summary: A glimpse into the many, many moons you’d spent at Summerhall growing up (plus one visit to the Red Keep), and your relationship with the young Prince Daeron Targaryen.
content: childhood friends!, she/her and ‘lady’ used to describe r, no use of y/n, no physical descriptors for r other than she has hair long enough to pull back (if you spot any, lmk and i’ll be happy to revise), daeron picks up r once, pretty fluffy for a while then angst no comfort at the end (comfort is coming y’all i promise)
note: reader is of house Ellesmere which i just made up because fuck it we ball. also i know it makes no sense for daeron to be reading pangur ban since it’s an irish poem but i love it so much i had to bring it up. episodic!!! — the divider means there has been a significant time jump (a year or more), while “***” means it’s still the same year at summerhall! hope that's not too confusing. also i have literally 7 words written of the second part so it might be a hot min before that's released plz bear with me folks. title from laufey's "too little, too late" xoxo ao3
word count: 14,140
Your bare feet padded along the cool tile. You had hiked your skirt up to your calves as you rushed down the long hallway. You paused behind a pillar, huffing, to catch your breath.
When you heard footsteps growing nearer, you continued on.
“I’ve found your shoes!” Daeron called.
You imagined Daeron picking up your shoes, using them like breadcrumbs in that story your septa used to read you, and you began to laugh (no matter that it would surely slow you down). You were hit with a fit of giggles so strong that you had to stop to lean against the windowsill, breathing through your laughter.
You looked out onto the vast greenness. Though there was no way to tell for certain, you imagined you were looking in the direction of your home, and perhaps for the first time since you’d arrived at Summerhall, you actually wondered what your father and mother were doing.
The first time you’d spent a few moons out of the year at Summerhall had been around four years ago when you’d been only seven years old. Despite being that young and certainly unable to formulate a proper argument, you had still protested adamantly against it, insisting you stay at home and entertain your cousins who would inevitably be coming to visit.
That was not a riveting argument for your father, and you found yourself in a carriage not even a fortnight later.
“Why, you haven’t seen Maekar’s boys since you were young,” your father reminded you, as if you were not still young. “You should be excited to see them again. You used to be quite enamored with Prince Daeron, you know. You’d follow him everywhere like a lost pup.”
“Did not,” you huffed, keeping your gaze glued to the small carriage window.
Your father did not attempt to mask his smile.
“I did not!” you insisted.
Upon seeing the princelings again—Daeron in particular—you thought perhaps your father had been telling the truth. Even if you didn’t then, you certainly were now. Not that you would admit it.
Visits to Summerhall had become quite regular for you since seeing them again. You’d spend a moon, sometimes two, there out of every year. Your family was quite close to the Targaryens, likely because of your mother’s and Princess Dyanna’s fondness for one another.
Now, you could confidently say that your moons at Summerhall were the highlights of your year.
Daeron’s footsteps grew nearer, and you hiked your skirt back up to take off further into the corridor.
As you rounded the corner, you stopped short as someone emerged from the stairwell.
“Woah there.” An elegant laugh rang out above you.
You blinked into a purple skirt, your hands gripping your own. Dyanna was smiling down at you, one brow quirked fondly.
“Princess Dyanna, I—” You bowed your head and bent your knees into a polite curtsy.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry, hm?” Her eyes darted down, and you quickly dropped your skirts to cover your bare feet.
Your chest heaved, and all words left you. You shot a thumb behind you. As if on cue, Daeron called out, “I know you’re here!”
Immediately, Dyanna nodded very seriously as though you were performing a grave task. “I see—well, you’d best get going.”
You blinked at her for a moment and opened your mouth to speak again—you’d hate to be terse with the lady of the house—but you heard Daeron’s footsteps echoing from down the corridor.
You nodded eagerly, smiling as you went to lift your skirts to run. The moment your skirts rose to your ankles, you remembered your abandoned shoes and froze, ready to drop them again.
“No need to be embarrassed,” Dyanna assured you. “I run faster without my shoes too.”
You smiled at the thought. You couldn’t imagine her—a princess—running, although you guessed she hadn’t always been a princess. One time, she was a young lady. One who liked to run about barefoot, just like you did.
“I will see you at dinner,” you said, darting past her.
Not long after you made off down the stairs, Daeron rounded the corner.
“Mother!” he exclaimed. “I am searching for–for—” He stopped to double over, his palms on his knees. He held your shoes tightly in his grip, choosing to wave them out at his mother instead of speaking.
“Is that right?” Dyanna sighed as though she were in thought. “I haven’t seen her.”
Daeron squinted at her. “But—Her shoes! She had to come this way.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps her shoes up and walked away.”
Daeron’s squinting intensified, and he pursed his lips. He wanted to laugh, but he was also quite serious about catching you. “You’ve seen her.”
She pursed her lips, and although everyone always remarked on Daeron resembling his father, he was suddenly the clone of his mother. “Is that right?” she asked.
He hummed. “She’s come this way.”
“Perhaps,” was all she offered.
“You would cover for her,” he accused. “You’re both girls.”
Daeron took off down the stairwell, calling your name.
Dyanna watched fondly. “Both girls,” she repeated into the empty hallway.
She remembered when she was a girl—how she’d run through the groves barefoot. Afterwards, she would trek dirt across the lush rugs, leaving muddy footprints, and her mother would always scold her and make her wash her feet before dinnertime, but Dyanna never cared.
