't like any other reason. He'd never been late for a date, he'd always picked you up when he said he would. But this was your life hanging in the balance. "It's not gonna keep."
"I know, baby, I know which is why you have to trust me," he said, his hand stretching out more. "Hey, I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that? You know that. I'm always gonna catch you."
The the rain groaned. Your hands slipped.
Steve grew desperate. Your hesitation would cost you your life. "Baby- please!"
Dustin called out to you behind Steve and Steve's fingers wiggled at you.
It all happened at once. The rail groaning with a snap, your hands slipping, the air escaping your lungs.
"No!"
You braced for impact, braced for the feeling of flying before the bones crush. You hope the pain doesn't last, hope it's quick and then you're gone.
But you're falling for a long time before you realise you're not falling at all. You're suspended.
"Hey, hey, I got you, open your eyes- open your eyes-"
Slowly, you do and you feel your weight coming back to you. Steve had hold of your arm, hoisting you up. "I got you... I got you-"
You're pulled over the edge at once, falling and being pulled into him. His arms were steel around you, keeping him into his chest as his hands sort to feel every bit of you. His head rested on yours.
"Oh god... you're okay.... you're okay...."
Your own hands bunched up his jacket, holding him there as you caught your breath. You might have missed this, if you'd doubted him for a second longer.
"Oh my god-" another set of arms wrapped around your waist, squeezing the life that was just saved out of you. Dustin. "Oh my god-" he cried, your shirt soaking up his wet cheeks.
You released a hand on Steve- provoking him to hold you tighter- so you could hold Dustin, the three of you piling up in tight arms and relived breaths. "I'm okay... I'm okay."
Summary: The Targaryen princess was known for her wild tendencies. When she sneaks out to the Baratheon tent to dance, she makes a dance partner out of Duncan, who is utterly entranced with her.
Your eyes were immediately caught on the large frame that stood out amongst the others.
You rode your horse next to your father, Baelor, quickly moving past the line of people who hoped to see just a glimpse of the dragons that ruled their lands.
Even as your spotted horse galloped past, you kept his eye as long as you could. You had utterly insisted to your father that you ride with the others. You hated the carriage.
You couldn't recall what the tall man was wearing. What he was doing, really. Just his face. And his kind blue eyes that caught your attention.
As your ride ends in the courtyard, your father parts from you to dismount his horse and greet Lord Ashford. You circle around a few times before deciding to dismount by Aerion. You didn't like him per se, but the two of you were expected to get along in public.
"…then, fetch me some wine and a pretty wench," you overhear Aerion mutter to some poor servant.
"My lords, pardon. I'm… I'm no serving man, either."
As the Targaryen dismounts, you turn your head. The very man you were intrigued by earlier stood there, shoulders and head taller than Aerion's saddle on the horse.
Ah, so he was a shy man. There aren't many of those around.
"I…" he gazed down at his feet to gain courage. "I have the honor to be a knight."
Aerion's horse is taken, and you now have a clear view of just how tall this mysterious man is compared to your cousin.
"Well… knighthood has fallen on sad days."
As he lets his dissatisfaction settle on his face as he leaves, you linger.
Finally, the man's eyes drift up and catch your own. Though, as soon as it does, he looks away. A scarlet shade creeps up his neck.
You take your time admiring him from atop your horse. You know the view will drastically change when you get down.
You grin. "Of course you're no serving man," you tease. "That would be a waste, now wouldn't it?"
"M-My lady— Princess!" He nervously corrects. He tips his head down.
"You're a knight, are you?" Your head tilts. "What house do you fight for?"
"I…" he pauses, "I fight for my own."
"Your own?" You grin. "And what house is that?" You begin your descend from your horse.
"Well… I am… I am Ser Duncan… the Tall."
Gods, now that you're standing in front of him, tall was no lie.
"Yes, but you have a Pennytree shield. Do you not?"
His eyes absolutely lit up. He stepped forward in excitement. But with his size difference, it almost came across as aggressive.
You step back with a small gasp, to which his face immediately falls. He stretches a hand out in apology, then takes it back as if he might burn you. He drops to one knee. "Apologies. A million apologies. I did not mean to frighten you. You see, no one has recognized the Pennytree sigil until now. And—"
"But it is not your sigil? Yet you wear it," you press.
"I… I was Ser Arlan Pennytree's squire. He knighted me…. Before he died."
Your pretentiousness fell. "Oh. How awful. Please, rise, ser."
He does, passing your height by a long shot. "You are a gracious princess. Did you know Ser Arlan?"
"Not exactly. But father tells stories. I have heard lot of knights' names being told in fable form."
"Your father," he questions lightly. "Ser- no, Lord, no— The Prince Baelor? He knew him? Do you think he would speak on my behalf to the game master?"
Your head tilts. "I… suppose I could bring it up with him."
Duncan's face broke into a wide grin. "You mean it? You…" he breathes on in relief. "You are most kind, Princess. Really, I…"
"Think nothing of it, Ser. Good day," and with that, you follow the rest of your family into the Ashford home.
…
Baelor dismisses everyone from family dinner, all except his daughter.
You were known for getting yourself into trouble in King's Landing. Sneaking out. Slipping away into the night. Baelor had tried and tried to catch you in the act, for all of the castle knew what you were doing it, but getting the proof was like trying to catch water in your hand through separated fingers. It was all here-say.
"Father," you started once the doors closed and the two were alone.
Baelor sighed, leaning back in his chair as his fingers fidgeted with his rings. "What do you think of the tourney thus far, daughter? The Ashford lands have a certain charm to them, don't you think?"
"It is not King's Landing, but… yes. A change of atmosphere can be good."
That's when he leans forward, two different irises staring at you with both love and frustration. "I trust you will not adhere to… wandering about this evening."
A deep breath escapes you. How he saw right through you, for you had spent all dinner planning your escape route.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Father."
"My child, your younger cousins are missing. Your elder cousin is most likely tormenting half of the people out there. Stay in." He left no room for interpretation.
You wanted to fight. To find some loophole in his words to justify finding your way outside. But you couldn't.
"I will." You hear him huff out a breath of relief and you're quick to strike at it. "But I do ask something from you."
You were spoiled. Others could never make a deal with the heir to the Iron Throne. But you weren't just anyone. You were his precious daughter of whom he would move heaven and earth for.
He wouldn't tell you no.
"I'm listening."
You stand, brushing down your skirts as you begin to pace around the large room. "I met a hedge knight. He… he wanted to participate in the tourney but the game master has refused. Says no one remembers the knight's former master."
He listens carefully, fingers interlocked over his stomach. His eyes remain on the table in thought but says nothing.
"You remember everyone, Father."
And with that, you stop and turn to him. The silence settles over the room, only broken by the very distant noises of others in the castle.
"What are you asking of me, my child? Say it and it will be granted."
You take a deep breath. What exact did you want him to do?
"If he comes to you, allow him in the tourney."
His head tips up, contemplating the simple ask, searching for context between the lines. "That is all you ask of me? Should this hedge knight come to me, to grant his entrance?"
"Yes." You hold your head up like a true princess. Shoulders back, spine straight.
That's when he finally looks to you and sees the earnesty in your eyes.
His eyes soften, tone matching. "Why do you ask for a favor of a hedge knight?"
You're not sure of the answer yourself. Something about him. He just seemed honest. A true knight among sinners.
"He was kind," is what you reply.
"Kindness," he nods. "It is worth a lot these days, I'm afraid." He gives in. "Should this hedge knight come to me, I will grant his entry. But you must respect your part of our bargain as well."
A satisfied grin pulls over your lips. "Of course, Father." You cross, leaning over at his side to place a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you. I will stay in."
Relief overtook his features, his very shoulders relaxing at the thought of keeping one more Targaryen away from the rest of the Realm.
"Very well, daughter," he smiles, taking your hand and squeezing it lightly. "I bid you goodnight."
"Goodnight." You begin to leave, pausing by the doorway. "I swear. I will stay in," you hesitate for a moment before clarifying, "For tonight."
His head tilts in your direction, but you bolt out of the door before he can call you back.
He sighed. You were far too clever for your own good.
…
The next day, you wake bright and early. You had been itching to sneak out before bed, but you kept your promise to your father.
But now, you had done your part of it.
You dressed with the help of a handmaiden. A deep red velvet dress that looked far too out of place around a camp of knights. A corset that felt like it was keeping your insides in. And your hair in a proper updo, one you didn't quite care for.
You left your room without letting the poor handmaiden place the last few pins in your hair. You were far too excited.
During the day, escaping your guards was nearly impossible. So one accompanied you, much to your dismay.
Down the grass-trampled track you moved, the large colored tents growing nearer and their sigils becoming much clearer.
And there you spent your day— catching up with old friends, smiling through awkward interactions from the younger men who still hoped to gain your attention, even embarrassing one of the Lannister knights who was mistreating his squire.
Oh, yes. And trying to avoid your father as he made his one trek around. You knew if he ran into you, he'd insist on keeping you near. So your day was quite full, indeed.
"Ser Duncan."
The tall man flinched, his slouched form straightening as he turned around to see what sweet voice called his name.
His cheeks turned red immediately. "P-Princess. I… Forgive me, I did not see you." He tilts his head down in greeting.
"No harm, ser. I was merely passing through and I have not noticed your tent yet."
"Oh, uh," he hesitates. "I just got a small one… out," he points in a direction. "Just through the trees a ways. It's quiet there."
"You prefer the quiet then?"
The sparkles from your earrings catch his eye. He blinks, utterly dumbfounded that the Princess is not only talking to him, but choosing to do so. "Yes, yes, I do. My squire more so. It was his idea," he smiles and points to the boy tending to a horse behind him.
Egg.
He didn't notice you. And if he did, he was playing it off very well.
"Your… squire?" You question carefully, trying to get a better look.
"Yeah," he says sheepishly. "He's a small one, but a heart of gold."
That softens something in you. "I suppose so. He must be… recently charged in your service then, Ser Duncan."
He's impressed by your quick analysis. "I mean… yes. In all honestly, I've never had a squire before. But he insisted. He's a good boy."
"Mhm," you say, chewing at your cheek. You won't rat him out yet. He seems in safe company. "Well, I only came to encourage you to ask my father for acceptance into the tourney."
"Y- you've spoken with him?" His eyes widen.
You suppress a teasing grin. "Merely ask him. Good day, Ser Duncan."
And when you pass by him, you ensure you make eye contact with Egg. The boy's eyes widen like dinner plates, but you break away and continue down the trail.
You look back at your guard who silently follows a few meters behind. He didn't see Egg, and you let out a breath of relief.
…
It's almost a full two hours before you finally spot the tent you were hoping to see.
A large one with a gold and black sigil standing tall.
And its very lord standing outside with a stein in hand as his laughter carries over the crowd of people.
As you near him, his companions eyes all widen, their heads tipping down in various greetings of respect. But Lyonel takes his time. He turns, looking you up and down before a large smile comes over his face.
"Wasn't sure you were even here, Princess," he chuckles.
"Just because I was locked up one night doesn't mean I cannot enjoy the rest of them," you tease back.
The very first tourney you'd went to at the age of 20 (in celebration of some lord or other that you can't remember), you met Lyonel. He's quite your senior, but you struck an unlikely friendship with him over a few too many glasses of ale after sneaking out that fateful day.
You'd been to plenty of tourneys after that, each night ending with you sneaking to the Baratheon tent to dance and party.
That's the only reason the Crown heard whispers of you sneaking out in the first place.
In Flea Bottom, whispers spread but they are often squashed quickly.
Here? Amongst high houses?
Gossip spreads like wildfire.
Lyonel hums, looking at your guard before leaning in close to whisper. "I brought an Essos wine that I've been holding until I was sure I could share it with you."
"Are you implying that there is a party tonight that I should attend?" You speak lowly.
He tsks, saying nothing yet giving you all the invitation you need. "Essos wine. Decent musicians."
You look him over, his loose curls somewhat tamed, eyes glinting with mischief. "This princess has so many responsibilities. I suppose we shall see if I have the time for a lowly house like yours."
His laughter starts up again as he backs off to let you continue your day. "Don't be late."
"I always arrive at the perfect time, Lord Baratheon," you jest as you walk away.
…
You can see the look in your father's eyes as you eat supper. You know he wants to find some way to keep you in, though he knows at this point that your mind is made up and any effort otherwise is pointless.
Maekar spoke up finally. "Your little hedge knight was entered in the tourney."
Your head snaps up from your plate. "What?"
He scoffs. "Ser… whatever. You told Baelor you wanted him in the tourney and so he is."
You let your fork drop to your plate, looking at your father. "You told uncle?"
"Nothing of the sort," your father replied calmly. "The hedge knight came to us during a meeting."
Aerion snickered deep into his cup.
You lean forward. "You've seen him then? Is he not the kind man I told you about, Father?"
"He has heart," he answers. "I do hope he proves himself."
"Wait," Aerion grins wickedly. "You're surely not speaking about the oaf that was in the courtyard at our arrival?"
"He is not an oaf," you defend.
Maekar cuts you off. "You've met him too, son?"
Aerion shrugs. "I saw him."
"No, you spoke to him. I saw it. You insulted him, cousin." You speak out.
"I did no such thing—"
"Enough," Baelor softly commands. And with it, silence rings down the table. "Ser Duncan is in the tourney. The matter is settled and that is all I will hear of it. Now eat."
You eat, but not without kicking Aerion as hard as you can under the table as soon as he tries to take a drink.
…
Lord Ashford's castle was not nearly as guarded as the Red Keep, and sneaking out seemed far too simple.
You stuck to the shadows, waiting for servants and guards to pass by before creeping your way down the corridors.
The large tent was easy to spot. Not just for its size, but it was easily illuminated, and the music carried through the valley.
You quickly entered, hoping not to be seen until meant to. Your hood was still up, and it was your shabbiest cloak.
The people were already up and dancing, most quite a few drinks in. Seems you had some catching up to do.
And there he was, Lyonel, dancing upon the high table.
You grinned at that sight of the foolish idiot, but decided to cross the busy tent to him when he jumps down.
You move quickly, dodging and weaving through the smaller crowd until you get to the inner circle.
Ser Duncan dances there, tense and a bit on edge. Of all people, you didn't expect these two to know one another.
You join into the dance, spinning once around a stranger before you move on to Duncan and pull down your hood to reveal yourself.
You take his arm, the two of you spinning. "Enjoying yourself?"
He's thrown off, not expecting to be spoken to until he looks at you. Really looks at you through the haze of alcohol in his eyes. "P-Princess?"
You grin and turn away from him, moving on to the next partner.
You see the eyes upon you, the whispers drowned out by the music. But it doesn't bother you.
Lyonel yips as he dances, his head tipping back with each beat.
You grab his arm, spinning with him as your next partner and waiting for him to notice you. Seems he was deep in his drunken state, for he doesn't.
But no matter. You move back down the line to Duncan, whose eyes have not left you the entire time. He graciously accepts you back as a partner, though he's stiff, if not more stiff, than before.
"I didn't expect you here, Princess," he stutters.
"Yes, well," you smile, "I do enjoy the element of surprise."
He spins you, which you gracefully do and return to his arm to continue. "You look… beautiful." His voice loudens over the crowd to ensure you hear it.
You've looked far better than this. This is your ugliest dress. It has no frill, no lace, no design besides its brown drab coloring, topped with an old cloak that's torn on the fringe because it's too long for you. Your hair is down. No jewels. No crown.
But the way he says it, the earnesty. It makes you believe him.
Your steps stutter in the dance, your mind preoccupied by the first knight that has ever made you blush.
"I…" The poor man was panicking, thinking he'd offended you. "I meant no ill will, your grace. You just… you look free, is all."
You spin out again from him, this one more hesitant. And when your brought back in again, he gives a small tug without thought, pulling you right to his chest.
Your neck cranes up to look him in those deep blue eyes. So honest and caring. A more daring knight than the rest— and you still had yet to even see him in action.
"Looking good," a familiar voice sounds behind you before you feel a hard swat on your arse.
It makes you jump, and Duncan moves into action without thinking of the consequences. He grabs the perpetrator's wrist harshly.
The music dies. And when you turn to look, you see it's Lyonel, who still hasn't registered what he's done.
The older man's hair is completely disheveled, eyes glazed over. He looks to Duncan, then to you. Then to Duncan again, then—
"Princess?" He asks, a bit confused. Then it hits him.
He just swatted the arse of the Princess of Dragonstone. The only daughter of the Heir to the Iron Throne.
"My gods," he whispers to himself before suddenly remembering Duncan had his wrist in a bruising hold. It was like cold water was dumped on him. He seemed to sober immediately. "My gods, Princess, I didn't know…"
Your laughter fills the tent, the only sound over rushing heartbeats. "Looking good?" You mock. "You can let him go, Ser Duncan. Only if he fetches me a drink."
Duncan obeys immediately. Lyonel steps back, eyes wide as he soothes the skin on his wrist. "You won't…" He points to Duncan, though his eyes are on you. "You won't sick him on me?" It's a tease with an underlying worry.
You hum in bored thought. "Not if I get a drink in 10…9…8—"
You don't continue, for he's already bolted to the table, barking at servants to pour faster.
You look at Duncan and send him a wink before looking around the tent, all of which are staring at you. You scoff. "Play the music."
And soon enough, the music starts up as before like nothing happened.
Lyonel appears with a cup in hand. As you reach out, he snatches your hand and places a kiss on your knuckles first before pressing the cup into your palm. "For you, Princess. The wine I promised."
You grin in satisfaction before taking a long, deep sip.
The best wine you'd ever had.
…
Your mind fades in and out, your sight a bit blurry.
Lyonel was a free spirit. It was one of your favorite things about him.
That, and his knack for dancing.
He was always the perfect partner. Not in a proper way. In fact, far from proper.
After so many parties together, the two of you knew each other's bodies like you knew yourselves. And you loved to show off.
He picked you up by your hips, swinging your legs from one side of his waist to the other and back down. The crowd cheered.
Or, at least you think they did. Things were blurring in your mind.
Lyonel took your hand and began to twirl you around until you were so dizzy, you didn't notice he'd switched his own hand with Duncan's.
The large man only followed your movements as you kept twirling until you pulled out and spun yourself against him.
Your mind scrambled as your shoulders hit a chest you knew wasn't Lyonel's.
No, Lyonel was softer than this. Shorter. He would always tip his head against your shoulder and move your hips against his until you'd spin back out again.
You took the large hands and moved them down your body to your hips. The hands hesitated, fingers twitched like he didn't know what to do with them.
You laughed as you begin to recognized who the stiffness belonged to.
"Dance with her, hedge knight!" Lyonel yells over the music. He begins to clap, getting the others to join in.
Duncan wants to. He really does. You're a pretty woman, and he's grown rather fond of you. But he knows he's not the greatest dancer.
You pull away, and Duncan takes that time to admire you.
Your hair was wild and free now, more tangled through the night. You'd long abandoned your cloak. Your dress was so simple, free from a corset, free from expectation and power. Here, you were just you.
The alcohol must really be getting to him, cause he reaches out for your hand, pulling you in once again.
You yelp, not expecting him to take charge as he begins to lead you.
He had been watching you and Lyonel dance for long enough that he had a small idea of how it went.
He pulls you in and out, twirling and laughing with you. It's more clumsy than Lyonel, but there's more heart in it too.
It just means more to you.
He spins you around once, his right hand ending on your right hip. You duck under, practically swiping your nose up his stomach. You watch breath leave his body.
Lyonel's cackles drown out, the crowd's approving yells drown out. It's just you and Duncan for just that moment. Your chest now to his as you stare up into his stunning blue eyes.
But Lyonel quickly steals you back, an arm wrapping around your waist and dragging you away as you pretend to fight it and giggle wildly.
Duncan tucks himself back into the crowd, chest still tingling.
He watches as Lyonel flips you with practiced ease. A small pang of jealousy shoots through him.
Your hand runs down the Baratheon's arm when you circle him. Duncan feels himself wanting to dance with you again.
And finally, when Lyonel dips you low, tucking his nose against the pulse point of your neck, Duncan is almost angry.
He's not sure why. He knows the truth: that you and Lyonel are only friends. And even so, he's only a hedge knight himself. But it makes him come to terms with the fact that he's grown very fond of you.
But who wouldn't? You're a beautiful princess.
And utterly entrancing when you move your hips like that against Lyonel—
Duncan can't stop himself from crossing and stealing you away. His mighty hand crawls down your back, arm reaching down until he so gently guides you away from Lyonel.
The gentle motion of it. The giant who softened himself for you. It makes you feel something. And not just from the amount of alcohol. Though, perhaps a bit of that too.
You continue the same dance as you had done with Lyonel, circling the larger man and brushing down his arm as you did so. With such a thin tunic on, you can feel the way his muscles flex and tremble under your touch.
His eyes stay on you like you've entranced him under a spell.
When you complete the circle, you let your hand brush down his chest experimentally. Waiting to see what he'd do. What he'd say.
Down his chest to his stomach, where you swore you could feel the butterflies in his stomach.
His hand finally catches yours when you brush past his navel.
You keep your eyes on him, and his on yours. Neither bending. Neither breaking.
Then, he spins you out and the cycle continues as if nothing happened.
After a while, he gets the hang of it, even daring a few of the tricks he'd seen Lyonel do with you. The familiar way he'd toss you about.
But when Duncan did it, it looked so much easier. Because it was. You weighed nothing to him.
The song was coming to an end, and Duncan wanted to dip you.
He braves it, spinning you out one last time before bracing a hand on your back to dip you low.
As he does, your hands go to his face, where you cup his cheeks and kiss him.
He freezes a bit, the dip lasting long than intended.
Everyone around goes wild for it.
His eyes close, and he lets himself enjoy it.
A kiss from a girl as beautiful as you.
But all dreams must come to an end.
So, he begins to tip you back up. Your hands stay where they are, no intention of pulling away as you deepen the kiss.
Duncan lets you. And as he brings you up, his arms have to go to your waist to keep you at his level. Your legs dangle from the ground.
A loud clap from Lyonel breaks the two of you apart. "A kiss of luck for the tourney tomorrow! Lucky knight!" The others cheer and clap around.
Your eyes stay on Duncan, as he hasn't let you down yet. His eyes flicker over your lips once, twice, before he comes to his senses. "Oh." He sets you down, ensuring you're stable on your feet before keeping his hands off you completely. "Forgive me, Princess. That was… I don't know what came over me."
You motion for him to bend down like you're to tell him a secret. When he does, you pinch his chin. "You apologize too much for a noble knight. Did you know?"
"I… I guess not. I… I apolog— I—"
You cut him off with a kiss to his cheek before the next song starts and you move back to Lyonel, who happily accepts his favorite dance partner back.
Duncan stays there, a bit dumbfounded. His fingers brush over his cheek as if he doesn't believe what just happened.
You know you'll be utterly hungover tomorrow. And your father will most likely be a bit angry at you for it.
But you don't regret a thing.
In fact, you were going to do the same thing tomorrow night, should your hedge knight survive the first day of the tourney tomorrow.
pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!ofc , daeron targaryen x oc
Chapter V: And despite myself I am going to miss you
Clarice climbed into the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, and Aerion stirred. He didn't wake, not fully. He made a low, questioning sound in his throat, a murmur that was too slurred to decipher.
Then, sensing the warmth beside him, he moved. Instinct took over where consciousness failed. He rolled toward her, his arm heavy and hot, wrapping around her waist.
"Clarice," he mumbled, the word slurred and heavy with sleep. His fingers brushed against the cold skin of her arms, and he frowned without opening his eyes. "You're cold."
Before she could pull away, before she could remind herself of Aegon and the fear in his eyes, Aerion moved. He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest with a possessive, instinctive strength. Clarice stiffened, her heart hammering against her ribs, but Aerion simply buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a long sigh as his breath warmed her skin.
masterlist here
The night had settled over Ashford like a shroud, thick and heavy with the scent of dying fires and spilled wine. The castle grounds were quiet now, the last of the mourners having drifted away to their beds or their cups, leaving the courtyards only to the weeping ghosts and the guards who paced the walls with weary steps.
Clarice walked slowly through the darkness, her hand pressed to the small of her back, her feet dragging against the mud. The rain that had threatened all evening had finally begun to fall, a miserable, spitting drizzle that did not clean the mud but merely made it slicker, turning the tourney grounds into a black, sucking swamp.
She held her skirts high, the heavy silk ruined by the splash of the earth, but she did not care. Her mind was a shattered mirror, reflecting a hundred fractured images of the day: Baelor crumbling into the mud like a puppet with cut strings, the horrific, sickening crunch of steel on bone, young Aegon’s tear-streaked face pressed against her skirts, and the terrible, liberating truth she had found in the boy’s unadulterated relief.
I am leaving him.
The thought was a phantom limb; she could feel it throbbing, terrifying and new, a presence she wasn't quite sure how to carry.
She found Aerion in the bedchamber.
She expected to find him pacing. She expected the sound of breaking glass, the smell of wine, the frantic, pacing energy of a tiger that knows the cage door has been locked. She braced herself for the shouting, for the accusations, for the manic, violent reenactment of the trial where he would explain how he had actually won, how the world had cheated him.
Instead, she found silence.
Aerion was asleep.
He lay on his back, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes, the other one soft over his stomach. He had stripped off his armor, the black plate lying in a discarded heap in the corner like the carapace of an insect. He wore only his breeches and a linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, revealing the pale, smooth skin of his chest.
Clarice stood by the entrance, water dripping from her hair, and stared at him.
In sleep, the monster vanished. The cruel twist of his lips smoothed out into a pout that was almost childish. The furrow between his brows, usually etched deep with suspicion and arrogance, was gone. He looked deceptively innocent, like a marble statue of a fallen god.
It was unfair, she thought, feeling a sting of tears. It was unfair that he could look so innocent when he was so ruinous. It would be easier if he slept with his teeth bared, if he snarled in his dreams. But he was just a man, breathing softly, his silver hair a halo of disarray against the pillows.
"Damn you," she whispered to the sleeping form. "Damn you for being able to rest."
Her legs gave out. The adrenaline that had sustained her since the trial evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made her knees tremble. She moved toward the bed, stripping off the ruined gown with clumsy, shivering fingers. She left the wet silk in a pile on the rug, not caring if it stained, and slipped into her shift.
She climbed into the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, and Aerion stirred. He didn't wake, not fully. He made a low, questioning sound in his throat, a murmur that was too slurred to decipher.
Then, sensing the warmth beside him, he moved. Instinct took over where consciousness failed. He rolled toward her, his arm heavy and hot, wrapping around her waist.
"Clarice," he mumbled, the word slurred and heavy with sleep. His fingers brushed against the cold skin of her arms, and he frowned without opening his eyes. "You're cold."
Before she could pull away, before she could remind herself of Aegon and the fear in his eyes, Aerion moved. He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest with a possessive, instinctive strength. Clarice stiffened, her heart hammering against her ribs, but Aerion simply buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting out a long sigh as his breath warmed her skin.
He smelled of cloves, of sweat, and that unique, fiery scent that was entirely his own.
Clarice closed her eyes. She breathed him in, allowing herself this one final weakness. She reached down and placed her hand over Aerion’s, interlacing their fingers. She squeezed tight, a silent apology, a silent goodbye.
Clarice woke to the sound of violence. It was the crash of metal against wood, a harsh, discordant clatter that sent her heart hammering against her ribs.
She bolted upright, gasping, her hand flying to her chest. The dawn had brought no sun, only a lighter shade of gray, and the tent was awash in the grieving, dreary light of a cloudy morning.
Aerion was pacing at the foot of the bed. He was fully dressed in riding leathers, his hair slicked back, his face a mask of incandescent, beautiful rage. He had kicked a heavy oak stool across the room, where it now lay splintered against a trunk.
He looked like a storm contained within a human vessel, lightning flashing behind his eyes.
"Awake at last," he spat, seeing her move. "I thought you planned to sleep through the following winter."
"What has happened?" Clarice asked, though she knew. She could see it in the white-knuckled grip of his hands, in the way his jaw worked.
He stalked toward the bed, grabbing the post as if he intended to snap it.
"Lys," he spat, the word sounding like a curse, like a piece of rot he was trying to eject from his mouth. "He is sending me to Lys."
Clarice gripped the bedsheets, her mind racing to catch up to the waking world. She forced her breathing to steady, schooling her features into a mask of convincing shock. She widened her eyes, letting her mouth fall open slightly.
"Lys?" she asked, her voice trembling just enough. "Aerion, what are you talking about?"
"My father," Aerion laughed, a sharp, barking sound devoid of any humor. He turned to her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. "The noble Prince Maekar, in all his infinite, grief-stricken wisdom. He summoned me at dawn. Before the sun had even bled into the sky. He blames me, Clarice. For Baelor. For the hedge knight. For the air he breathes, I suspect."
He threw his hands up in a theatrical gesture of mock surrender, pacing the length of the rug. "He says I am a danger to the realm. A wildfire that cannot be contained. So, the dragon is to be banished. Across the narrow sea, to fester among the perfume-makers and the bed-slaves.Ten years, he said. Maybe five, if I learn to 'behave.' As if I were a dog that needs training. I am a dragon! Does one train a dragon to sit and beg?"
Clarice looked down at her lap, her throat tight. "Exile," she whispered, testing the weight of the word.
"He is grieving, Aerion," Clarice said carefully, "he needs... space. Time."
"He needs a scapegoat!" Aerion turned on her, pointing a finger. "And I am convenient. I am the bright flame that draws the eye. Send the bad son away, and perhaps the Gods will forgive the kinslayer."
He began to throw things into a trunk. Tunics, velvet doublets, a jeweled dagger. He didn't pack; he attacked the luggage.
"Oh, but it gets better," Aerion said, stalking toward the bed. He climbed onto the mattress, crawling toward her on his knees until he was looming over her, his face inches from hers. The fury in his eyes had morphed into a dark, vicious amusement.
"He played the benevolent patriarch," Aerion sneered. "Do you know what he offered? He said that given your... condition... he would not force you to cross the sea. He offered you a place at Summerhall. He said you could stay behind, safe and tucked away."
Aerion reached out, his long fingers catching a strand of her blonde hair, twirling it idly around his finger. He smiled, and the sheer, oblivious arrogance of it made Clarice sick to her stomach.
"Can you imagine?" he scoffed, shaking his head as if the very notion was the greatest joke ever told. "As if you would ever stay behind. As if you would sit in that crumbling summer palace, knitting socks with the maids while I am an ocean away. I almost laughed in his face. He truly believes you would abandon me for a garden and a quiet room."
Clarice stared at him. The words I am staying were a stone in her mouth, jagged and heavy. She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. She looked at the bruised line of his jaw, at the absolute, terrifying certainty in his gaze. He didn't just believe she would follow him; he believed she belonged to him, as much as his own hands or his sword. The idea that she was a separate entity, capable of making a choice that did not center him, had not even occurred to him.
"Aerion..." she started, her voice a fragile whisper.
"We leave immediately," he interrupted, dropping her hair and sliding off the bed with restless energy. "We ride with the funeral procession as far as the crossroads. Then we split. Have your maids pack only what is necessary for the ship. The rest can rot here."
He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and swept out of the bedchamber, shouting for his squires to ready the horses, leaving Clarice sitting in the suffocating silence of her own cowardice. She began to pack then, whether it was for Lys or Summerhall, she did not know yet.
************
The departure from Ashford was a somber affair. The funeral for Baelor had been a hollowed-out thing, a grief too large to fit into a ceremony. The pyre had burned high, the smoke black and thick, carrying the hope of the realm up into the grey sky. It still hung in the valley as the great caravan began the slow, mournful trudge south.
Given her pregnancy, Clarice had been confined to a massive, lumbering wheelhouse. It was a richly appointed prison of dark oak and crimson velvet, smelling faintly of cedar and dust. The rhythmic, monotonous sway of the carriage did nothing to soothe the nausea growing in her gut, a sickness that had less to do with the child and everything to do with the lie she was carrying.
They had been on the road for two days. Two days, and she still hadn't told him. Every time she opened her mouth, the words died, strangled by the memory of his hand on her stomach, or the terrifying reach of his rage.
She was playing a game of counting. Counting the trees. Counting the clouds. Counting the minutes until she had to tell Aerion the truth, when the carriage hit a halt, jolting Clarice against the velvet cushions. She groaned, rubbing her lower back.
She closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the nausea.
The door of the wheelhouse opened suddenly, letting in a gust of road dust and noise.
Clarice opened her eyes to see Daeron stumbling into the moving carriage. He moved with the loose-limbed, exaggerated clumsiness of a man who had consumed his body weight in wine. He nearly tripped over his own boots, grasping the doorframe with a dramatic groan before collapsing onto the bench opposite her.
He kicked the door shut with his foot.
"Riding," Daeron breathed, sliding down the seat until he was practically horizontal. He reeked of sour wine and stale sweat, "is an activity designed by sadists for the punishment of fools. Horses are the devil's own invention. I suspect mine is plotting to throw me into a ditch at the first opportunity."
He looked terrible. His skin was the color of old parchment, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights haunted by dragons.
Clarice sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction despite herself. "You are drunk, Daeron."
"I am medicated," he corrected, turning his head to look at her with half-lidded, bloodshot eyes. He reached into his tunic and produced a battered silver flask. "The road is bumpy. The grief is suffocating. And my brother's ego is taking up all the air outside. I require sustenance to survive the journey."
"Maekar let you ride in the wheelhouse?"
"I told him I was going to vomit on his boots if I stayed on my courser," Daeron said with a faint smirk. "He seemed to find the argument persuasive. He banished me to the 'woman's wagon.' He thinks it a punishment. I consider it a promotion. The cushions are better."
He moved to unstop the flask, but Clarice leaned forward and snatched it from his hands with surprising speed.
"Hey," he protested weakly, making a grab for it and missing.