She’d continue to run between the trees, stopping only to pluck blood oranges from the low-hanging limbs. They were the only way to stay cool under the sweltering summer sun. If she really wanted to frustrate her mother, sometimes she would even plop down beneath one of the trees. She’d peel an orange and pluck each slice into her mouth, not caring about the way the dirt would stain her dress.
Dyanna continued down the corridor, and as she passed the window overlooking the west gardens, she noticed that Daeron had finally caught you—or perhaps you had let him. The two of you were sprawled out beneath an alder tree.
Daeron’s back was against the wood while your head sat in his lap. Your skirt was hiked up to your knees, and even from the castle, Dyanna could see your muddy feet.
She smiled. Maybe she would see if the cooks could get ahold of some blood oranges.
***
“‘Day and night, soft purr, soft pad, Pangur Bán has learned his trade. Day and night, my own hard work solves the cruxes, makes a mark.’” Finishing the poem, Daeron snapped the book closed and placed it down in the grass.
The two of you had been in the garden for the better half of the afternoon.
It started with a game of chase between the trimmed bushes—Aerion had even joined you for a bit before retreating back inside—but when little Aemon came out holding a book of poems nearly too heavy for him to carry, the three of you resorted to sprawling out in the cool grass.
Aemon asked Daeron to read some poems aloud, and of course, he did. You couldn’t recall a time he’d ever turned down the small boy, no matter his request. The two of them sat cross-legged—Aemon leaning halfway into Daeron’s lap to look onto the pages—while you laid back in the grass.
You looked up at the sky, but grew bored of that quickly. It was just blue. A nice shade of blue, certainly, but there were no clouds hanging in the sky, no wisps to spot shapes or animals or creatures or anything in.
You resorted to peering over at the castle walls, squinting to count the bricks or imagine what room you could be peering at, who would be in it, what they would be doing. But doing that put your neck at an odd, uncomfortable angle that, at first, you were willing to tough through. However, that did not last long.
You complained of your neck aching when Daeron offered, “Come lay your head in my lap.”
You’d originally insisted that no, you were fine, but it didn’t take long for you to retract your niceties.
With your hair out across his lap, you’d closed your eyes and simply listened to him. Aemon had always been a bookish boy even despite his young age, but insisted on Daeron reading aloud. He simply had the voice for it.
You must’ve dozed off for a moment, because when you finally peeled your eyes open, young Aemon was gone.
Without even moving the book to look down at you, Daeron said, “Maester Hyan called him back inside for his lessons.”
You hummed in acknowledgment before asking, “Have you read Pangur Bán?”
“No. Would you like me to?”
You nodded. “Please. It’s my favorite.”
He knew it to be, which is why he was not surprised when after finishing the poem and sitting the book down in the grass, you’d asked him to read it again.
He sighed, but you knew it wasn’t in frustration. He opened the book again and you mouthed the words along as he read it. He laughed a little once he finished. “I don’t know why you insist on hearing me read it when you have it memorized.”
“You are the best storyteller I know.” He looked as if he were to speak, but you continued, sighing dreamily. “I wish I had a Pangur Bán. Father won’t let me have a cat.”
“That’s surprising. It seems as if he allows you anything else.”
You wrinkled your nose at him, but disregarded the comment. “Bán means white, you know. Perhaps he is a Targaryen.” You giggled at the idea. “A Targaryen cat.”
Daeron shook his head, but his lip was curled fondly. “I think it is your turn to read a poem to me.” He sat the book on your chest.
You shook your head, swiftly moving it to the grass. “I cannot read aloud as well as you.”
“That’s not true.” He was peering down at you and suddenly looked as if he wished to say something else.
“What?” you eventually asked, after a few beats of silence.
He shook his head, his long hair brushing against his chin as he finally broke eye contact. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m sure it is not nothing.” You dropped your voice in a lame attempt to mock him.
“It is so,” he countered.
“It is not,” you easily retorted.
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
“Is not.”
“Is so—” He was laughing before the words completely left your lips. “Oh, Daeron, stop it,” you whined, pushing yourself up from his lap.
He was still laughing. “You are easier to provoke than Aerion.”
You wrinkled your nose. Aerion was the biggest crybaby you knew. To save yourself from proving Daeron right, you chose not to argue, and instead chose to pick the grass from your hair.
“I’ll read you something,” you suddenly told him, reaching for the book to flick through its pages. “I suppose it’s only fair.”
“You suppose.”
You shot him a look. “What would you have me read? Oh! How about—”
“Prince Daeron!”
Both of your heads turned in the direction of the voice. Coming down the steps of the castle was the master-at-arms, Ser Gellery.
“Lady Ellesmere.” Ser Gellery lowered his head at you before turning to Daeron. “It is time for your lessons, my prince.”
Sighing, Daeron rose to his feet, brushing off his trousers. At one time, he might’ve argued about attending his lessons, but he’d had enough tongue lashings from his father regarding the matter that he found it easier to just go along.
You tried to hide your disappointment, continuing to flip through the book in your lap.
“I will see you at dinner,” Daeron told you.
You glanced up at him. “Yes. Dinner.”
“My lady, I believe the young Prince Aerion was looking for you,” Ser Gellery informed you, bowing his head, before escorting Daeron from the garden.