"The smell makes me nauseous," she sighed, tucking the flask behind the cushion at her back. "And if you vomit in my wheelhouse, I will throw you out the window myself."
Daeron looked at her, blinking at the sudden aggression, but he didn't argue. "Your mother is strict," he murmured, leaning down to address the swell of her stomach with a conspiratorial whisper. "Take note, little one. No fun allowed in this establishment." He grinned. "It will be up to me to teach you the important things. Like how to hide a tart in your sleeve, or how to sleep with your eyes open during a council meeting."
Clarice managed a weak smile, but it faltered quickly. From the road ahead, a shout rang out —high, furious, and unmistakably Aerion's. He was berating someone, his voice carrying over the rattle of the wheels like a crack of thunder.
Daeron winced, leaning back against the seat as the echo faded.
"Aerion is riding like the Stranger is chasing him," Daeron said mockingly. "He thinks he is leading a crusade to Lys. He has probably already planned his wardrobe for the crossing."
Clarice didn't answer. She shifted in her seat, her gaze dropping to her lap. Her hands, slender fingers usually so composed, began to twist the fabric of her dress, pleating and smoothing the heavy silk in a nervous, frantic rhythm. She looked small suddenly, shrinking away from the window and the road outside.
Daeron watched her, the amusement slowly bleeding out of his expression. He knew that fidget. He knew the way she retreated into herself when the walls were closing in.
"You haven't told him," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Clarice looked out the small window at the passing trees, gray blurs against a gray sky. "There hasn't been a good moment. He is... he is mad, Daeron, an absolute madman. He speaks of Lys as if it were a conquest, not a punishment."
"Clarice, my brother's life is a continuous string of delusions. You are waiting for a sunrise in the middle of the night." Daeron let out a rough sigh, rubbing his temples.
"I know," she whispered, her voice cracking. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by the suffocating weight of it all. "I will tell him. Before we reach the crossroads. I swear it."
"You are letting him believe the lie until the crossroads?" Daeron asked. His tone wasn't judgmental, merely observational. "That is a dangerous game, sister. The drop is steep."
"I know."
Clarice hissed as the wheel hit a particularly deep pothole. Her hand flew to her lower back, her face contorting in pain.
Daeron watched the spasm seize her, his jaw tightening as if he felt the jolt in his own spine. The mask of the drunken fool slipped entirely, revealing a raw, unguarded wince of shared suffering.
"Your ankles?" he asked.
"My everything," she groaned. "But yes. They feel like they are being crushed in a vice."
He moved instantly. The languid drunkard vanished. He sat up straight on the bench, and without asking, Daeron reached out. He lifted her left foot, resting it gently on his knee. His hands were cool and surprisingly strong. He began to massage the swollen joint, his thumbs working into the fluid-filled tissue with a practiced, rhythmic pressure.
Clarice let out a sound —a small, involuntary whimper of pleasure. Her head fell back against the cushions. "Oh, Gods."
Daeron glanced up. A smirk curled the corner of his mouth, a sharp, knowing expression that suggested he was remembering a different time, and a different darkness.
"Better than prayer," Daeron murmured, dropping his gaze back to his work. "My mother used to suffer terribly with her feet. I learned the trick of it. The key is to push the blood back up."
"You are a saint," Clarice mumbled, her eyes closing. "A drunk, useless saint."
"The best kind," he agreed. "We demand no altars, only wine."
He worked in silence for a while, the only sound the creaking of the wheels and the thud of hooves outside. It was a strange, stolen intimacy, the prince putting his hands up to work, tending to the wife of his brother.
"He will be angry," Daeron said quietly, switching to her other foot. "When you tell him."
"He will be furious, not angry."
"He might try to take you. Force you."
"He might." Clarice opened her eyes, looking at Daeron’s silver head. "But Maekar will be there. And you. And... I think, deep down, he knows."
Daeron looked up. His violet eyes were sad, endless pools of melancholy. "You are saving the child," he said. "And you are saving yourself, which is just as important. Do not let guilt eat you for it. Aerion... Aerion is a fire that consumes its own hearth. You cannot keep him inside without burning the house down."
"I... I feel as though I am cutting off a limb," she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. "He is my husband, Daeron. I cannot just... turn off the feeling. I worry for him. I feel like I am abandoning him to the wolves."
"Spare me the pity for the executioner," Daeron snapped, his voice hard and stripped of its usual drunken softness. But he didn't stop.
His hands kept moving, his thumbs kneading the swollen flesh of her ankle with a gentle, insistent rhythm that belied the harshness of his tone. "I have watched you for two years, Clarice. I have watched you walk on eggshells. I have watched you shrink until you are barely visible behind his shadow. He is a monster. He is not a tragic hero, he is a sadist with a crown. And I am tired, sincerely, exhaustedly tired, of watching you twist yourself into knots to justify the man who holds the whip."
Clarice went silent. She knew he was right, of course. She opened her mouth, as if she were about to offer yet another excuse, but the words died on her lips. Daeron didn’t press her.
"Does it help?" He asked after a while, his tone lightening, the sarcasm creeping back in like a shield. "My ministrations? Or am I merely fondling your feet for my own perverted amusement?"
Clarice laughed, a wet, choked sound. "You are a pervert, undoubtedly. But you have magic hands."
"I shall add it to my resume," he drawled. "Prince Daeron: drunkard, disappointment, and excellent masseur. The ladies of the court will be lining up."
Clarice shook her head, chuckling. "You’re incorrigible, Daeron."
The carriage began to slow. The rhythm of the wheels changed, the gravel crunching louder.
He was massaging her calf when the wheelhouse ground to a sudden, jarring halt.
Before either of them could move, the door was wrenched open. The gray light of the afternoon spilled in, framing Aerion. He was on horseback, leaning down from his saddle to look inside, his silver hair blowing in the damp wind, his cloak billowing like wings behind him.
He froze.
Aerion looked at Daeron, splattered over the bench of the carriage, Clarice’s bare foot resting gently in his hands.
A slow, cruel smirk spread across his face. He let out a condescending laugh that grated on Clarice's nerves. He looked like a man who had just been let in on the joke of a lifetime.
"Well," Aerion sneered, looking down his nose at his brother. "It seems the drunkard has finally found his true calling. A lady's maid. Shall I get you an apron, brother? Or perhaps a brush for her hair?"
Daeron didn't flinch. He didn't scramble away. He slowly set Clarice's foot down, taking his time to smooth the hem of her skirt over her ankle before he turned his head to look up at his brother.
"Someone has to tend to her, Aerion," Daeron drawled, his voice dripping with a dry, lethally calm sarcasm. "You're far too busy polishing your ego to notice when she’s in pain. And I find I have a... surprisingly deft touch with your wife's needs."
Clarice sucked in a breath, her nails digging into the velvet seat. It was a brazen, suicidal taunt, wrapped in just enough plausible deniability to slip past Aerion's colossal vanity.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed, too wrapped up in his own arrogance to grasp the confession but vicious enough to catch the disrespect. "Get out of my wheelhouse, Daeron. You smell like a tavern floor, and you are fouling the air."
Daeron grabbed the door frame and hoisted himself out of the carriage with exaggerated sluggishness. He stood in the mud, looking up at his brother on the black destrier.
"Safe travels, brother," Daeron said, offering a mocking, sloppy bow. "Try not to be poisoned within the week."
Aerion sneered, a sharp, hateful sound. "Worry for your own throat, drunkard," he spat, his hand tightening on the reins. "Try not to choke on your own vomit while I am gone. The realm would mourn the loss of its court fool."
Daeron gave Clarice a final, unreadable look, and then stepped down into the mud, disappearing into the crowd of the retinue.
Aerion dismounted with a fluid grace and climbed into the wheelhouse, pulling the door shut behind him. The carriage jerked into motion again, the sudden movement throwing him slightly into the seat Daeron had just vacated.
He didn't pace. He didn't sneer. He sat perfectly still, his hands resting on his knees. The manic energy that usually buzzed around him like a swarm of bees was completely absent, replaced by an eerie, settled calm that frightened Clarice more than his rage.
"We are approaching the crossroads," Aerion announced, his voice flat. "The party splits in an hour. Maekar rides for Summerhall. I ride for the bay."
Clarice felt the blood drain from her face. The moment had come. The trapdoor was opening beneath her feet and her wings had been cut long ago.
"Aerion, I..." She looked at the road to Summerhall, winding up into the green hills. Then at the road to the sea. She opened her mouth to speak the words that would sever them, to tell him she could not go. But the words lodged in her throat like a jagged stone. "I should... the trunks," she stammered, her voice thin and high. "I must ensure the blue silk is packed correctly, the salt air will ruin it, and the baby's linens... I haven't checked if the wet nurse has—"
"Clarice," he said.
"I-I…" She kept on stuttering, the words sticking in her throat like burrs. "I need to... I should speak to Ellyn. My trunks, they are likely mixed with the others, and the medicine for the sea sickness, I haven't checked if..."
"Clarice, stop," Aerion commanded suddenly.
He didn't shout. The softness of his tone cut through her panicked rambling like a blade through silk.
Clarice froze, her mouth half-open.
He leaned forward, bridging the space between them. He reached out and took both of her hands in his. His grip was firm, hot, but for the first time in their marriage, it wasn't a threat.
"You are not coming to Lys," Aerion said.
Clarice stopped breathing. She stared at him, her mind completely blank, unable to process the words coming from his mouth. "What?"
Aerion looked down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing her knuckles. He looked almost... shy. "I have thought on it. The journey is long. The storms this time of year are treacherous." He looked up, his violet eyes clear and unusually serious. "And Lys... Lys is a sty. It is a city of poisoners, whores, and merchants who think gold is a substitute for blood. It is no place for you."
He paused, his gaze drifting to her stomach. "And it is certainly no place to birth my child. I will not have my heir squalling in some rented villa, tended to by exiles."
Clarice was entirely paralyzed. The sheer, dizzying whiplash of it, receiving the exact salvation she had desperately sought, wrapped in a rare, reluctant moment of his empathy, broke something inside her.
He gestured imperiously toward the road to Summerhall.
"You will go there, and you will wait." He commanded. "You will raise him in the gardens. You will sleep in a real bed. You will have the Maesters of the Citadel attend to you. It is decided."
"But... you said we would show them," Clarice whispered, her voice trembling, not entirely an act. "You said we would be a court. I can endure the sea, Aerion. I can—"
"You will endure nothing," Aerion snapped, cutting her off. "You will stay. I will not risk my son on a ship full of rats and sickness. When I have carved out a kingdom worthy of him, then you will come. But not before."
He was lying. They both knew he was lying. He wasn't going to carve out a kingdom. He was going to drink and fight and spiral in exile. But he was giving her an out. He was giving her permission to survive.
Tears, hot and fast, spilled over Clarice’s eyelashes. She let out a choked, ragged sob. Relief washed over her in a suffocating wave, but beneath it, darker and sharper, was a twisted, bleeding ache. It was the severing of a limb that had been gangrenous but was still part of her. He was saving her, in his own selfish, broken way, and the tragedy of it was that she knew, with terrifying certainty, that this moment of distorted care was the closest he would ever come to love. She wanted to scream at him for his cruelty and weep for his solitude in the same breath. She was free, and it felt like she was being torn in half.
"Do not weep," he commanded, though his voice was unusually thick. He reached up, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. "You will stay at Summerhall. But you are still mine, Clarice. Do you hear me? The Narrow Sea is but a puddle to a dragon. It does not change what belongs to me."
"I hear you," she breathed, nodding frantically.
"You will write to me," he demanded, the familiar possessiveness creeping back into his tone. "Every week. I want to know everything. When the child kicks, when it is born. If he has my hair, my eyes, you will put it in a letter before you even cut the cord. And you will tell him of me. You will tell him his father is a dragon."
"I promise," she cried, leaning into his touch, her heart breaking for the tragedy of what they could never be, and the mercy of what they wouldn't have to be. "I promise, Aerion. He will know you. The baby will know his father. I swear it to the Gods."
Aerion’s face softened. It was a beautiful, tragic expression. He leaned in, and Clarice met him halfway.
The kiss they shared in the swaying wheelhouse was tender, desperate, and utterly devoid of their usual venom. It tasted of salt and sorrow.
He pulled away slowly, resting his forehead against hers. "You are still a terrible bore, wife," he whispered, a weak attempt at their old banter. "Summerhall will suit you. It is full of dust and old books."
"And you are still a vain, arrogant fool," she replied, laughing through her tears. "Try not to start a war in the Free Cities before the baby is born. That'd be an awfully arduous way of getting my attention."
"I make no promises," he smirked.
"Write to me," she commanded, her voice fierce. "Every week. If you don't, I will tell the child his father was a scrawny stable boy."
Aerion laughed. It was a genuine laugh, bright and startled. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
He smirked, running his thumb over her lip. He then pulled back entirely, the mask of the dragon prince sliding firmly back into place. He stood up, the space too small for his height, and pushed open the carriage door. The cool air rushed in.
"Go, then," he dismissed her, his voice clipped and rough. He didn't look back at her. "Before I change my mind and let you suffer the sea sickness just to spite you."
He stepped out of the moving carriage, the door slamming shut, leaving Clarice alone in the dim light, until the dust settled and there was nothing left but the silence of the hills.
************
Summerhall was a paradise of light and stone.
It had been a month since the crossroads. For the first two weeks, Clarice had been miserable. She had wandered the airy corridors and sprawling gardens like a ghost, drenched in a heavy, confusing guilt. She kept waiting for the door to be kicked open, for the shouting to begin, for the heavy, suffocating scent of cloves and fire to fill the room. And she would wake up in the night, reaching for a body that wasn't there, waiting for someone to to stoke the fire back to life to shove the midnight cold away.
But as the days bled into weeks, the silence stopped feeling empty and began to feel like peace.
She realized she slept through the night. She realized she no longer checked the doorways before entering a room. She realized she could read a book without being interrupted, that she could wear her hair how she liked without comment. She didn't miss him; she realized with a start one morning while breaking her fast on the balcony. She missed the adrenaline, perhaps. She missed the intensity. But she did not miss the fear.
And for a month, she had successfully avoided Daeron.
It wasn't difficult. Maekar was at King's Landing, serving his penance as the new Hand of the King, leaving the summer palace mostly empty save for the servants. Daeron kept to his own chambers or the wine cellars, a ghost haunting the edges of her newly found peace. She saw him sometimes, a silver figure in the distance of the gardens, passed out drunk under the shadow of an orange tree, but she turned away. She needed time to learn who she was when she wasn't surviving Aerion.
But the avoidance could only last so long.
One afternoon, seeking refuge from the midday sun, Clarice ventured into the ancient library. It was exactly as she remembered it from seven months ago, smelling of old parchment, lemon polish, and dust motes dancing in the shafts of colored light from the high windows. She was looking for a book on High Valyrian verbs, a small, silly promise she intended to keep, when she heard a page turn.
Daeron was sprawled across a velvet armchair in the corner. A heavy leather-bound book rested open on his lap, and a silver flask dangled loosely from his fingers. He looked healthier than he had at Ashford, though still pale. He didn't look up as the door clicked shut, but a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"I wondered when the hermit crab would emerge from its shell," Daeron said, his voice a dry rasp in the quiet room.
Clarice paused, her hand resting on her heavy stomach. She considered turning around, but her feet felt rooted to the Myrish rug. "I have been resting. The Maesters insist upon it."
Daeron finally looked up. His violet eyes were clear, holding a warm, teasing light that sent a familiar flutter through her chest. "You've been avoiding me."
"I have not," she lied primly, walking toward the shelves, pretending to examine the spines of the books. "I have been busy. Mourning.”
"Mourning the living is a tedious business," Daeron remarked. "They have a nasty habit of not staying dead.”
"And you have been avoiding me," he chuckled, setting his flask on the small table beside him. "You scurry past the courtyards like a frightened mouse if you so much as catch a glimpse of my boots Come here, Clarice. I don't bite." He paused, his smile turning wicked. "Well. Unless you ask me to. I remember you quite liked that..."
Clarice felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks, coloring her neck. She shot him a scandalous look, quickly scanning the empty library. "Daeron! Are you mad? It is dangerous to speak like that. Someone could hear."
Daeron laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that echoed in the high ceilings. He waved a dismissive hand at the empty room. "Who? The dust? The ghosts of dead Targaryens? Aerion is halfway to Lys, likely terrorizing the ship's captain, and my father is in King's Landing trying to figure out how to be Baelor without the charm. There is no one here but us, Clarice, and a handful of maids who are half-deaf."
"And if they see us?" Clarice countered, her voice still thin, but a ghost of her old sharpness flickering in her eyes. "They have tongues, Daeron. Tongues that wag all the way to King's Landing."
"Let them wag," Daeron drawled, waving a careless hand. "They'll say the drunkard prince is boring his brother's wife with stories of dead dragons. A scandal so dull it wouldn't even make it to old ladiess tea parties."
Clarice let out a long breath, the rigid posture she had held for a month slowly melting away. She looked at him, truly looked at him, without the shadow of Aerion looming over them. He looked safe. He looked like home.
Daeron patted his thighs. "Come here. I want to show you something in this book. It’s a treatise on Valyrian architecture. It’s incredibly dull, you'll love it."
Clarice hesitated, letting her arms fall by her side. "Daeron, I am gigantic. I will crush your legs. I feel like a galleon that has run aground."
"I shall welcome the injury," he insisted, reaching out to grasp her hands.
With a soft sigh, surrendering to the pull, Clarice turned and carefully lowered herself onto his lap. Daeron groaned playfully as she settled her weight, wrapping his arms around her waist to steady her.
"Gods, woman you're enormous," he teased, resting his chin against her shoulder. "If you get any larger, we shall have to roll you to the dining hall. What are you feeding that child? Lead weights?"
Clarice, in a flash of uncharacteristic insecurity, took him at his word. A flush rose to her neck. "I am too heavy," she mumbled, placing her hands on his knees to push herself up. "I should move, I—"
"Sit down," Daeron laughed, his arms tightening around her waist to keep her in place. "I was teasing, you foolish creature. I wouldn't let you go even if you broke my femurs."
"You are a terrible flatterer, then," she murmured, leaning back against his chest. It felt impossibly right. He smelled of old paper and wine, a scent that meant safety.
They sat in silence for a few moments, the rhythmic beating of Daeron's heart a steady drum against her back. The sun filtered through the dust, turning the room into a golden haze.
"I am afraid, Daeron," Clarice confessed into the quiet dust of the room. The vulnerability slipped out before she could catch it. "I am afraid the baby will hate me. When he grows up. For choosing to raise him here, alone. Without a father."
Daeron’s arms tightened around her. He rested his hand over hers on the swell of her belly. "He will not hate you, Clarice. Every day that he doesn't have to watch his father beat a servant or throw a goblet at you, he will thank you. When he is old enough to understand, he will thank you on his knees that he didn't have to wake up every day to a monster. He will know peace because you gave it to him."
Clarice smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips. She covered his hand with hers, interlacing their fingers.
"She," she corrected softly, in what was already an unconscious action she'd cultivated to spite Aerion.
Daeron paused. He pulled his head back just enough to look at the side of her face. "She?"
"Yes," Clarice said, turning her head to meet his eyes. "I am going to have a girl."
She braced herself for disappointment, for the Targaryen obsession with male heirs and dragonriders. But instead, a look of pure, unadulterated wonder bloomed across Daeron's face. His eyes lit up, the shadows of his dreams entirely banished by the thought.
"A girl," he breathed, a wide, beautiful smile breaking across his features. "A little girl. Gods, Clarice. She’ll be terrifying. With your sharp tongue and... well, hopefully none of my traits." He laughed, a soft, delighted sound. "A niece. I can work with that. I shall teach her to outdrink the lords and outsmart the maesters."
Clarice let out a wet, breathless laugh, fully relaxing into his arms. For the first time since she had arrived at Ashford, since she had married into the blood of the dragon, she felt completely, undeniably safe.
"You were right," she whispered.
"I usually am," Daeron grinned against her neck, though his voice was tender. "About what specifically?"
"About safety. It isn't boring. It’s... restful."
She turned back to him. He didn't push. He just waited.
She leaned in, threading her fingers into his silver-gold hair, and he met her halfway. The kiss wasn't desperate or stolen. It wasn't a secret snatched in the dark. It was warm, slow, and deep. It tasted of watered wine and sunlight.
When she finally pulled away, she settled comfortably back against his chest, her head resting just beneath his jaw. She reached out and tapped the heavy, forgotten tome resting on the arm of the chair.
"Read to me," she commanded softly, with a playful smile tugging at her lips.
Daeron smiled, wrapping his arms tighter around her to pick up the book on his lap. "As the lady commands. Gravel ratios or load-bearing capacities?"
Clarice tapped the page. "That one."
Daeron groaned. "Porosity of volcanic rock? Have mercy on me, Clarice. That passage knocked me unconscious twenty minutes ago."
"Then it is perfect," she said, closing her eyes. "It means your voice will be low and boring."
"My voice is melodic. It is the voice of a scholar."
"It is the voice of a man who needs a nap. Read."
"As you wish. But if I fall asleep and drop this on your toes, I accept no liability."
"Just read, you fool."
Daeron cleared his throat with mock gravity. " 'The porosity of the stone in the warm summer months...' "
" '...allows for a certain dampness to permeate the foundations...' "
"Fascinating."
"You are mocking me."
"I am listening. Go on."
" '...creating a structural integrity that is both flexible and robust.' "
"Like you."
Daeron paused, his chest rumbling with a silent laugh. "Flexible? Yes. Robust? Debatable."
" 'However, one must be wary of the salt air...' "
"You have a nice voice, Daeron."
"It's the wine. It coats the throat."
"It's the heart. It's a gentle one."
"Don't go soft on me now, Arryn. I was just getting to the part about sediment."
"Read about the sediment then,"
" 'Sediment accumulation is a constant threat, ...' Ah, the plot thickness, ‘minerals are known…’ "
Clarice chuckled. Outside, in the golden light of the afternoon, the lemon trees rustled in the breeze, and the dragons, for once, were nowhere to be seen.
************
a/n: Sooo... I know a lot of you guys won't like this chapter, if so I'm very sorry to dissapoint you. I sweat this is always where the story was going to go, it's not like I changed it over comments or anything like that. If you re-read the chapters I promise the subtext has always been there (in fact a lot of you guessed correctly!)
I do want to be clear on this: Aerion is STILL very much part of the story and he WILL appear again and he WILL come back from Lys; I won't spoil any further, but Aerion coming back and how Clarice and Daeron will deal with it and the baby is the major plotline in a few chapters.
I'm very sorry if this chapter lets you down and I totally understand if this wasn't what you guys initially came looking for, but I hope you nonetheless enjoy it and hopefully you keep on reading (if I did my job corrently then you should be at least a little bit interested by daeron x clarice and how they came to be!)
love you guys and appreciate all your support infinitely! <3
from now on this story is aerion targaryen x ofc AND daeron targaryen x ofc
Aerion saw her reflection in the mirror before she spoke. “Come to gloat?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He didn’t turn.
“I came to see if you were harmed,” she said, her own voice flat. She stepped closer, her gaze taking in the bruise blooming on his jaw, the dirt ground into his knuckles, the shallow but angry cut Ser Duncan’s sword had left on his neck. A strange, unwelcome relief loosened something in her chest. He was whole. He was here.
“Disappointed?”
“Frequently.” She reached for the rag. “Let me.”
masterlist here
The world had narrowed to the sharp edge of a sword against a throat.
Aerion, caught in his own arrogance, lay pinned in the churned mud. The air had been driven from his lungs, the taste of dirt and blood thick on his tongue. The giant stood over him, his blade cold and rimmed with death against the pulse hammering in Aerion’s neck. The black enamel of his helm was dented, the ridiculous plumes torn away and trampled into the muck.
He did not struggle. He went still, like a predator when recognizing a greater force. His violet eyes, visible through the raised visor, were not wide with fear, but rather narrowed with a furious, lucid calculation. He saw the resolve in the hedge knight’s plain face, the absence of mercy. Violence he understood. He courted it, danced with it, wore it like perfume. This was not a knight playing at chivalry; this was a man who would kill him.
The roar of the crowd was a distant ocean. Aerion’s gaze flickered past the giant’s shoulder, to where his father Maekar stood, to where his brother Daeron had fallen, to the seething mass of faces that had come to see a show and were now witnessing a truth: fear in a face that did not know it could bleed.
He hated them more in that moment than he had ever hated anything.
The sword pressed deeper. He felt a sting, then the warm trickle of blood down his neck, into the collar of his gorget.
Aerion’s lips parted. He did not shriek, nor beg. The sound that left him was low, guttural, stripped of all its theatrical fire. It was the raw acknowledgment of defeat, a simple exhalation of surrender.
“I yield.”
The words hung in the heavy air, then were swallowed by a sudden, greater silence that fell not from the stands, but from the centre of the field.
Aerion, his submission granted, shoved at Ser Duncan’s sword with the last of his strength, rolling away from him. He ripped off his ruined helm and threw it into the mud, his silver hair plastered to his skull with sweat. He was looking past Ser Duncan, his face a mask of boiling fury, but his eyes were fixed on a point farther down the field.
Clarice, from the royal box, followed his gaze.
The Hand of the King sat on his horse, swaying slightly. His armor was battered, the black plate dented in a dozen places. He reached up, his movements slow and uncoordinated, to remove his helm. An irregular choir of gasps went through the audience.
Maekar stood by his side, his mace hanging limp from his hand at the sight of his brother’s head. The rage drained from his face, replaced by a dawning horror so profound it stripped him of all humanity. He looked like a man waking from a nightmare to find he was still dreaming. He took a step back, then another, shaking his head in tiny, frantic denials.
Baelor Breakspear, the finest man to ever bear the name Targaryen, smiled faintly at his brother. It was a tender, reassuring gesture for his younger brother.
"I think..." Baelor’s voice was gentle, fading, like a bell ringing from a great distance. "I seem to have taken a blow to the head."
Clarice watched, her breath trapped in her lungs, as the greatest man she knew faltered. He did not fall like a tree; he crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Baelor Breakspear, the hope of the realm, slid from his saddle and hit the ground with a final, hollow clatter of steel.
“No,” Maekar started whispering. The word was a puff of air, lost. “No, no, no.”
A stunned, petrified silence fell over the courtyard. Clarice caught a breath of a horrified, desperate prayer at her side.
But the gods were silent. It was the men who began to scream.
Maekar’s roar of anger was the first to cut through the din. He fell to his knees beside his brother, his big, calloused hands hovering over Baelor’s form, afraid to touch. “No, no, no, no…” The word was a mantra of horror. He looked at his warhammer again, then at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time. He had swung true, aiming for the helm, a blow to win a trial. He had not meant to kill his brother. His face, usually so stern and impassive, crumpled into a landscape of pure, defenseless grief.
Clarice turned away from the field, the image seared into her mind. She pushed herself up, ignoring the lancing pain in her back, the tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the baby. The box was in an uproar. Valarr had surged forward and jumped into the field while screaming, his scholarly calm obliterated, his face a portrait of shock. Kiera was sobbing openly.
She moved through the panicked crowd like a ghost. No one noticed the pregnant woman in the ivory and blue dress, pushing against the current of bodies flowing towards the tragedy. She was a stone in a river, parting the flow without a ripple.
***********
Clarice found him in a dim corner of the royal pavilion’s antechamber, away from the panicked scurrying of squires and maesters. He was standing before the bronze mirror, naked save for his breeches. A basin of water, now turned pink with blood and dirt, sat on the vanity. He was scrubbing his chest with a rough cloth. He scrubbed hard, turning the pale skin angry and red, as if he were trying to flay the memory of the mud on his flesh.
Aerion saw her reflection in the mirror before she spoke. “Come to gloat?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He didn’t turn.
“I came to see if you were harmed,” she said, her own voice flat. She stepped closer, her gaze taking in the bruise blooming on his jaw, the dirt ground into his knuckles, the shallow but angry cut Ser Duncan’s sword had left on his neck. A strange, unwelcome relief loosened something in her chest. He was whole. He was here.
“Disappointed?”
“Frequently.” She reached for the rag. “Let me.”
He caught her wrist before her fingers could touch him. His grip was fierce, trembling slightly. “Don’t.”
She looked at his hand, then up at his face. The fury in him was a living thing, worthy of its own name; a caged beast pacing behind his eyes. It wasn’t directed at her, not yet, but it was looking for a target.
“You’re bleeding,” she stated.
“I am aware.” He released her and turned back to the mirror, dabbing at the cut with a savage jerk that reopened it. A fresh bead of blood welled and traced a path down his throat. “It’s nothing. A scratch from a particularly ambitious peasant.”
Clarice felt her eye twitch. “He beat you, Aerion” She said, simply because she knew he needed to hear it, to taste the truth of it.
Aerion’s shoulders tightened. “He cheated. He used his weight. It was a brawl, not a duel.”
“It was a trial. And you yielded.” She pushed, watching him flinch as if she’d struck the bruise on his jaw.
He finally turned to face her fully. The vulnerability she’d glimpsed on the field was gone, burned away by a hotter, more familiar fire: hatred. It contorted his beautiful features into something ugly and sharp and vicious.
“And my noble uncle is dead,” Aerion spat, the words dripping with wildfire. “The great Baelor Breakspear. The most honorable man on the realm. Felled by his own brother’s clumsiness. Poetic, isn’t it? Father killed the brother he loved to save the son he hates.” A brittle, horrible smile touched his lips. “They’ll sing songs about it. A tragedy. How they’ll weep.”
Clarice felt a cold disgust wash over her. She had loved Baelor. He had been a spot of decency in the madness, a steady hand, a kind smile. “He’s dead, Aerion. Show some respect.” She hissed.
“Respect?” Aerion laughed, a short, barking sound. “For what? For being weak enough to die? He interfered. He chose the wrong side. The gods judged him for it.” He took a step toward her, his eyes blazing. “He should have stayed in his box, eating his plums and dispensing his wisdom. But he had to play the hero. And look where it got him. A warhammer to the skull and a legacy of stupidity.”
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to make him feel a fraction of the grief that was curdling in her own stomach. Instead, she reached for the rag again, her movement deliberate. “You need stitching.”
He batted her hand away. “I said don’t touch me.” The command was sharp, final. But there was a flicker beneath it, a frantic desperation.
“Fine,” Clarice said, dropping her hand. “Bleed onto your shirt. See if I care.”
He stared at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The hatred warred with something else, something that looked almost like panic. He needed her. She could see it in the rigid line of his spine, in the white-knuckled grip of his hands at his sides. He needed her sharpness to deflect his shame, her ice to quench the humiliation burning in his gut. He needed to wound her to prove he could still wound something.
But he could not bear to be touched. Not now. To feel her hands, gentle or not, would be to acknowledge a vulnerability deeper than the sword at his throat. It would be a second yielding.
“Get out,” he said, the words low and strained.
“What?”
“Get out of my sight,” he repeated, turning his back to her, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. “Go tend to the mourners. Go weep for the dead hero. I don’t want you here.”
It was a dismissal, but it felt like a plea. Go, before I say something worse. Go, before I break something I love. Go, because I can’t stand for you to see me like this. She heard it all in the tense line of his back, in the tremor he couldn’t quite suppress.
Clarice looked at him for a long moment, the proud, cruel boy brought low, lashing out at the only person who ever dared come near the wreckage. The relief she’d felt curdled into a weary, all too familiar ache. She turned and left without another word, the silence between them louder than any screamed insult.
***********
The Ashford sept was a small, seven-sided stone building nestled in a copse of willow trees near the river. It was cool and dim inside, the only light filtering through thick panes of yellow glass, painting the dusty air in shafts of somber gold. The silence there was a physical being all on its own, old and dressed in rich velvet, swallowing the distant sounds of the camp’s anguish.
Clarice walked to the center of the room, before the crude carved statues of the Seven. She looked at each face: the stern Father, the loving Mother, the fierce Warrior, now stained with the irony of the day. Her eyes lingered on the Stranger, hooded and faceless. Today, he felt the closest.
Her knees gave way. Not gracefully, but with a heavy, ungainly thud that echoed on the stone flags. The impact shuddered up her spine, and the baby kicked in protest. She didn’t care. She folded her hands in her lap, but no words came. She shut her eyes close until it hurt.
She had prayed here yesterday. She had lit a candle to the Mother, begging for a safe delivery. She had whispered to the Crone for wisdom she knew she lacked. She had even, in a moment of bitter irony, asked the Warrior to grant Aerion a clarity that was not madness.
But the Gods had not listened. Or they had, and this was their answer. The Warrior had guided Maekar’s hand. The Father had judged Baelor dead. The Stranger had taken the best man in the Seven Kingdoms and left the monster to roam.
Baelor was dead. Baelor, who had always made a point to acknowledge her. Baelor, whose smile was genuine, whose eyes held no calculation when they looked at her, only a gentle, weary kindness. He had been the closest thing to a shield she had in this family of fire and sharp edges. And now he was gone, his light snuffed out by the chaotic clash of pride and vanity.
She lowered her head into the floor, the exhaustion finally overtaking her. Her knees ached against the hard stone, the cold biting onto her lips.
A sob welled up in her throat, raw and sudden. It was not a ladylike tear, but a harsh, gasping thing that tore at her lungs. The grief came in a wave, cold and absolute, carrying with it the fear she had kept caged for days. She cried for Baelor, who had been a true prince, who had stood for a hedge knight because it was right. She cried for the hedge knight, who was likely weeping too. She cried for her faith, which now ran dry and hollow. Baelor had been the only one who had listened to her about it. I’ve lost my faith more times than I can count, my girl, he’d told her, but many people pray for me, and I find that’s allowed the Gods an easier path towards me.
Clarice let out a heart-wrenching sob, as she lifted her gaze to the silent, marble figures.
Do the dead men pray to you too, Father?