You watched the two up the steps and into the castle, until the door shut behind them.
Despite Aerion being a crybaby, he was okay company. Fine company. Alright company. Fun to run about in the garden with, sure, but that would be a hard job to muck up, you supposed. The proper companion for you—the one everyone had assumed you’d become close friends with, on account of you only being only one year apart in age in comparison to you and Daeron’s two.
You didn’t know why, but you just preferred Daeron’s company—you always had. He had always been easy for you to get along with.
For a moment, when Ser Gellery came to retrieve him, you thought about asking to tag along. Only to watch, of course. But you’d asked once before only to be told that the training fields were no place for a lady. They’d told you that like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
And perhaps young ladies were not typically out on the training fields, but nonetheless, you hadn’t been satisfied with that answer. Not until Daeron told you it was quite dull and as much as you hated to admit it, he tended to be right about the things that bored you.
You laid back in the grass, sprawling your arms out as you peered up at the sky—at its boring, but nice, blue. You closed your eyes. If Aerion had been asking for you, he’d inevitably come searching for you, so you figured you’d better enjoy the peace while it lasted.
***
You laid on your stomach with your feet kicked up behind you and held the book on reptiles of the Summer Isles close in front of your face. Your eyes scanned the page and you glanced over at Daeron before calling, “Did you know that some lizards can detach their tails when they’re threatened?”
“I did not,” he answered.
“Well, now you do.”
He hummed. “Now I do.”
Daeron had not looked up from his own book once throughout the conversation. You tried not to let this bother you, but when, even after glancing over at him multiple times, he still hadn’t spared a glance in your direction, you sat your book down with so much force, it sent locks of your hair into the air.
“Do you think you’ll get married?” you asked suddenly.
His book blocked his entire face below his eyes, but you watched as his brows raised slightly. That got him to sit his book down. He looked over at you, shaking his head slightly.
You dropped your chin slightly, raising your own brows.
“I supposed I would,” he said thoughtfully.
You nodded.
“Do you?” he countered.
You shook your head back at him, not in disagreement, but playfully. Honestly, marriage was something you had always viewed as duty. Something you’d grow up to do because it was expected of you. You had assumed Daeron would be the same way, which is why you weren’t surprised by his answer.
“I suppose,” you parroted.
“Why do you ask?”
You shrugged. “I was just wondering.” You ran a finger along the spine of your book. “It would be interesting if we got married.”
“Interesting?” He laughed.
“Yes.” You frowned at him. “Interesting is a good thing, I think. Much better than boring.”
“And you think it wouldn’t be boring? Being married to me?”
Your frown deepened. “Of course not. We’ve been in the library for…” You glanced to the window, noting how the sun had climbed into the sky. “Most of the afternoon, and I have been quite content. Haven’t you?”
His lip twitched, and you recognized it to be a sign of when he was amused, yet unsure if he should show it. “You think an afternoon in the library means we would be a good match?”
You squinted. “You act as if we’ve only just met.”
“You act as if a quiet afternoon in the library makes a worthy partner.”
“I don’t mean to judge just based upon today.” You sighed, rolling over to lay flat against the floor, your arms stretched out. “You don’t think our marriage would be comfortable? I would surely think I’m better than some of those stuffy ladies who visit.”
You weren’t sure where ‘stuffy’ had come from. They were all pleasant enough. Polite, albeit a bit spoiled, although couldn’t the same be said about you?
Daeron rolled over onto his back next to you and nudged you with an elbow. “You aren’t ‘stuffy,’ that’s for certain.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Maybe we will be married.” You counted the candles atop each arm of the chandelier above you and did not think about how when it really came down to it, it wouldn’t matter what you wanted. You also did not think about if marriage was meant to be a ‘duty,’ why the thought of marrying Daeron made your stomach hurt. “I don’t think it would be bad.”
Daeron clasped his hands together over his stomach and stared up too, except he wasn’t counting the candles. “No, I don’t imagine it would be. Days like this.”
You continued to look at the ceiling when you noticed there were little crystal birds hanging off the bobeches on the chandelier. “Oh! Did you know some birds can sleep while they’re flying? Like in the sky?”
You sat up on your elbows to look over at Daeron.
He did know that one actually, but he still shook his head slightly. “I did not.”
You smiled at him, a little smugly, although it wasn’t with arrogance so much as excitement. The excitement you always got when you told him something new. “Well, now you do.”
His lip quirked. Now he did, he supposed.
One of your hands was tucked tightly around Daeron’s arm, while the other came around to circle his bicep. Not gentle, but not rough either. Grounding.
It had the bearings to become more intimate than it was, but growing up together, it had become ordinary for walks to have the two of you attached to one another.
The first time he insisted you take his arm, you were the age where boys were quite gross, and you held no desire to be that close to one, even if it was Daeron. However, when he explained it was the polite thing to do, that all the lords and ladies did it, you agreed.
He was a prince, and you were the daughter of a lord, which made you a lady, right? And if that was what they did—proper ladies—then that was what you would do too. You were three-and-ten, after all. Quite close to a proper lady, by your own standards.
Now, you hardly went anywhere without your arms interlocked or palm enclosed around his arm.
“And the east gardens! There are foxgloves that grow nearly six feet tall—can you believe that? Nearly six feet tall!” You spoke animatedly, even with your hands occupied and unable to gesture with. “Oh, I wish you could return home with us. Even just for a fortnight—perhaps your father…” You trailed off in thought.