She didn’t hear the soft footsteps on the flagstones.
"The Warrior has a dark sense of humor, does he not?"
The voice was rough, familiar, and stripped of all pretense.
Clarice started, wiping her face hastily with the back of her hand, the gesture futile. Her cheeks were blushed and wet, her eyes wide, swollen and rimmed with redness. She took a shuddering breath, trying to summon her mask of porcelain indifference, but it had shattered on the sept’s cold floor. Nevermind, it was futile with him anyway.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice thick and wobbly.
She heard the soft scuff of boots on stone. He came around to stand a handful of steps beside her, not looking at her, but gazing up at the statue of the Father with an expression of profound, weary contempt. His hair looked disheveled; messy, sandy locks falling over his face; his skin clammy, and pale. But his eyes were clear, terrifyingly so. He was —for once— sober, she noted.
“I looked for you in the box. Then I figured you’d either be sharpening knives or seeking divine intervention.” He said, lowering his gaze towards her. His usual sarcastic mask was absent, leaving only a profound, gentle sadness. “Seems the gods are out.”
“They’re not listening,” she whispered through gritted teeth, a fresh wave of tears welling up. “Or maybe I can’t hear them anymore. I kneel and I feel nothing but stone.”
A sob broke from her throat, harsh and ugly in the quiet sept. She did not cover her face. She simply lowered her head and let the tears come, familiar and silent, streaming down her cheeks.
Daeron crossed the space in a few hasty strides. He did not hesitate. He sank to his knees on the cold stone in front of her and gathered her into his arms.
Clarice hesitated for only a heartbeat before collapsing into him. She buried her face in the gentle linen of his shirt, her body trembling with suppressed grief. She wept openly now, her tears soaking the fabric, her hands clutching at his back. He held her firmly, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chin resting on her hair.
She cried until she was empty, until the sobs subsided into shaky, hiccupping breaths. The baby shifted, a slow, weary roll, as if exhausted by the emotion. Daeron’s hand, which had been splayed against her back, drifted lower, coming to rest lightly on the swell of her stomach.
After a long time, she pulled back, her face raw and feeling flayed. Daeron let her go, his hands returning to his own knees. He didn’t look at her. He stared at the floor, his profile sharp and tired in the dusty light.
“He’s dead,” she finally said, the words a bare, painful whisper.
“I was there,” Daeron replied, his voice devoid of its usual sarcastic bite. It was simply a statement of fact, heavy with a grief he would never voice aloud. “I saw him fall. He was the only one who didn’t make me want to drown myself on sight. Typical, really. The good ones die. The rest of us linger on, for what it seems like eternity, making messes and wondering why the Stranger didn't come for us instead.”
Clarice looked up towards him, a wobbly, mournful pout displaying at her lips. Her eyes were wide and dark and set unwielding on his.
“Aerion…” she sobbed, the name a confession of utter exhaustion. “He was… so vile. About it. He’s glad. Or he acts like he is. The madness is eating him whole, Daeron. I can see it.”
“He’s not glad,” Daeron said quietly, his hand stroking her hair, then swiping a tear away from her cheek. His fingers then rested on her chin. “He’s terrified. It’s the only emotion he knows how to translate. Fear becomes cruelty. Hurt becomes rage.” He sighed, a heavy, world-weary sound. “He’s a cornered animal, readying to lash out at the first growl. ”
“I can’t do it anymore,” she confessed, the words torn from a deep, hidden place. “I can’t stand between him and the world. I can’t calm the storm. I’m so tired.”
“I know,” he repeated, and there was an ocean of understanding in those two words.
Daeron reached for one of her hands, inspected it silently, carefully. “He didn’t hurt you?” He asked, fingers moving from her arm towards her neck, tenderly tracing the skin there.
“No. Not… not like that. He sent me away.” She managed a weak, watery smile. “I think I might’ve frightened him with my concern.”
Daeron snorted. “Aerion, frightened of kindness. That sounds about right.” He stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up with careful strength. “Come on. You shouldn’t be on your knees in your condition. Let’s go. The gods have made their indifference quite clear.”
She followed him out of the sept, the twilight air a slight relief. They walked in silence for a while, through the quieter corridors of Ashford Keep.
“What happens now?” Clarice asked, her voice small.
Daeron’s expression darkened. “Now, the realm mourns. Valarr is the heir. My father…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “My father is in pieces. He loved Baelor, for all their differences. This will break something in him that can’t be mended.”
They turned a corner, and a sober-faced steward approached, bowing low. “My lady. Prince Maekar requests your presence in the solar. At your convenience, but… soon.”
A cold finger traced Clarice’s spine. She glanced at Daeron, who gave a slight, imperceptible shrug. “Go,” he said softly. “I’ll be nearby.”
***********
The Ashford Keep was a somber place. The vibrant energy of the tourney was gone, replaced by a stunned, heavy quiet. Servants moved like ghosts, speaking in hushed tones. The black and red banners of House Targaryen hung limp, like mourning shrouds.
Clarice had returned to the pavilion only long enough to change into a gown of charcoal grey, a silent, unbidden mourning. Ellyn had helped her in silence, her eyes wide with fright. Aerion was not there. No one knew where he was. She was both relieved and terrified.
The solar given to the Targaryens was a high, vaulted room in Ashford keep, lined with books and hunting trophies. A fire crackled in the hearth, fighting against the evening chill that had finally, all too mercifully, come. Maekar stood before it, his back to the door. He was still in his riding leathers, stained with dust and other darker things. He looked smaller without his armor, a compact, coiled spring of a man radiating a grief so potent it dampened the air.
He did not turn when she entered. Clarice closed the heavy oak door behind her, the click echoing in the quiet room. She curtsied, the motion awkward with her burden.
“Your Grace.”
“Sit, girl,” Maekar said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. It was not unkind. He gestured with a jerk of his head towards a high-backed chair by the fire.
Clarice obeyed, lowering herself carefully. The warmth of the flames was a distant thing that did not quite manage to reach her.
Maekar turned. His face was a landscape of harsh lines and simmering pain. His eyes, a darker violet than his sons’, were red-rimmed but dry. He had not been weeping. Maekar would consider weeping a luxury he could not afford.
He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze assessing. It was not the hungry, possessive assessment of Aerion, nor the gentle kindness of Baelor. It was the look of a commander surveying a strategic piece on a cyvasse board.
“How are you?” he asked finally. The question was startling in its simplicity.
“I am… managing, Your Grace,” Clarice replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you?”
“My brother is dead,” he stated, the words final as a tombstone closing. “I killed him. Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die. And it was my mace that dealt the fatal blow, I have no doubt. The only other foes he faced in the melee were three Kingsguard, whose vows forbade them to do any more than defend themselves. So it was me. Strange to say, I do not recall the blow that broke his skull. Is that a mercy or a curse? Some of both, I think.”
Clarice felt a lump on her throat, her eyes once again shimmering with tears, as her breathing grew ragged. “It was an accident—” She began, but he cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.
“Intent matters little to the Stranger.” He insisted. “My house is cracked. Baelor is gone. Valarr is a boy. And I have a son who believes he’s a dragon in human skin, who today proved only that he can be beaten, not that he can be humbled.”
“I cannot control him,” Maekar continued, his voice dropping. “Not here. Not in Westeros, where every slight fuels his madness, where every privilege enables his cruelty. He is a danger. To himself. To the realm.”
“I have always known it. A father knows. I saw the cruelty in him when he was a boy pulling the wings from beetles. I told myself it was strength. I told myself the world needed dragons. I was a fool.” He finally looked at her, his eyes boring into hers. “He is a fool."
Clarice blinked. "My lord?"
"My son," Maekar grunted. "He is a boy who needs a beating. But I am done beating him. I am cutting him off."
“I don’t think I understand, Sir.” Clarice asked, her throat tight.
“I am exiling him,” Maekar said bluntly. “To Lys. For five years. Perhaps ten. Let him simmer in the Free Cities, away from the symbols of his birthright. Let him be just another silver-haired exile with a sharp tongue and an empty purse. Perhaps the world will teach him the humility I failed to instill."
Clarice felt the world tilt. Lys. Across the narrow sea. Away.
“I am telling you first,” Maekar said, his tone shifting, becoming almost… gentle. It was so unlike him it was disorienting. “Because the choice is yours. You may go with him, as his wife. Or you may stay.”
He walked around the table and stood before her. “Summerhall is your home, Clarice. It has been since you married. It will remain so. You, and the child, will want for nothing. You will be under my protection. You will be safe.” He paused, his stern face softening marginally. “And I am not a man given to pretty words, you know this.”
Tears, stupid, traitorous tears, welled in her eyes again. Not of grief this time, but of a terrifying, dizzying hope. And the following crushing, immediate guilt.
“He is my husband,” she whispered, the words a reflex.
“He is a danger,” Maekar countered, his voice gentle but implacable. “To the realm. To you. To that babe. A dragon in a tantrum does not distinguish between foe and family.”
The image rose, unbidden: Aerion’s hand, tender on her belly one moment; his voice, whispering about snapping Arryn bones the next.
“I…” she began, but her voice failed. The conflict was a physical pain, a twisting knot in her chest. The thought of peace, of safety, of quiet halls in Summerhall where she could raise her child without flinching at every footstep… it was a siren song. But the thought of Aerion, proud, vicious, beautiful Aerion, sailing away into exile, alone, broken, furious… it pierced her with a sorrow that felt like betrayal.
Did she love him? The question was a maze with no exit. She hated him. She feared him. She was fascinated by him. She understood the desperate, lonely boy beneath the monster, and that understanding was a hook in her soul. Theirs was a love written in poisonous ink, but it was a bond, deep and snarled and inescapable. To cut it felt like cutting out a part of herself.
Maekar watched her struggle. He did not press, he simply waited.
“He will hate you for this,” she said finally, her voice hoarse.
A ghost of a smile, cold and mirthless, touched Maekar’s lips. “He already hates me. This will merely give the feeling a name and a direction. It is a burden I can bear.”
He reached out, and with a clumsiness that spoke of a man unused to gentle gestures, he placed a calloused hand on her shoulder. The weight was solid, paternal. “Think on it. You do not have to decide this moment. But know this: whatever you choose, you have a place here. You are family.”
The word, from him, meant more than any vow. It was a shield offered. Clarice nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
He hesitated, searching for words. “Baelor was fond of you. He would have wanted you safe. Consider this my last act of duty to him.”
Clarice closed her eyes. It should have been easy. It should have been the easiest choice of her life. Safety. Peace. Sanity.
So why did her heart feel like it was being torn in two?
***********
The night air was thick with the smell of rain that hadn't fallen yet, swollen and pregnant with a storm that refused to break. The mud of the courtyard sucked at Clarice’s sandals as she walked out from the castle.
"Careful," a voice rasped from the shadows. "The mud is treacherous tonight. It seems to be catching Targaryens by the dozen."
Clarice stopped. Daeron was waiting by the door outside, leaning against the rough stone wall, arms crossed over his chest. He straightened as she emerged, the torch sconce above him illuminating the deep lines of exhaustion on his face. His skin looked clammy and pale, as always. He had an empty flask hanging from his hand.
“Well?” he asked softly.
She walked to him, her steps slow, dragging the weight of the evening with her. “He’s exiling Aerion. To Lys.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose. A flicker of something —relief? vindication? guilt?— crossed his face before it settled into its usual weary lines. He let out a short, sharp exhalation, a derisive sound that was almost a laugh. “Lys. Appropriate. All perfume, whores, and poison. He’ll fit right in.”
“He gave me a choice,” Clarice whispered, looking up at him, searching for an answer he couldn't give. “I can go with him, I can go with Aerion. Or I can stay at Summerhall. With the baby.”
Daeron went very still. His eyes searched hers, dark and lucid in the night. “I see.”
“It would be… easier,” he ventured after a moment, his voice carefully neutral, testing the waters. “Quieter. For the child.”
“I know,” Clarice said, the words tasting like treachery. “I know it would. Maekar… he was kind. He called it his grandchild. He promised safety.”
Daeron was silent for a long moment, listening to the distant sounds of the camp. “Safety is a rare commodity in our family,” he said finally, his tone wry and bitten with bitterness. “You should take it.”
Clarice shook her head. “But Aerion… he’s my husband,” she repeated, the mantra feeling fainter, like a prayer to a god she no longer believed in. “And… I love him.”
She forced the words out, a confession that tasted both true and tragic. It hung in the air between them, undeniably toxic. “And he loves me. In his way. He would love the baby, too. Despite his words. He would. I know he would.”
She thought of Aerion kneeling before her womb, his hands spread wide, speaking of fire and legacy. She thought of the desperate way he had clung to her leg earlier that day. His love was a possessive, consuming thing, a wildfire that burned everything it touched; it wasn’t gentle, but it was real.
“I guess he would,” Daeron conceded, though the words sounded hollow, a polite lie offered to a woman desperate to believe it. He clearly didn't share her faith, his eyes darkening with the memory of his brother's cruelty, but he wouldn't strip it from her, not in her condition. “He is capable of it. In his twisted fashion.”
They stopped in a secluded corner of the castle gardens, standing by a low stone wall looking out over the darkened tourney grounds. The moon was rising, painting the trampled grass silver, turning the mud into a sea of ink.
"I am afraid, Daeron," she confessed, the words tumbling out before she could check them, her hand tightening on her belly. "I am afraid to do this alone. To bring this child into the world without... without a father."
"He will have a father," Daeron stepped closer. He looked at the swell of her stomach, at the life growing inside. The cynicism dropped from his face, replaced by a raw, terrifying guilt. He cleared his throat, but the sound was rough, devoid of its usual sardonic edge. "Aerion will send letters. He will send gifts. He will claim it from afar."
Daeron reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently placed it on her arm. The touch wasn't electric; it was heavy, grounding, but ultimately tentative, like a ghost trying to offer warmth it didn't possess.
“And you wouldn’t be alone,” he said quietly, his eyes holding hers. “You know that.”
Clarice wanted to believe him, but her eyes wandered towards the empty flask on the ground. That had been not a promise. Daeron was too broken, too aware of his own weaknesses, to make promises. He was a man drowning, offering her his piece of driftwood.
"Stay," he said, and it sounded like a plea. "Stay at Summerhall. It’s beautiful there, Clarice. There are gardens. Lemon trees. It’s warm. Maekar is stern, but he is safe. You will be safe."
Clarice thought of the red door. The lemon tree. A quiet room in Summerhall, away from the madness. The sound of children’s laughter in a sun-drenched garden, unmarred by the snap of breaking bones.
Then she thought of the look of undisputed wonder that Aerion had gifted her when she told him she was with child. The way he cradled her in his sleep. All of the reluctant ways in which he showed he loved her.
She looked away from him, her gaze lifting to the rising moon. It hung pale and indifferent in the bruised sky, an ancient eye that had watched centuries of Targaryen madness and Arryn honour crumble into dust. If it held any wisdom for a woman in her predicament, it kept its counsel, offering only a cold, silent light. How many other women have prayed to you too, my lady? "I ought to think about it," she finally murmured.
Daeron remained quiet, frighteningly still, for a heartbeat, and then he laughed. It was a sound of pure, jagged incredulity that shattered the quiet intimacy of the garden. The mask of the supportive brother-in-law, the man who had tried to find a scrap of humanity in Aerion for her sake, finally cracked and fell away. The pretense was over.
"You need to think about it?" he asked, his voice tight with unfeigned frustration. "Clarice, are you mad? Maekar is offering you an out. A life without him."
"He is the father of my child," Clarice said defensively, retreating a step as if to shield the unborn life from his judgment.
"He is a monster!" Daeron countered, the words exploding from him. He couldn't keep the lie alive anymore, not even to comfort her. "You saw him today! You saw him yield! You saw him crawling in the filth! There is no glory in him, Clarice. There is no dragon. Just a sick, cruel boy who hurts things to feel powerful."
"I know what he is!" Clarice snapped, turning on him, her eyes flashing. "Do not presume to tell me who my husband is, Daeron! I sleep in his bed! I know every scar, every cruelty, every nightmare he has!"
"Then why do you hesitate?" Daeron demanded, stepping closer, invading her space.
The question hung in the humid air, heavier than the coming rain.
"I don't know," Clarice whispered, the fight draining out of her. "I hate him. I despise him. But... I know him. I am the only one who knows him. If I leave him... he will be alone. He will deteriorate. He will become exactly what everyone fears."
"He will become that anyway, and you know it," Daeron flicked his hand, dismissing the notion. "With or without you. You cannot save him, Clarice. You can only save yourself. And the baby. You owe that to the baby."
"And what of my vows?" she asked, tears pricking her eyes again. "For better or for worse?"
Daeron scoffed. It was a dry, incredulous sound that scraped against the stone walls. He looked at her, shaking his head, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes that had nothing to do with humor. "Your vows? Your vows, Clarice?"
Clarice pursed her lips, shame painting her cheeks red even under the gentle moonlight.
"Do not insult me by offering that shield, Clarice," he rasped. “Like I’m supposed to pretend they bind you now, suddenly and conveniently, just because you are too cowardly to leave him for good."
Clarice, now far too embarrassed to hold his gaze, looked down at the mud staining the hem of her gown. "I think... I think I might go with him."
Daeron stared at her. He shook his head slowly. A strange look crossed his face, not anger, but a deep, sorrowful resignation. The look of a man who has read the end of the book and knows the characters cannot change their lines.
“No, you won’t.” Daeron let out a low, ragged sound; almost a laugh, but steeped in scorn. He knew, with the heavy, terrifying certainty of his blood, that a dream had already written her future. “I saw you, Clarice.”
She frowned, stepping back. “What?”
"I saw you old," he said, his voice drifting into that hollow, prophetic tone she so feared. "Your hair was white. White like snow. You were in a bed, surrounded by pillows of blue silk."
He paused, his eyes unfocused, staring through her into a future she hadn't lived yet, a future he would likely never see.
"And there were children," he continued. "Three of them. Grown. Strong. A woman with your eyes. A man with a kind smile. And another..."
He refocused on her face. His expression was sad, but kind.
"You won't get those three children by going to Lys with Aerion, Clarice," he said, his voice flat, stripped of all emotion save for the devastating exhaustion of being right. “You know that.”
Clarice faltered. She took a step back, her eyes glistened in the pale moonlight, the very thought of such a future laden with a heavy, aching yearning.
"Three?" she breathed.
"Three," Daeron confirmed, lips finding their way to a gentle smile.
Clarice’s lips turned into a haunting pout, her big eyes glistening with tears. It was a beautiful fantasy she wouldn’t dare to dream. And it terrified her more than the nightmare she was living. It meant a life after Aerion. A life where she survived him, outlived him, and flourished. It meant that the fire would not consume her.
"You're drunk," she then snapped, her voice losing its trembling weakness as a hot spark of anger ignited in her chest.
"I wish it was that," Daeron replied. "But the dreams don't lie, sister. You won't go. You'll cry, and you'll scream, and you'll hate yourself for it. But you will stay. Sure as Baelor had to die today, and the hedge knight survive."
Clarice's hands balled into fists. The fear in her chest calcified, hardening instantly back into the familiar, defensive anger of the Eyrie. She took a step toward him, pointing an accusing finger towards him.
"I know what you are doing," she hissed, her voice vibrating with a sudden, desperate fury.
Daeron let out a long, ragged sigh, resting his head back against the stone. "Clarice, please, I—"
"You are trying to frighten me!" she pressed, ignoring his plea, her voice sharpening to a blade. "You spin these tales of blue pillows and white hair… you use your own nightmares as a weapon to strip away my choice! You think me so fragile that I need a ghost story to manipulate me into doing what you and your father want?"
"I am offering you the truth!" Daeron snapped back, pushing off the wall, his own exhaustion flaring back into anger. "For once in my miserable life, I am giving you a truth that can save you, and you are too stubbornly tethered to that monster to—"
A small scuff of a boot against the stone cut him off.
They both turned, the heat of their argument freezing in their throats.
Standing at the edge of the torchlight was Aegon.
He looked incredibly small. His roughly shorn head was smudged with dirt, his roughspun tunic torn at the sleeve. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying, staring up at them with the raw, unguarded pain only a child could manage.
"Daeron?" Egg's voice trembled, cracking on the syllables. "Clarice?"
The anger drained from Clarice as if a vein had been opened. The fierce, sparring woman vanished, replaced instantly by the maternal instinct she had been guarding so fiercely all evening. She forgot the prophecy, forgot the mud, and sank down as far as her aching back and heavy stomach would allow, holding out her arms.
"Oh, Egg. Oh, sweet boy, come here," she whispered softly.
Aegon didn't hesitate. He ran to her, practically throwing himself against her chest. Clarice wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He smelled of horses, damp earth, and dry meat.
"Uncle Baelor is gone," Egg sobbed into her shoulder, his small hands clutching the charcoal silk of her gown with a desperate strength. "I saw them carry him. He didn't wake up."
"I know, Egg. I know," Clarice soothed, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles, her own tears threatening to spill again. Over the boy's shoulder, she met Daeron's gaze. He stood silently, watching them, his expression a portrait of unutterable sorrow.
Aegon cried for a few moments, letting the terror of the day wash out of him. Then, he pulled back, wiping his nose roughly with the back of his dirty sleeve. He took a shuddering breath, looking up at Clarice with wide, impossibly earnest eyes.
"I heard the guards talking," Egg sniffled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They said Father is sending Aerion away. Across the water. To Lys."
Clarice stiffened. The name of the city felt like a punch. She glanced up at Daeron, but he offered no help, merely watching her face to see what she would do.
"Yes," Clarice said carefully, smoothing a patch of dirt from Egg's cheek. "He is."
Egg's face changed. The grief for Baelor was still there, etched in the redness of his eyes, but beneath it bloomed a profound, illuminating relief. It was as if an anvil had been lifted from his small shoulders.
"I'm glad," Egg whispered. The confession was raw, innocent, and completely unfiltered. "I know I shouldn't be, because he's my brother. And Baelor said we should love our brothers. I love Daeron, and I love Aemon. But I do not love Aerion."
Clarice stared at the boy's face.
She looked at the pure, unadulterated relief of a child realizing the monster under his bed was being locked away forever. She saw the tremor in his hands finally stop. And then, unbidden, her mind conjured the image of her own child, silver-haired or blonde, looking over their shoulder with that exact same terror. A terror she had been fully prepared to excuse as "love" or "duty."
The toxic loyalty, the twisted devotion, the arrogant belief that she was the only one strong enough to weather Aerion's fire… it all broke under the unbearable weight of a child's relief. The romanticized tragedy of her marriage was stripped bare. And she would be damned if she let her baby grow up shivering in the dark like Aegon.
She looked up at Daeron. He wasn't gloating. He wasn't even smiling. He was just watching her, mourning the pain of the realization he knew she finally had to face.
Clarice looked back at the boy. She placed a hand on either side of his face, her own hands remarkably steady.
"Yes, Aegon," Clarice promised, her voice ringing with an iron certainty she hadn't possessed since she first arrived at Ashford. "He is leaving. And he shall never, ever hurt you again. I swear it."
***********
a/n: this chapter was SO hard to write but hopefully it was worth it! it might go through some edits after the episode releases, but nothing major I believe.
sorry if everything surrounding Baelor's death is too exaggerated but honestly I don't play about him he is THAT important to me
includes. fluff, pre-established relationship, photo booth & a town fair. steve is Down Bad and doesn’t care who knows (as men should be!!).
wc. 813
notes. a little drabble I pulled from my ao3 while I write a longer Steve fic. I’m just tryna cross post and get everything everywhere lol.
masterlist.
The camera shuttered bright in the tiny booth as you posed, lips pulled till they creased your eyes and hands placed under your chin to match the innocence of your bright smile. An arm was holding you in place as you leaned into the offered warmth that had you tucked under his chin, a wide grin on his lips as well.
Three. . . Two. . . One. . .
"Okay, quick—" Soft lips collided against yours, taking you by surprise, but you gladly took in the ardent gesture, returning the short lived fervour. Pulling back slightly, you smiled at Steve, who was watching you with a dopey grin as he laced his fingers through yours, pulling them up to his lips and pressing a kiss as you pressed one to his knuckles at the same time.
Please exit the booth.
"No!" you gasped, realising you didn't get the pictures you wanted. The first one was you watching Steve as he threw up a peace sign at the camera with you tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder, and you could still smell the scent of bergamot and faint cigarette smoke you'd been breathing in with a happy sigh.
"Come on! We look cute!" Steve wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer till you were pressed against him. Steve felt a fond smile tug at his lips as you leaned into the warmth he emanated, the soft kiss to your temple making you hum happily.
"But we said we won't take these pictures!"
The evening was cool around you as the two of you stood outside the photo booth at the annual Hawkins Fair, the crowds far away and at the various games and attractions, which both you and Steve were thankful for. PDA was something that the middle class people of a cul-de-sac were not fond of, and you didn't want anyone to interrupt you after the two of you had tried so hard to make this date happen in between work and college classes.
You turned around in the comforting embrace you were encased in, hands splayed on the soft cotton of Steve's shirt as you pried yourself back far enough to look into his eyes that were watching you, holding the same amorous gaze that was directed at him. "Can't I kiss my pretty baby?"
Scoffing, you made a show of rolling your eyes as you looked around to see the people of Hawkins enjoy themselves. When you brought your eyes back to Steve, he squeezed the hands that had taken place on your warm skin under the jacket he'd keep in his side of your closet.
"You can keep these pinned up on your desk when you become a big shot Supervisory Special Agent and then everyone will be jealous of knowing the most prettiest person on this planet is taken."
The grin he had was disarming, and the rebuke you had prepared in the split second you'd looked away from him died on your lips as he continued to watch you, the air becoming warmer and warmer until you could taste the cup of coffee he'd stolen from you when he realised it tasted better than his drink. It was getting hard to kiss him with your teeth clashing against his as you both grinned, but you refused to part, arms looping around his neck and keeping him there as you exchanged soft confessions of love and with it came every promise of forever.
"Fine. But we gotta do one without you trying to—to kiss—me—Steve!"
"I can't help it," Steve pulled away from the junction of your neck and the look in his eyes made you laugh even before he could complete his sentence. You knew it was going to be something utterly sweet and sappy like a fool in love. Your favourite fool who was in love with you, the two of you falling together and helping the other when the precipice started to jut out with its sharp edges. "My pretty baby gives such pretty kisses."
"You, Steve Harrington, are a sap. A total and utter sap.”
"Only for you." There came back those butterflies that began swarming in an unintelligible formation when he kept pressing kisses to your face and any free sliver of skin he could find. "Now come on, they say third time's the charm."
"Then why are we on our sixth?"
Steve shut you up with another kiss as he pressed in the required amount of money, pushing you past the curtain and getting ready for the next set of pictures.
Three. . . Two. . . One. . .
Robin had a field day when she saw the pictures in Steve's wallet when the boy opened it to buy the two their snacks for their movie marathon after work the following day, but Steve just smiled happily. His baby really did give the most prettiest kisses.
Aerion Targaryen x Wife!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Chosen for your name, your look, and your blood, you become Aerion's wife by design. When an heir does not come quickly, his fixation turns sharper and far more obesssive.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, targcest (cousins), reader has typical targaryen features, obsessive behaviour, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, breeding, crazy stamina
A/N: i warn already this is FILTHY, and he's maybe a lil ooc in this (dont kill me pls). many people are writing him as being mean and harsh with his wife but i don't think he would be if he chose her (hes not like overrly nice lol but he doesn't hurt her yk) i don't think he even considers the possibility he could have chosen wrong.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.5k
The fire has burned low, reduced to a bed of embers that glow like a watchful eye. His chambers smell of heat and smoke and something sharper; wine, maybe, or the faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the Red Keep.
Night presses against the windows, black and endless, but inside the room it’s too warm.
Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the light. He hasn’t turned since you entered. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are.
He always does.
“How long has it been?” he asks, casually. Almost idly. As though he’s commenting on the weather.
You don’t answer fast enough.
He tilts his head, just slightly. “Since your last bleeding,” he clarifies, voice smooth, patient in the way that makes your shoulders tense. “I keep asking and you keep hesitating. It’s an odd habit for a wife to develop.”
You swallow. “Two weeks.”
He hums, low in his throat, finally turning to face you.
His eyes flick over you with open ownership, your hair, your hands, the shape of you beneath the thin layers of silk. There is no shyness in it. There never has been. You were married before you had time to learn it.
“Months,” he says. “Married for months. Bedded properly. Regularly.” His mouth curves, faintly. “Faithfully.”
You feel the word settle on you like a hand at your throat.
“You were chosen carefully,” Aerion continues, stepping closer. Each measured stride eats the space between you. “Do you know that? I didn’t take just any cousin offered to me. I insisted.” His gaze lifts to your face, sharp and assessing. “Pure blood. The look of Old Valyria is written all over you. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes. No dilution.”
He reaches out, catches a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Twirls it once.
“You were supposed to take quickly.”
Your breath stutters despite yourself.
Aerion notices, of course. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look frightened. This is not an accusation.” A beat. “Yet.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up whether you want it or not. His touch is warm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.
“I’ve done my part,” he says quietly. “Night after night. I have not spared you effort. I have not spared myself.” His eyes darken, intent sharpening into something hungrier. “So we must ask why nothing has come of it.”
You stiffen. “These things can take time.”
He laughs. Soft and disbelieving.
“Time,” he repeats. “That is what men say when they fear the truth. That is what septons say when they have no answers.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you who he is.
“Dragons do not wait.”
He releases you abruptly and turns away again, pacing now. You track him without meaning to, the restless energy rolling off him like heat.
“My father sired heirs without difficulty,” he says. “So did his father before him. It is not in our blood to struggle.” He stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless something is wrong.”
The word hangs there. You feel it settle in your chest, cold and heavy.
Aerion studies your reaction with unnerving focus. As if he’s already learned something just by saying it.
“Have you done anything,” he asks, voice low, “to interfere?”
Your heart jumps. “No.”
“No teas?” he presses. “No foolish advice from handmaids who think they know better than centuries of Valyrian truth?”
“No,” you repeat, firmer now.
Good, his expression seems to say. Because there would be consequences.
He returns to you, close again, crowding your space. His hand slides to your waist, possessive, grounding.
“You understand what you are meant to give me,” he says. “An heir. A living, breathing proof that the blood remains strong.” His gaze drops, lingering. “I did not marry you for only companionship.”
You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence is safer than the wrong words.
Aerion leans in, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping into something quieter and far more dangerous.
“Every night I lie beside you and think about it,” he admits. “About what should already be growing inside you. About how it will bear my name. My fire.” His breath ghosts your skin. “I won’t be denied that. Not by fate. Not by gods. And certainly not by a body that forgets its purpose.”
His hand flexes at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow.
For a moment, that is all there is.
Then his grip loosens.
Aerion exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if reining himself back from the edge of something sharp. His forehead comes to rest briefly against your temple.
“You were always my favourite,” he says quietly, like it’s a fact he’s just remembered. “Did you know that?”
You still. He hasn’t said anything like that before.
“When you were three and ten, and I came home from battle,” he continues, voice lower now, less performative. “You listened. You didn’t fawn, didn’t flinch. You looked at me like you understood what I was meant to be.” His fingers trace the seam of your sleeve, grounding himself as much as you. “That is why I chose you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His eyes search it, not for fear this time, but for alignment.
“I want this to work,” Aerion says. The words sound strange on him, unfamiliar, but no less intense. “With you.” A pause. “Not because I doubt myself. Never that.” His mouth tightens. “But because I will not have the realm whisper that I chose wrongly.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, almost reverent now, as though convincing himself of something.
“We are of the same fire,” he murmurs. “It will take. It must.”
Then the moment closes. The mask settles back into place, seamless.
“We will try again tonight,” he says, not as a question but as a decree. “And tomorrow. And the night after that, if we must.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with conviction. “Until the realm has its proof.”
He straightens, already done with the conversation, already certain of the outcome.
“Go,” Aerion orders softly.
The summons comes at midnight, delivered by a servant who won't meet your eyes. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in his chambers, Princess."
You dismiss your handmaid with a wave, rising from your seat by the window where you've been pretending to read.
Your stomach tightens with the familiar mixture of anticipation and resignation that's become your constant companion these past months.
The walk to his chambers feels longer than usual. Your hair, unbound as he prefers it, cascades down your back. You're wearing a simple silk robe; there's no point in anything more elaborate.
He'll have it off you within moments anyway.
His door is already open when you get there. You step inside to find him standing by the window, backlit by the dying sun. He's removed his doublet already, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and when he turns to face you, his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Close the door."
You obey, and the soft click of the latch feels final, sealing you in with him and his purpose.
"Come here."
You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. When you're close enough, he reaches out and catches your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb traces your cheekbone, then your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly.
You hold still under his examination.
You've learned that he likes to look at you like this, cataloguing your features as if reassuring himself of your worthiness. He releases your chin and begins unlacing your robe with deft, impatient fingers.
"Tonight we do this properly."
The silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes rake over you with undisguised hunger, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your belly. Despite everything, heat blooms low in your belly.
"On the bed. On your back."
You move to obey, climbing onto the massive four-poster bed that dominates his chamber. The sheets are cool against your skin as you settle against the pillows, and you watch as Aerion strips off his remaining clothes with efficient movements. His body is lean and strong, all taut muscle and pale skin, and when he's naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed.
He joins you on the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel yourself flush under the scrutiny, but you don't look away.
His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers reach your centre they stroke through your folds without preamble. This is preparation, nothing more, making sure you're ready to take him. But your body responds anyway, growing slick under his touch.
He pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with methodical efficiency. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, and a soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Aerion's eyes snap to your face, a slight smirk gracing his features.
He withdraws his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, tasting your arousal on them. His eyes never leave yours as his tongue slides along his fingers, and the sight makes something clench deep in your belly.
Then he's positioning himself over you, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you completely open, vulnerable, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.