“You make it sound lovely, but I’m sure father would prefer I stay here, where he can keep an eye on me.”
You wrinkled your nose, deflating slightly. “I suppose.”
His left arm—the one you weren’t dangling on—moved around to place a palm against your own, which was new. While it had become routine for you to loop yourself around him, he’d never placed a hand on yours like this.
It was close to holding hands—something you hadn’t done since you were children. But it was different now. He wasn’t tugging you along through the cold corridors or the garden.
You raised your eyes to his face. He was peering down at you, and the sunlight was streaking through his wisps of dirty blond hair. In this light, it may have neared silver but it was still nothing like the stark color of his brothers or father. You did not mind it.
“Do you not like Summerhall?” His eyes twinkled.
You huffed, not quite a laugh, and turned back to face the path ahead. You only did so because of what he’d said, not because looking at his face and feeling his hand on yours was beginning to feel suffocating. Not at all.
“You jest,” you said to the cobblestone in front of you.
Daeron hummed. “I wonder.”
“You know I quite like it here. I just—” You shook your head.
“Well, go on.”
“It’s silly.”
His arm lilted in your grasp, a half shrug.
“I just…much prefer the company here and wish to enjoy it at home as well. That is all.”
He paused, and you wouldn’t have noticed any change in his demeanor if not for the red at the tips of his ears. Perhaps his hand tightened on yours, but it was hard to tell for certain.
“Maybe father would allow me to join him the next time he goes.” He kept his vision straight ahead, to the neatly trimmed hedges. There was nothing new about them. They were cut back in the same way, the same shade of green, yet something felt different about the way the sun casted upon them.
“That would be quite nice.”
“It would.”
He kept his hand atop yours for the rest of your walk.
***
You put your book down abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, that Daeron’s eyes peeked over at you from the top of his own book.
The two of you were in the library, but instead of lounging across the sofa or chairs, you were seated on the floor between the shelves, with your backs pressed against opposite shelves.
You were able to sit as comfortably as one could against the floor with your legs only bent slightly. Daeron, considerably taller, was more cramped. With his legs too long to fit properly between the shelves while sprawled out, he had to tuck one under the other in a way that wouldn’t last more than a few minutes. Though he didn’t complain. He only wordlessly switched legs.
“Can I ask you something strange?” You huffed, tugging on the fabric of your skirts.
Daeron did not lower his book past his eyes. “What is it?”
“Do you promise not to laugh?”
He blinked. “Well, is it funny?”
You huffed again. “No, it’s just…I don’t know.”
He shook his head dismissively.
You scanned the bookshelf behind his head, choosing a spine to focus on. “Have you ever—” You sighed and shook your head, pulling your knees to your chest. “Nevermind, I—it’s silly.”
At that, he set his book atop yours. “Oh, come on.” He nudged your calf with his foot. “Now you must ask.”
“You are going to laugh at me.” You tucked your chin against your knees, choosing to continue to stare at the shelf in front of you instead of the princeling.
“I will not,” he insisted.
“You will.”
“Will not.”
“Will so.”
“Will not.”
“Oh, stop it!” You brought your gaze back down to glare at him to find him already grinning. You kicked at his thigh, lowering your chin even further into your knees.
Upon seeing your seriousness, Daeron forced his face into neutrality and maneuvered over until he was shoulder to shoulder with you rather than face to face. He gently nudged your arm with his elbow. “Come on. It’s just me. Ask it.”
Just him. You glanced over at him before defaulting back to the bookshelf. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”
“Have I—” He blinked at you before shaking his head. “That is what you wanted to ask me?”
You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I told you you’d laugh!”
“I’m not laughing!” He wasn’t, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “I just—can’t believe that’s what you’re all worked up over.”
You raised your head to give him an accusatory look. “I’m not worked up.”
“Then what do you call this?”
“Asking!”
He nodded, and the stern drop of his chin felt serious, but the rise of his eyebrows gave him away. “Asking. I see.”
You began to push to your feet. “I knew I shouldn’t have—”
A hand grabbed your wrist. “Where did this come from?”
You attempted to shrug him off. “Release me! I don’t wish to talk about it anymore.”
“Sit back down.”
“No.” You tugged your hand away and rose to your feet, smoothing out your skirts and wiping your hands on them. You grabbed your book from the floor and began to walk to the door.
Daeron was on his feet and at your heels before you’d even made it three steps. “Come back. I didn’t realize—”
“I’m going to finish my book in the garden.”
He grabbed your elbow, and you thought about yanking it back, rushing through the corridor, and going to the gardens to sulk. Except you didn’t want to. Not really. Maybe out of spite, but that wasn’t enough.
Daeron didn’t know that. He didn’t know that you were only bluffing and that you had no real interest in leaving the library. Just like how you didn’t notice the red dusting his ears and the way he was twiddling the fingers on his right hand—running his thumb along the length of each finger.
“I haven’t,” he said.
You turned to face him, your eyebrows furrowed and the book clutched to your chest. “You haven’t…?”
“No.”
You couldn’t explain the relief that coursed through you. The way the nerves had jittered through you the moment you realized he could say he had been, and the way they all dissipated into nothing when he answered.