"Dragons breed dragons," he says, his voice rough. "Our children will be worthy of our blood."
And then he's pushing inside you in one long, brutal thrust that fills you completely. The angle is so deep it borders on painful, and you can't stop the sharp cry that tears from your throat.
Your hands clutch at the sheets as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to go as deep as possible, and you can feel him everywhere; the thick length of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock hitting something deep inside that makes sparks shoot up your spine.
His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you. The wet sounds of him fucking into you fill the room, obscene and unmistakable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body opening for him despite the intensity, despite the way he's taking you like you're nothing more than a vessel for his seed.
"You'll take it," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours. "All of it. You'll give me an heir worthy of our name."
The words wash over you as he continues to drive into you, relentless.
Your body responds despite yourself, or maybe because of yourself, because some part of you has learned to find pleasure in this, in being wanted so intensely, even if it's only for what you can give him.
The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. You bite your lip to keep from making more noise, but small whimpers escape anyway as he fucks into you harder, faster.
One of his hands releases your thigh, sliding between your bodies to find your most sensitive spot. He circles it with his thumb, rough and insistent, and the added stimulation makes your back arch off the bed.
"Come," he commands. "Now."
It's not a request, and your body obeys.
The pressure explodes and you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically around his cock. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as waves of pleasure crash over you.
Aerion hisses, and his thrusts become harder, more erratic. He buries himself as deep as he can go and stills, and you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding you. His cock jerks inside you as he empties himself, filling you with himself. His head drops forward and for a moment the only sound is both of you breathing hard.
But he doesn't pull out. Instead, he carefully lowers your legs, then shifts his weight, rolling you both so that you're on your side, still joined. His hand slides to your hip, holding you against him, keeping everything inside you.
"Don't move. Don't let any spill."
You obey, feeling the warm fullness of him inside you, his seed deep in your womb. His hand splays possessively over your lower belly, and you can feel his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, still half-hard.
His hand moves from your belly to your face, turning you so he can look at you. His violet eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see something beyond the obsession, something almost like satisfaction.
"We'll keep trying. As many times as it takes."
You feel him beginning to harden again inside you, his cock swelling and lengthening. Your eyes widen slightly, and he sees your reaction.
A small, satisfied smile curves his lips.
"Did you really think once would be enough?"
He begins to move again, slow shallow thrusts that make you gasp. You're oversensitive from your first release, and every movement sends sparks of almost-painful pleasure through you. But he doesn't care, doesn't stop. He pulls out only to push you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and hauling them up.
"This way. Deeper."
He enters you from behind in one smooth thrust, and the angle is entirely different. You cry out into the pillows as he fills you again, his cock hitting new places that make your toes curl. His hands grip your hips bruisingly tight as he begins to move, fucking into you with renewed purpose.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. One of his hands slides up your spine, then tangles in your silver hair, gripping it tight and pulling your head back.
"You'll swell with my child," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "Everyone will see. Everyone will know you carry the dragon's heir."
His words are filthy, possessive, and yet they make you clench around him, make fresh wetness gather between your thighs.
"Touch yourself."
You slide one hand beneath your body, finding your sensitive clit. You're so swollen, so oversensitized, that even your own touch makes you whimper. But you obey, circling the bundle of nerves in time with his brutal thrusts.
His grip on your hair tightens, and he uses it to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust. The pleasure builds again, impossibly, and you can feel yourself climbing toward another release.
"That's it," he growls. "Come on my cock again. Your body knows what it needs."
Your second release crashes over you without warning, somehow even more intense than the first. You muffle your cries in the pillow as your body convulses around him, your inner walls clamping down on his length. You feel him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming again with a guttural groan, flooding you with more of his seed.
This time when he pulls out, you feel the warm trickle of his spend beginning to leak from you. But before more than a drop can escape, his fingers are there, pushing it back inside roughly.
"Can't waste it. Every drop stays inside you."
He manoeuvres you onto your back again, then reaches for one of the pillows. "Lift your hips."
You obey, and he slides the pillow underneath, elevating your lower body. Then he presses his palm against your entrance, as if he can physically keep his seed inside you. You can feel it—the warm, wet fullness of his release deep inside you, more than you've ever felt before.
"Stay like this. Don't move."
You nod, your body limp and trembling, and watch as he rises from the bed. He pours wine from a carafe on the side table, drinking deeply. His cock is still semi-hard, glistening with your combined pleasure, and you can't help but stare at it, at the evidence of what he's done to you.
He brings a cup to you, helping you drink without letting you lower your hips. The wine is cool and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your body.
He sets the cup aside and returns to the bed, stretching out beside you. His hand returns to your belly, splaying possessively over the flat plane.
"Not much longer now, I can feel it," he says quietly.
There's something almost desperate in his voice now, beneath the command. As if his entire sense of self, his entire purpose, rests on seeing you pregnant with his child.
"Sons," he says. "Strong sons with the blood of the dragon in their veins." His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making it harden. "Though daughters would be acceptable. If they have the proper features. If they look like you."
He's hardening again against your thigh; you can feel it.
The man's stamina is almost inhuman, driven by his obsession. His hand trails back down your body, fingers dipping between your legs to feel where you're swollen and wet with his seed.
"Still so much inside you. Good."
He strokes gently, almost idly, his fingers sliding through the mess he's made of you. Not trying to bring you pleasure, just touching.
Reminding you both of what you are to him.
The hour passes slowly. He doesn't let you move, keeping you positioned with your hips elevated, his seed deep inside you. Sometimes he talks about the children you'll have, about their dragon blood, about the legacy you'll build together. Other times, he's silent, simply watching you with those intense violet eyes, his hand possessive on your belly.
When he finally deems enough time has passed, he removes the pillow and immediately moves over you again.
"Once more."
You're sore now, tired and oversensitive, but your body still responds to him. Still opens for him as he pushes inside, filling you once again with his thick length. You can feel how swollen you are, how tender, but he doesn't care.
He needs this.
This time he's slower, more controlled. He fucks you with deep, measured strokes that seem designed to reach as far into you as possible. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every reaction.
"Pure and perfect. You were made for this. Made to carry my children," he murmurs, voice low and hypnotic.
His words should horrify you, should make you feel like nothing more than a broodmare. But you're too far gone, too lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and despite your soreness, despite everything, you find yourself meeting his thrusts.
His hand slides between your bodies again, and you whimper at the touch, but he's insistent, circling with his fingers.
"One more time. Come for me one more time."
You're not sure you can; you're wrung out, exhausted, overwhelmed. But his fingers are relentless, and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, and somehow, impossibly, you feel the pressure building again.
You arch beneath him when you peak again, a broken cry tearing from your throat, and you feel him follow you over the edge, his seed pulsing into you once more. There's so much of it now, so much that you can feel it leaking out around his cock even as he's still buried inside you.
He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot against your neck. His cock is still inside you, still twitching occasionally, and you can feel the warm wetness of his seed pooling beneath you.
"It will take this time," he murmurs against your skin. "It must."
He rolls off you but immediately pulls you against his side, arranging you so that you're still on your back, still keeping his seed inside you. His hand returns to your belly, possessive and protective.
"Sleep. But don't move. Stay just like this."
You're too exhausted to do anything but obey. Your eyes drift closed, your body heavy and sated despite the soreness, despite the ache between your thighs. His hand remains on your belly, and the last thing you're aware of before sleep claims you is his voice, quiet and determined:
"You're mine. You'll give me heirs worthy of our blood. Worthy of dragons."
And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can almost see them; the silver-haired children you'll bear him, the legacy you'll create together.
Morning comes slowly, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome.
You surface to awareness in fragments, heat first, then weight, then the dull, echoing ache threaded through your hips and thighs. The bed smells like smoke and skin, and your body feels heavy, overused, tender in places you don’t want to think too closely about yet.
You try to move and hiss quietly instead.
Aerion stirs beside you.
You’re naked. So is he, stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly above his head. The sheet is tangled around your legs, useless. There are marks on you. You can feel them without looking.
Dark bruises blooming along your inner thighs, your waist, the soft underside of your arm where his hand lingered too long.
His eyes open.
They’re already focused.
“Don’t,” he says immediately, voice rough with sleep. Not angry. Not gentle. Just certain. His hand comes down, firm on your hip, holding you still. “You’ll make it worse.”
You freeze, breath caught.
He looks you over openly, assessing. There’s no embarrassment in his gaze, no softness, but there is satisfaction.
“You pushed yourself,” Aerion murmurs, almost to himself. “I told you not to tense like that.”
You swallow. “You didn’t stop.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“No, you are right, cousin,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”
He shifts then, carefully, rising onto one elbow. The movement makes you more aware of your own body, how sore you are, how every small motion pulls.
Aerion notices your wince immediately.
“Hmh.” His thumb presses into your hip, not unkindly, testing. “You’re not injured.”
It isn’t reassurance. It’s a verdict.
Still, he reaches for the bell without asking, gives it a single sharp ring. When the servants come later, he dismisses them just as quickly, taking the basin himself. You watch from the bed, dazed, as he wets the cloth and returns.
“If I ruin you, you’ll be no use to me.”
The cloth is warm. He cleans you with deliberate care, efficient, thorough, avoiding nothing.
His touch lingers where it doesn’t need to, thumb brushing bruised skin as if cataloguing it. You feel him pause once, just long enough for his breath to change.
“Good,” he murmurs. “They suit you.”
Your stomach flips.
When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside and smooths the sheet back over you, palm resting briefly on your abdomen. Possessive. Thoughtful. As though imagining something beneath his hand that isn’t there yet.
“You’ll rest today,” Aerion says. “No walking the galleries. No visits to court. You stay here.” He looks at you, eyes bright with quiet certainty.
He lies back beside you, close enough that you can feel his heat again, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just Aerion Targaryen, ensuring that what is his remains intact and ready.
By the time you realise it, Aerion already has.
It’s in the way his questions change, less accusatory, more precise. The way he watches you when you think he isn’t. The way his hand lingers at your wrist when you grow light-headed, his thumb pressing there as if counting something only he can feel.
“How many days?” he asks one evening, voice deceptively calm.
You hesitate. He looks up from where he’s seated, expression sharpening instantly.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Aerion says. “You know what I’m asking.”
“…Nearly three weeks,” you admit.
The room goes very still.
Aerion leans back slowly, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to you, already doing the math. You can see it happen behind his eyes, neat and ruthless. When he stands, he closes the distance between you in three strides.
“You’ve been nauseous,” he says. Not a question. “In the mornings. You haven’t touched wine. And you’ve been tired.” His fingers tilt your chin up, possessive but controlled.
“You should have told me.”
“I wasn’t sure,” you say quietly.
His grip tightens.
"I am"
The maester is summoned the next morning. You sit on the edge of the bed while Aerion paces like a caged animal, every movement coiled with tension.
The old man finally clears his throat, "It is without doubt, my Prince. The Princess is with child."
For a heartbeat, you think he hasn’t heard.
Then he laughs.
It’s low and incredulous, like something has finally aligned in the world. He turns to you, eyes bright.
“You see?” he says, almost triumphant. He crosses the room and takes your face in both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I told them. I told them all.”
The maester is dismissed with a wave and the door shuts. Silence falls, thick and charged.
Aerion doesn’t let go of you.
“My heir,” he murmurs, then corrects himself, “Our child.”
He studies you like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, pride written openly across his face. His hand slides to your abdomen, reverent now, protective in a way that feels startling on him.
“You did well,” he says. Praise, bare and unguarded.
You look up at him. “Was it ever in doubt?”
Something flickers in his expression, something almost like fondness.
His forehead rests briefly against yours. When he kisses you, it’s not hungry. Not demanding. It’s slow, claiming, deliberate, like a seal pressed into hot wax.
When he pulls back, his hand never leaves you.
“No one touches you now,” he says softly. “No one questions you. You are carrying fire.”
And for the first time since you became his wife, Aerion Targaryen looks at you not just as a means, but as something precious he intends to guard.
I‘m not sure if you’ve seen Bridgerton or the Queen Charlotte spin off but theres this scene I really like where Queen Charlotte finds her husband under the bed hiding from the heavens (https://youtu.be/LoEpi5q3kX4?si=4dsX19dbQpTVib-W)
I kind of see Baelor hiding with his dragon dreamer!wife when she had a vision.
your dreams, are not just dreams
summary: your dreams are proving worse by the day, something that your chambermaids and maesters once foresaw would happen. but you are lucky enough to have someone by your side who thinks it more than ‘madness’.
pairing: baelor targaryen x dragon dreamerwife!reader
warning(s): slight misogyny, violent visions, borderline psychotic state (momentarily), comfort and baelor being the best husband
a/n: i have seen quite a bit of bridgerton actually but i did have to go and take a look at this scene to jog my memory.. and charlotte and george are beautiful together, this would very much be baelor and dragon dreamer!wife.. he’s so soft 🥹💗
The chamber was still all except for the crackle of the hearth. Moonlight spilled across stone, silvering the carved posts of the bed, the curtains barely stirring. You’d been plagued for far too long, night after night you’re awoken again, heart thumping in your chest like being struck by lightning. He wakes to the sound first — soft, uneven breaths, a scrape across the floor and a curse. And then nothing.
Baelor knows that silence.
He rises from the bed without amour, without crown, just bare feet on cold floor, rubbing his dry and tired eyes from the day’s burdens. Sighing as he stalks around the room, tucking in the fallen chair beside the table in the quiet, an aching in his search, yet he already knows where you are.
He crouches at once without another thought, and there you are.
Curled beneath the bed like a frightened child, your knees pulled to your chest, hair loose and wild, your eyes too bright for this hour.
Your dreams always do this.
Not visions like stories make them, they’re not pretty, or poetic.
Instead they come like storms, like a fire burning in your skull, the future clawing its way through you before you can understand it.
“My love,” Baelor kneels softly against the stone floor, pressed onto his fours as he calls out to you, his voice gentle.
You flinch though you recognise the sound.
“It’s me,” he says quickly. “It’s Baelor, your husband. I’am here.”
Your voice trembles as you trace the wooden slats underneath the bed, shaky hands reaching up just in front of your face.
“I saw it again.”
He doesn’t dismiss it, doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t try to claim it to be something it isn’t. And he never has. Not like the rest of them do. They call you mad, odd, worrisome.. some opting to send you away since you were a girl all until you birthed the first child. Yet Baelor refused any of it, from the moment of betrothal he was yours, and he meant his vows through sickness, health and what haunted you in the night.
He reaches slowly, palms flat on the stone so you can see every movement as you looked up at him, tears pricking your vision, unmoving. He hooked himself next to you, the gap tight between him and the bed but he relaxed comfortably next to you.
“Tell me.”
Your breath shudders, leaning into the present you can’t escape any way. The man beside you grounding as you recalled it.
“There was smoke over the river. Dragons screaming, and a crown falling into blood. I couldn’t stop it. I tried but it kept happening — like it already has.”
The tears slide down your cheeks, warm and frantic shaking your head at yourself in shame.
“I’m mad,” you whisper. “They all say dreamers go mad.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens at that, not in anger, but in pain for you. The words you’ve had to endure for far long enough, that even he does not believe.
“No,” he says firmly. “My heart, you see.”
He inches closer, sliding further beside you until he can brush your fingers with his own.
“Just like you saw the storm before it came. Just like you saw my brother’s fall before the maester’s raven arrived.”
You swallow at the mention, you were both only young when his younger brother Rhaegal was said to have gone mad. Plagued by perhaps something like you, or something else, they wouldn’t say. But you’d told them all it was going to fall apart, that brothers would be distanced and crowns would pass to the unlikely.
“It feels so real.”
“Because it is real,” he answers gently. “Or real enough to matter.”
He ignored the cold stone beneath you both, brushing the dust away as he brings his eyes level with yours.
“Breathe with me.”
Slowly, he inhales and exhales, eyes never once leaving you as he does it. Those multicoloured hues you’d remembered, you’d known..
And you mirror him.
Again.
And again.
Every breath until your shaking eases.
“Tell me where it was,” he says softly. “The river. Was it wide? Narrow?”
You blink at him, tracing the line in your memory, grounding yourself.
“Wide… with reeds along the banks.”
He nods thoughtfully, fingers curling around yours gently.
“And the crown — gold or silver?”
“Gold.”
Baelor hums low in his chest, not doubting, but considering.
“Then it wasn’t of today. My father wore silver at council.”
You sniff softly, a fragile laugh escaping at the answer.
“You always do that.”
He smiles back at you, quirking a brow.
“Do what?”
“Make it feel like it can be understood.”
He reaches out to you then, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your tears away, face angling towards yours.
“Dreams aren’t madness,” he says. “They are messages. Even the cruel ones.”
You finally crawl forward, shuffling on your side until you collide with him, pressing into his chest like you’ve done since you were young. And he wraps you up instantly, strong arms a shield around your trembling body. The way he told you it was alright.
“I’m scared one day it’ll be something I can’t stop,” you whisper.
His lips press into your hair, firm and steady, never wavering.
“Then we’ll face it together.”
A pause. Your vows.
“Did you see yourself?”
You nod slowly against him, “I was standing beside you.”
His breath catches, just a little.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I know I’ll never face it alone either.” He rocks you gently, back and forth, calming the storm that was.
Outside, kin and servant alike are fast asleep, but here you are together, and he rests his forehead against yours like he’s never known differently.
“You’re not broken,” he says quietly. “You’re chosen, and you’re mine. And I will always believe you.”
Your breathing steadies as the fear ebbs. The world feeling real again, with every steady thrum of this heart.
And when he finally lifts you, tugging you both off out from under the bed and carrying you back into the silk sheets, he tucks you in like something precious — staying awake long after you drift off, watching over the dreamer who holds tomorrow in her mind.
Because, you are more than just that. You are his love, his wife.. his heart.
ser duncan the tall uses his size to his advantage. he doesn’t press up behind you while you’re reaching for something out of your reach, far too respectful to impose on your space.
instead he uses those broad shoulders to shield you from the pushy, jabbing elbows of the tourney audience. dips his head low to hear you better, utterly unaware of how your cheeks flush when his hands fall to your hips to gingerly angle your body away from the crowd. inadvertently drawing you closer—only so he can better keep you safe, of course.
follows a short ways behind as you and egg make your way through the market. jaw set and eyes narrowing at any leering glance thrown your way. his frame looms in your periphery — a hulking, watchful shadow while you exchange coin for supper.
he takes the bundle from your arms easily, hushing your protests with a hand on the small of your back as he guides the three of you back to camp. you try to listen to egg’s excited chatter, humming in all the right places but all you can focus on is the splay of his long fingers on your cloak.
night falls, and your tent is left empty after egg runs off to play with the other squire boys. dunk remains glued to his spot in the corner, hunched instinctively under the low ceiling, watching — waiting.
he stares from across the short distance, as you let your hair down and unlace your dress. it’s pavlovian, the way his breeches tighten and his fists curl into his knees. even so, he remains still, only his eyes tracking your every move until you’re standing between his spread thighs and your dress is pooling at your feet.
he takes you then, letting you settle atop his lap and sink down slow. one rough hand rests on your hip, the other pawing at the fat of your ass as you drag yourself against him at a torturous pace. still, dunk stays good.
doesn’t buck, doesn’t thrust when gods know he wants to, because the urge to be good wins out. he pants, open mouthed and near slobbering on your tits as you pick up the pace.
you’re mewling so pretty in his ear, clawing at his back when his fat cock bullies that spot inside that makes you choke on a gasp. your fingers drift to his arms, nails digging into his biceps when he takes a nipple in his mouth, blue eyes rolled back at the heavenly heat sucking him in with every shaky jerk of your hips.
you whimper, face tucked into his thick neck when your thighs begin to burn from the effort. “please, dunk–”
he nods, eyes half-lidded as he draws your face to his, catching your lips in a messy kiss. dunk locks those brawny arms around your waist, plants his feet and begins to fuck you in earnest, just like you asked.
the wicked sounds of slapping flesh meet your ears, and when you try to squirm away from the blinding pleasure, dunk drags you back to his lips with a pleased grunt.
“‘re you close, m’lady?” dunk has the mind to ask, like he can’t already tell, with your eyes clamped shut and your walls fluttering erratically around his length. there’s a hint of teasing in his breathless voice, so you clench tight on the next stroke.
dunk’s answering groan, punched out and broken is worth the way he slides a hand down between your bodies and flicks at your clit. the surprise of it has your high cresting, burying your teeth in the meat of his shoulder as your body trembles atop him.
dunk cums like that, with you locked to him and his skin between your teeth. the sharp sting in his shoulder throbs in time with his cock spilling inside you.
when you draw back, spent and hazy-eyed, you see the twinkle in dunk’s own, just a little too proud for a knight. the lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips only grows when your knees buckle as soon as you stand.
I knew it was love
When I rode home crying
Thinking of you fucking other girls
You had always loved Steve Harrington. And Steve? Well, he was oblivious. But a near death experience in the Upside Down causes you to confess your feelings for him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 2.7k
contains: HEAVY angst, use of y/n, near death experience, talk of death, explicit language, suggestive language.
author's note: very VERY loosely based on dust bones by ethel cain. this fic is a little shorter as my others and I didn’t do a preview for it but the idea came to me after I saw vol 2 a few weeks ago and I finally got the urge to write it out of nowhere the other night 🤍 also happy harry styles is back day to those that celebrate
to be added to my taglist
You had heard about Steve and Emma Stevens through Robin.
She hadn’t meant to tell you, really. Robin just—she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. You had only asked her if she thought Steve would give you a lift home from the SQWK radio station—where you and Robin were currently prepping for tomorrow’s show.
“Probably not,” Robin says, her brows furrowed in concentration as she fiddles with a cassette. “Probably going to be knuckles deep in that Emma girl. You know what Steve’s like. They’re going on a second date so—”
She realises then—looking up at you with her eyes wide and apologetic.
“Fuck (y/n), I’m sorry—”
You blink. Try not to show how much that revelation had cut you open.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that you were in love with Steve Harrington. Robin knew, Dustin knew, Lucas knew, Joyce knew, Nancy knew, Jonathan knew—hell, Max probably knew and she was in a damn coma. The only person who didn’t know? Steve. The man was oblivious. Completely and utterly oblivious.
And so the reminder that Steve was fucking other girls on a weekly basis? Well, it hurt. Hurt a lot.
“It’s fine,” you lie as you pick up a few random tapes and pretend to consider them. You weren’t fine. You were trying not to cry.
Robin can tell she’s upset you and genuinely feels awful. The cassette tape in her hands clatters onto the table as she rushes to hug you. The telltales signs you were holding back tears were there—your eyes shining, bottom lip quivering and the way you went quiet.
You should be used to Steve’s casual dating by now. Should be used to the fact that he was fucking women who aren’t you. But honestly? You weren’t used to it at all.
And so, you rode home on your bike that night, crying as you tried not to imagine Steve and Emma—probably hooking up in the back of his beloved Beamer.
But now? Only three days later—Emma Stevens and Steve were the least of your worries.
The Upside Down always came knocking. Because of course it fucking did.
And this situation you found yourself in with none other than Steve himself—well, you were sure you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.
The room you were in—seemingly a boardroom of such in the upper floors of Hawkins Laboratory—was slowly but surely filling with a sludgy liquid that tried to keep you from moving.
You had no idea what was happening—you figured it had something to do with that energy shield (or whatever Dustin had theorised it was) you had just shot. But the guilt you’re feeling as you realise that you’ve condemned not only yourself but Steve to certain death—well, it’s all consuming.
“On the table,” Steve instructs, tugging on your hand so you follow—having to pull your legs up in order to move through the sludge.
Steve makes sure you go first—hoisting you up onto the table by your waist. You could have easily done it yourself but you took any and every opportunity—selfishly—for that man to touch you.
The table offered some reprieve—both of you free of that strange liquid that surrounded the table like an ominous ocean.
Steve looks at you—a look on his face you had seen only a few times before, one that plainly told you he was scared. “Wh-what do we do?” He asks you.
You look around the room, frantic—at the greyish liquid drawing ever closer—at the hole in the wall that had only made the situation worse as more and more sludge poured in—and finally, you look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling that was too high for either of you to reach and your only way of escape.
Steve is still looking at you—the way he’s always looked at you. Expectantly. Waiting to hear your plan. In the few years you had been falling into the Upside Down together, you always had a plan. Always one step ahead. But now—
“Help!” You yell out. “Help!”
And it’s that moment that Steve realises he was going to die. That if you didn’t see a way out of this? He knew there wasn’t one.
“Help!” He joins you, yelling in the hopes that Dustin, Nancy—hell, even Jonathan—would hear you. Though he knew, deep down, the trio were too many floors down to hear you both.
The two of you yell out, desperately. Trying your dammdest to live—to make it out of this alive. But as your voice cracks and Steve keeps yelling, you realise that no one was coming. That Dustin, Nancy and Jonathan couldn’t hear you. That you and Steve were going to die. Slowly, probably suffocating from the sludge. You thought about how painful it would be for that to fill your lungs.
“Steve—ju-just—stop,” you tell him, reaching out to tug his sleeve to get his attention. “They can’t hear us.”
Steve’s in denial. He shakes his head—fucking terrified—as he keeps on yelling anyway.
“Steve!” You yell at him, your voice breaking as the tears finally start to fall. “Stop. They’re not—they’re not coming.”
Steve looks at you—at your tears. At the look on your face and he knows you’re right. Knows there isn’t a way out of this. Knows that you both aren’t going to be saved. That your will to leave alone couldn’t save you.
“We—we gotta try (y/n),” he says finally and you feel your heart do that funny thing it always did around Steve because fuck, he had so much fight in him. Such a will to live and you feel awful that this was your fault. That you were the one to shot the giant ball of matter.
You just look at him and shake your head, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Steve—I didn’t know that would happen—“
“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says gently, leaning closer to you and placing a hand on your knee. “Don’t cry. Please. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”
“But it is—”
“It’s not,” he cuts across you. You know he’s just saying it to make you feel better. But the matter of the fact is, if you hadn’t shot that thing, you both would still be up on the roof. Not stuck in this room, waiting to die. But you didn’t want the last few minutes of your life to be spent arguing with Steve’s over whose fault it was. So, you just nod and wipe away your tears.
It’s quiet then. Just you, Steve and both of you quietly accepting your fate.
“Wish I could—you know, listen to like one more song before—” Steve cuts himself off as he swallows. Not looking at you. His hand still on your knee.
“What song?” You ask in a quiet voice.
Steve looks at you and—you see the tears in his eyes for the first time. After everything you two had been through together with every Upside Down ‘adventure’ (because was several near death experiences really an adventure?)—you hadn’t ever seen him cry. Until now. But you don’t comment on it. You just look at him, waiting for his response.
“Take On Me,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.
You can’t help it, you laugh—despite the situation you both were in. It was just…so quintessentially Steve that you couldn’t help it.
“Haven’t you listened to that song enough?” You ask him, because Steve couldn’t seem to go a day without listening to that song. Robin had even made it a rule at the station that he was only allowed to play it three times a week, after you had received multiple complaints from listeners who counted a whopping eighteen plays of the track in a single week.
“Nah,” Steve says with a shake of his head, sniffling a little, “I bet you’d pick Edge of Seventeen.”
You bite back a smile—looking over at Steve with tears still falling.
“It’s a good song,” you say simply. Steve squeezes your knee.
You look away from him and your eyes dart around at the room again. You feel Steve squeeze your knee again. Grounding.
“Hey, look at me,” Steve says gently and you feel his fingers gently graze your cheek as he turns your head to look at him. Not at the reminder of your unfortunate fate. “Focus on me—”
You could feel your heart hammering in your chest. The gentle reminder that you were alive. Alive. Alive.
You hadn’t ever given much thought to it. Your heart that beat to keep you alive. But feeling it racing against your chest like that? Like it was desperate for you to live—you were grateful for it. Hadn’t ever been so grateful to be alive as you were now.
“I don't want to die, Steve,” you burst out in a panic, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don't—”
“Neither do I,” Steve admits in a quiet voice. His hand on your knee tightening as his honeyed brown eyes flicker to meet yours, his other hand coming down to rest on your shoulder. “But I’m here, yeah? You won’t be alone.”
Your bottom lip quivers and you nod as a small sob escapes you because you were going to die. You were going die with the man you loved. And he still didn’t know—
“I wanna go first,” your murmur quietly. “I don't want to live in a world where Steve Harrington doesn't exist.”
“Don't,” Steve breathes out, jaw tense. Eyes shining and shaking his head. “Don't say that—”
“—and I’m s-sorry that it’s now that I’m telling y-you but I can’t die without you knowing,” you stutter out through shuddering breaths.
Steve looks back at you, lips parted and hanging on your every word. Unsure if he wanted you to keep talking or stop.
“I love you, Steve,” you tell him finally—your face wet with tears. “I always h-have.”
The silence you’re greeted with is the loudest you had ever heard. Your heart still hammering against your chest. Desperate to keep you to alive as death came—the liquid creeping ever closer with every second.
“Fuck—” Steve finally says, the fingers on your shoulder twitching as he shifts closer to you. “I had—I had no idea. And I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been screwing around for months—”
“—it’s okay,” you interrupt him with a shake of your head. “Really, Steve. It’s fine—”
“No. It’s not fine,” Steve says firmly, jaw set and his eyes roaming your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Because I—shit—I love you too and I—I should've—fuck—I should've asked you out. Should've just done it instead of fucking wasting time. Should have taken you out for milkshakes or some shit—”
“Milkshakes?” You repeat, smiling a little. It was bittersweet. Because he wasn’t running. Didn’t find the idea of you being in love with him repulsive. And he said he loved you too.
Steve lifts his head up and catches your smile and fuck, if he does die—he wants your smile to be the last thing he sees.
“Yeah. Milkshakes,” Steve breathes out, “and bowling.”
“I would have kicked your ass at bowling,” you say, smiling at him as tears continue to fall. “Maybe would have let you get to second base too.”
Steve laughs—despite fucking everything, he's laughing.
“Shit, (y/n),” Steve breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, breath fanning your face. “You can't say that shit to me right now.”
“And I would have destroyed you at bowling. Would have worn a new shirt, bought you the biggest damn milkshake,” Steve's voice falters slightly, going quiet as his eyes flicker up to yours. “Would have kissed you stupid after.”
You smile at each other and for a moment—it’s just you and Steve. No grey sludge that was your death sentence around you.
“Fuck—we screwed up here,” Steve says and you laugh as you cry and suddenly he’s laughing too. You shouldn’t be. You’re about to die. It’s not funny, not in the slightest. But this moment? It didn’t feel scary. Or like death was around the corner. You just felt safe.
“Think we have time for me to kiss you stupid?” Steve murmurs quietly, fingers brushing along your jaw before his gaze falls onto your lips.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, eyes meeting his. Feeling his breath hot against your skin. “There’s time.”
He doesn’t wait a second.
You let out a noise of surprise as Steve's lips descend onto yours. There's no gentleness. No hesitation. Just years of tension and unspoken words between the two of you as your hands find the front of his jacket and tug him closer. Needing him so desperately as you kiss him back.
He groans—fucking groans—against your lips, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth and groaning again when you part your lips for him. His hands scramble to find your waist and he licks into your mouth and in his desperation, begins to press you back against the table.
Your hand shoots out to stop yourself from tumbling back too quickly from Steve's eagerness. But instead of the gooey liquid you're expecting to feel—you feel something solid.
There's a wet noise as you pull away from him. His lips chase after yours.
“S-Steve,” you gasp. “Lo-look—”
Steve’s confused—face flushed, eyes wide and lips still wet from your kiss. “What? Was it too much or—”
It’s then he sees the solidified grey sludge. It had set just beneath the table.
“Does this mean—”
You don’t wait—you lean over the table and place both your hands on the solid surface. It doesn’t crack. Doesn’t budge in the slightest. You start to stand, you needed to be sure—
“(y/n), be careful! It might—”
But you ignore him. You stand up on the solidified sludge and—it’s a solid as concrete.
Steve looks at you for a moment that felt like a lifetime. And then—
He scrambles to his feet—his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifts you half off the ground.
“We’re okay,” he breathes out as you sob in relief, his free hand cupping the back of your head like he needed to touch you. Needed the reminder that he was alive. That you were alive.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
“We’re okay,” he repeats, setting you down and cupping your face between his hands as he wipes away your tears. “We’re okay—fuck—we’re okay.”
You don’t even have time to breathe before he’s kissing you again.
Soft. Gentle. Like he had all the time in the world. And now, he supposed you did. Had time for that date. Had time for milkshakes, bowling and maybe even second base.
“M’gonna—” Steve mumbles against your lips as your hands fist the front of his jacket. “—kick your ass at bowling.”
“Shut up,” you murmur back before pulling away and smiling up at him like this was the beginning of something, “you’re gonna be a gentlemen and let me win.”
Steve scoffs, his hands moving back down to your waist and squeezing gently.
“Oh, absolutely not if you’re offering to go to second base—”
You whacked him on the arm, feeling elated as he laughed. He ducked his head down to kiss you again and—
The sound of banging from the wall behind you is what pulls you away from each other. Steve doesn’t think as he pulls you behind him. Protective. It was so Steve it made your heart do funny things in your chest.
The banging continues. The drywall cracks. Dust fills the air and—
“What the fuck happened in here?”
You had never been so glad to hear Jonathan Byers’ voice.
Through the hole in the wall—seemingly made by the fire extinguisher in Jonathan’s hand—you see Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin. Looking at you and Steve and how close you were standing. His hands on your waist.
“Are we interrupting something?” Nancy asks with a small smile. “Or do you guys want to get out of here?”
You and Steve look at each other, adrenaline pumping through the both of you—having been so close, so certain you were going to die that it's hard to even stand still.
"Yeah," Steve says finally, keeping his arm around you and pulling you close. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a date to go on.”