But that’s not why you asked. No. It wasn’t because you were jealous when, a few days ago, you overheard some girls in the garden, some daughters of some lords who came to visit Prince Maekar, talking about the boys they’d danced with and kissed in the corridors—not at Summerhall but at other manors and castles they’d visited.
It was just girls sharing stories and talking about boys, as maidens did. You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel any jealousy at the way they laughed boisterously. You had thought about approaching them—you’d already been introduced, so it wasn’t like you were a stranger, not really—but the way they practically floated through the gardens, gripping each other’s hands, made you feel like you were the outsider, and why would they want to laugh with an outsider?
You knew it was childish and irrational, but it deterred you nonetheless, keeping you glued to the bench with your embroidery. It just so happened the bench was behind the shrubbery where they were talking. And no. You were not spying—this was just your favorite place to sit in the garden, and it had nothing to do with the ladies gossiping.
“Why, Sephira, don’t you find Prince Daeron handsome?”
Your back straightened immediately.
“What kind of question is that?” Sephira, you assumed, answered. “He is a prince. Of course he is handsome!”
The laughter bellowed.
“He’s so tall, as well,” the first girl added. She even sighed dreamily, making the other girls laugh harder.
“If you like him so much, perhaps you should ask him to take you riding.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
“Oh!” another girl chimed in. “You must pretend you cannot mount your horse, and he will have no choice but to help you, and your faces will be so close that perhaps…” The grass rustled, and they began squealing with laughter.
You nicked your finger with your needle so deeply that blood stained the fabric you were working on, and you decided it was time for you to retire back to the castle.
You’d listened out for any mention of Daeron taking some girl riding, but you never heard anything, and before you knew it, all the ladies and their families had returned back to wherever they’d come from.
“Have you?” Daeron asked.
“What?” You clutched the book tighter to your chest, your gaze darting to his face. He had stuffed both his hands into the pockets of his trousers and seemed to be having as much trouble keeping eye contact as you were—he’d look at your face before glancing away, then back again.
“You know,” he said.
“Oh! Um.” You shook your head. “No.”
“Oh.” He paused briefly before nodding. It was not vigorous, but instead the simple tilt of one’s head when they were receiving new information that they were unsure what to do with in the current moment and were now cataloging it away for later. “Well, alright.”
You nodded back, and yours was borderline vigorous, if for no other reason than because your stomach had done a flip and you thought you might lose the oranges you’d snacked on earlier. Why? You were uncertain. “Alright,” you echoed.
You stared at each other, and you realized he had wispy hairs above his top lip. They were the subtle beginnings of facial hair, something you’d only notice if you were looking closely. Signs of a boy slowly growing into a man.
Then, realizing the subject you’d just been discussing paired with where you were staring quite unabashedly, you dropped your gaze to his feet.
“Would you like to?” he asked.
“W--What?” Your eyes snapped up to his, certain you misheard him.
He blinked rapidly. “I mean—just as friends, of course. If you are, ahem, curious.”
Just as friends. Of course. That’s what you were. Friends. Yes.
“Are you?” you asked. “Curious, I mean.”
At first, Daeron looked uncertain. “Are you?” he parroted.
You dropped your eyes again. “I suppose I am a bit curious.”
His lip twitched upwards slightly, not because he found what you said funny, per se, but because it was so you. “Me too.”
You looked up at him. He had gotten closer.
“I suppose,” he added.
You were just friends who were curious. Friends could do that. They could be curious together.
Your lip twitched upward too, and you weren’t really sure what exactly to do at this moment—should you ask him about it? Should you grab his hand? Should you reach out and pull him closer?
He was the older one, albeit by two years, so you supposed he would be the one, hypothetically, to know more about this specific moment, so you closed your eyes. Really, squeezed them shut at first before trying, very deliberately, to relax your face.
You didn’t see the way Daeron’s throat bobbed as he swallowed deeply, the way he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, or the way he brushed his hair back from his face, only for it to fall right back where it had been lying.
When he leaned in, the first thing you thought was that his lips were warm. A little damp, like he must’ve just wet them before leaning in. You narrowly avoided springing your eyes open to ensure it was truly happening. You didn’t know a lot about kissing, but you did know that you weren’t supposed to open your eyes during it. However, you had no clue what to do next.
Your face was growing hotter and hotter, and for some reason, you were frozen entirely still—you couldn’t get your arms to move from your sides.
Just as you made up your mind to raise your arms and do something, he pulled back. Your eyes snapped open, and Daeron was blinking at you.
“What did you think?” he asked, his shoulders tense.
The sunlight was streaking through the window and across his face, making his eyes which were usually a deep, almost navy shade of purple, a bright violet. He was taller than you—he always had been—so you had to look up at him, and you suddenly thought back to the ladies in the corridor.
He’s so tall, one of the girls had said. One of the other girls had said he was a prince, in justifying that he was handsome as if being handsome were required of a prince. You couldn’t help but think, with the sunshine streaking across his face, Daeron would be handsome even if he were a stableboy or farmboy.
He said your name softly.
“What? Sorry, I—” You shook your head. “I was thinking.”
He nodded. “What did you think?”
You swallowed, rocking back and forth on your heels. “It was nice. What about…?”
He seemed to relax slightly. “Me? Yes. It was…nice.”
“You have soft….” You gestured at him before continuing quietly, “Lips.” The moment the word left your mouth, you sat up a little straighter.
God, was that a weird thing to say? No. It couldn’t be, right? You were just being honest. He’d asked you what you thought so you told him—
“You too,” he said. His mouth was quirked into a small smile, and you were slightly frustrated to see that he didn’t seem nearly as meek about the subject as you were.
“Oh, thank you.” You played with your fingers, wringing them together, then releasing them to clasp your hands together.
“Do you want to—” His voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat. “Sorry. I meant, do you want to—” He pointed at himself then back to you. “Again?”
Your lips parted, floundering. You hadn’t realized this was an option.
“If you don’t want to, that's okay. I know you said you were curious. I don’t mean to be strange—” He swallowed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t be—”
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed onto his arms and leaned up, pressing your lips to his.
Frozen, Daeron stared at you. He stared at your lashes and how they were sitting against the top of your cheeks. He stared past your face and at your hair—how you had it pulled back like you always did, some strands left out around your face. He thought about how this made him your first kiss and you his. He did not think about how relieved he was that it was not anyone else.
Your lashes began to flutter, and he was brought back to the moment. You’d kissed him. You’d initiated it.
He let his eyes ease shut, and raised a hand to brush the hair from around your face. He let his hand rest against your cheek.
Your grip on his arms relaxed, and your whole body with it as you slowly leaned back. Daeron’s hand remained on your face and the other rose to brush another stray hair from your face. His throat bobbed and his lips parted, but no words ever left him, as the library door creaked open.
“Cousin!” Valarr called. “I’ve been looking for—”
The two of you jumped apart like a cat who’d fallen into a stream.
You wrung your hands together out in front of you and bounced back and forth on your feet in a manner you hoped was casual. Daeron, who was known to be considerably more levelheaded than you were, scratched at the back of his neck.
Valarr blinked at the two of you and, more notably, the foot of space between you. He couldn’t recall a time he’d ever seen the two of you more than an arm’s length apart. He began to squint, sizing up your nervous rocking and the way his cousin seemed to only be capable of maintaining eye contact for a few seconds at a time.
What’s going on? Valarr thought and went to ask the very thing when you cut him off.
“Excuse me.” You rushed past. “I will leave you be.”
“No need to rush, my lady,” Valarr remarked, a hint of a laugh in his voice.
“Certainly, just give you privacy.” You blinked. It’s only Valarr, you told yourself. Only the son of the heir to the Iron Throne—whose cousin you were kissing only moments ago. You took a breath then corrected, “I want to give you privacy, I meant.”
“Certainly,” Valarr parroted, “and that’s very kind of you, but it’s not a private matter.”
“Right,” you said lamely. You hadn’t thought of that. “Well, I, um, told Daella I would take her down to the stream to hunt for frogs before it got dark. I’d hate to kiss—I mean, miss them. I’d hate to miss them.”
“Right,” Valarr said, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
You realized you needed to escape the library before you made any more of a fool of yourself. “I will see you at dinner.” You bowed your head to them both. You couldn’t name a single time you’d ever bowed at either of them, but you didn’t give yourself time to dwell on that.
You quickly left the library, the door slamming behind you.
Valarr looked between Daeron and the door. “Did I interrupt something?” he asked.
Daeron blinked, running a hand through his hair. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Valarr asked.
“Yes,” Daeron insisted. “What did you need?”
Valarr didn’t appear convinced but dropped it, going on to explain why he’d sought the boy out. Something about the horses and his father and Uncle Baelor, but Daeron couldn’t focus, raising two fingers and ghosting them across his lips.
Somewhere down the corridor, you were doing the same.
***
It was this year at Summerhall, the year of your thirteenth nameday and Daeron’s fifteenth, that he’d first told you about his dreams.
You had noticed a change in him. You first noticed how he always seemed to have a cup of dark liquid nearby and how the dark circles beneath his eyes only seemed to grow as the days passed on.
Eventually, you asked him about it, and he told you about his dreams—how they weren’t just dreams for him and how wine or deprivation seemed to be the only way to stifle them.
As he told you, you could tell he was downplaying it, but you didn’t push it. You just held his hand and let him talk about it whenever he wanted, which was much less than you’d anticipated.
At first, he told you about them and tried to make sense of them—a great hall overrun with greenery and wilds or a dragon lying across a field of wildflowers, except it wasn’t peacefully napping in the sun but rather crushing and slaughtering the wildlife. No matter how much he talked about them, he couldn’t find clarity. Eventually, he stopped talking about them all together.
You didn’t push it, but he knew you would always be there. At least you hoped he knew that.
You noticed the cups became a staple. If he were in the solar or the library, he’d have a cup next to his book. But you discovered if you were there and if you let him ramble about what he’d been reading and if you did the same, he wouldn’t quite reach for it as much.
You weren’t sure what else to do, so that’s what you did and hoped it was enough.
At fifteen, you couldn’t remember the last time you awoke wishing for your father or mother during your visit at Summerhall, but tonight, when you woke all alone, in a cold sweat, in the strange guest chambers at Summerhall, you had to raise a hand to your chest in attempt to calm your racing heart.
When you shot up in bed, a gasp had clawed its way from your throat. Your eyes darted around the room, disoriented, and did that thing they did when you had just awoken and suddenly all the shapes in the shadows were strange creatures or tall figures.
Running through the dark forest, with heavy footsteps growing nearer and nearer. The manor—the one back home, not Summerhall—just in the distance, but the footsteps were only getting closer and your legs were too short, but you couldn’t spare a glance behind you, no, it would only slow you down. Right as you reached the clearing in the forest, your dress caught on a briar and you hit the ground. You went to move to your feet but something snatched you up by your gown and—
You flung the quilt from your sweaty body and padded over to the window on shaky legs. The cool stone of the windowsill soothed your sticky skin as you watched the breeze rustle the trees out in the forest.
It was just a nightmare. A silly nightmare that certainly would’ve terrified a child, and was for some reason plaguing you. Of course it was just a dream, you told yourself. But it did not stop the trembling in your hands.
“I am a young lady,” you whispered to yourself. “I do not get frightened by stupid dreams.” However, saying it and truly believing it were two separate things entirely.
Even when you climbed back into bed (the quilt still laying on the floor) and squeezed your eyes shut and counted sheep and stared at the dark ceiling, your heart kept racing. You still felt like you were in that dark forest, with those footsteps getting closer and closer.
Eventually, you rose from your bed again and plucked your shawl from its hook before leaving your chambers. You had come to the conclusion that yes, you were a young lady, but young ladies could also be afraid and wish not to be alone.
You had just begun walking, and before you had even consciously come to the conclusion to do it, you realized you were on the staircase to Daeron’s chambers. Part of you felt silly seeking Daeron about your nightmares, especially when he had confided in you about his own dreams, which were a great deal more momentous than your own, but you couldn’t imagine seeking out anyone else.
For a moment, you had thought about asking for Princess Dyanna—she had always been kind and easy to talk to and in many ways, reminded you of your own mother. However, she was pregnant with her sixth child and you had heard it was quite complicated already, so you did not wish to disturb her if she was able to rest for once.
Plus, there was the chance you’d disturb Prince Maekar, which was the last thing you wished to do.
As you neared Daeron’s chambers, you realized you had forgotten about an arguably important part of this late night visit—his chamber guard. Of course Ser Tancred knew who you were, but you knew and understood, no matter the circumstances, how this would appear.
Nonetheless, you walked up to him, even despite the furrow in his eyebrows and slight tilt of his head.
“I-I know it is late, but I would like to see Prince Daeron,” you told Ser Tancred.
“It is quite late, my lady.” Ser Tancred glanced between you and the chamber door. “Your father would surely insist you return to your chambers.”
At the mention of your father your stomach flipped. Well, does it look like my father is here? you were tempted to exclaim. “It will not take long,” you instead opted to say. “I just need a moment—just a moment, I swear it.”
Ser Tancred did not look convinced, yet he looked torn—likely unsure if he held the authority to refuse you. “I am sorry my lady, truly,” he eventually said, “but I think it best if you wait until the morrow.”
The door creaked open and both you and Ser Tancred turned to see Daeron peering around the chamber door. He wore a tunic untucked from a pair of plain trousers and his damp hair was pulled back from his face.
Daeron blinked, glancing between the two of you. “Is something the matter?”
Ser Tancred gave you one final look and sighed deeply, like he knew he had already lost.
“Lady Ellesmere was asking to see you,” he explained. “I was only telling her it may be best to wait until the morrow, my prince.”
You tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders and fiddled with the golden embroidery at the seam, your eyes cast down.
“Well I haven’t been to sleep yet.” Daeron shrugged. “And I have no plans any time soon,” he added quietly.
“Perhaps it still should wait until—”
You never considered yourself rude or even stern for that matter, but you could not stop yourself from interjecting, “It cannot wait.”
Daeron looked at you and it was as if Ser Tancred had said nothing at all. “Come in.” He ushered you into his chambers without another look at his guard.
You immediately noticed a bottle of Arbor Red and a full cup on his desk. You decided not to comment on it.
“Come sit.” He ushered you over to his bed, which was still neatly made despite the late hour. It appeared he truly had no plan to sleep any time soon.
You took a seat on the edge and tugged your shawl tighter around you. The bed dipped as he sat next to you. When he didn’t say anything, you glanced over to find him already looking at you. Not expectantly or waiting—just looking.
He raised a hand to your shoulder and rubbed it tenderly. “Are you okay?”
You nodded immediately, suddenly feeling both bashful and childish at the idea of telling him, I had a bad dream. When you didn’t elaborate, he went on to ask, “Has something happened?”
“I just—” You looked at him and shook your head. “I had a bad dream,” you said quietly.
At that, his hand shifted and moved to your back, and you scooted closer until you were beneath his arm.
“I…I know it sounds stupid but—”
“It’s not stupid.” His chest was rumbling as he spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You thought about it. About telling him about you being chased in the woods and how it wasn’t an outrageously terrifying dream or incident—quite a standard nightmare, really—but when you woke, it left you feeling especially alone and wishing to see your mother, even at age five-and-ten.
You reached for his hand and he let you take it. “No. I don’t. But thank you for…being willing to listen. You’re always willing to listen.” He stroked his arm along your back.
“It just felt so—” You stopped. It felt so real, was what you were going to say, but as the words began to leave your mouth you thought about who you were talking to—Daeron, whose dreams were real. “I don’t know,” you supplied instead.
He nodded. His hand was cool, and in any other circumstance, you would’ve been embarrassed at how clammy your own was, but not in this moment.
One thing you had always appreciated about Daeron was that he didn’t offer any excuses or lame comfort. Anyone else might’ve said, “It’s not real,” or “It was just a dream.” While your dreams were in fact just dreams, he knew that saying that wouldn’t have stopped the tremor in your hands or ache in your chest.
“Would you like to go for a walk in the gardens?” His thumb ran across four of your knuckles.
“It’s dark.”
He shrugged and the movement jostled you against his chest. “We’ll bring my chamberstick.”
You thought about it—the cool breeze rustling the bushes, the tittering of bugs—and you blinked once, sleepily. The night air would be nice on your balmy skin, but the thought of the walk back up the staircase afterward with your already tired limbs did not sound appealing.
“That would be nice, I’m sure.” You readjusted your shawl on your shoulders. “But not tonight.”
Daeron nodded.
“I feel better just…not being alone.” You squeezed his hand.
The room eased into a comfortable silence. You’d known each other far too long to be afraid of the quiet.
“Aemon leaves in a few moons,” Daeron eventually said.
“For the Citadel?” you asked, but you knew the answer. “Is he excited?”
Daeron shrugged. “Hard to say with him. I think he’s ready to learn new things but not really ready to leave here. He’s fond of Aegon.”
You smiled. “It’s hard not to be.”
“He calls him Egg.”
“Egg.” You laughed. “Clever. And appropriate.”
“Yes.” Daeron laughed. “It’s started to stick, much to my father’s dismay.”
“I can imagine.” You could hear Maekar now—His fucking name is Aegon. “I think I heard your father and Aerion this morning. I couldn’t tell if they were just talking or if they were quarrelling.”
“Those two things sound quite alike when it comes to them.” Daeron shook his head. “I think they were talking about Aerion’s upcoming fishing expedition.”
“Fishing expedition?”
“It sounds a great deal more formal than it is.” Daeron sighed. “Aerion is visiting our grandfather and attempting to make an entire thing of it. A fishing thing, naturally.”
“Naturally,” you parroted.
You laid back in Daeron’s bed as he continued on about his brother. You were interested in what he was saying, you really were, but your eyes had grown so heavy. The last thing you thought before you drifted off to sleep was that you would have to ask him about it again tomorrow.
You woke that morning from a deep, dreamless sleep. Whether that could truly be credited to Daeron, you were unsure, but nonetheless it soon became a habit.
After dinner, you would inevitably end up in his chambers. You knew you probably shouldn’t—you both were of marriage age, not children anymore—but you also knew you weren’t doing anything wrong, per se. No matter the dirty looks Daeron’s chamber guard shot you.
Daeron eased your night terrors, and his bed was warm and smelled like him. That was all.
Almost three weeks had passed and it had become a right routine. It was something you two had grown quite comfortable with, which was while Daeron was surprised when his father called him to his study.
His father seldom summoned him unless it was to chastise him in some way, so Daeron had more than an inkling of what he was getting into.
Maekar was pacing behind his desk when the door closed behind Daeron, but he stopped immediately to perch on the edge of his desk. He ran a finger along the edge of the wood and did not raise his eyes, even when Daeron approached and stood in front of him.
“Is it true?” he asked, and the moment Daeron’s lips parted, he added, “And do not play the fool, boy.”
Daeron blinked, which was the wrong answer. His father’s chin raised and his violet eyes had already hardened. “I have been informed that you and young Lady Ellesmere have been sharing a bed.”
“Father, I—” Daeron shook his head, but his mind immediately went to his chamber guard, who had been so adamantly against your nightly visits. “I don’t know what Ser Tancred told you, but—”
This was yet another wrong answer, because Maekar’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. “She is a young lady. This is dishonorable and selfish of you,” he spat. “It was one thing when you were children—something for the servants to laugh and speak fondly about—but you are both of marriage age. It is fucking inappropriate.”
“Father, I understand this appears…unbecoming, but I assure you it has only been…” Daeron trailed off, suddenly aware of how pitiful he sounded, “sleeping. She has nightmares and wishes not to be alone—”
“Unbecoming? Imagine if her father was to hear of this—he has entrusted that she stay here and it was assumed that her honor would remain—” He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “No more.”
“Father, she—”
“I fucking said no more, boy.” Maekar brought his fist down upon the desk.
Daeron watched as the inkpot and scrolls rattled. He swallowed and wet his lips before nodding, his chin drawn low to his chest. “I didn’t mean to—she will not get in trouble, will she?”
Maekar sighed, and while it still held the weight of his frustration, it no longer echoed off the stone walls of the study. “If you are telling the truth then I see no reason to inform Lord Ellesmere.”
Daeron nodded, his eyes still cast down.
“If she would rather not be alone at night, she may sleep in Daella’s chambers. I am sure your sister would enjoy the company.” Maekar moved and sat behind the desk. He did not have to say anything for Daeron to know that any discussion about the topic was over.
He turned and made his way to the door.
“Son,” Maekar called, and Daeron stopped before his hand reached the door knob. “I know that you are…fond of her. But this is not the way.”
Daeron nodded once. Fondness, he thought as he left the study. That is one word for it. He wandered the hall, thinking about how he’d approach the subject with you, unaware that his brother had plans of taking care of that for him.
Hours later, you were moving from the garden to your chambers to freshen up before dinner.
“My lady,” a voice called out from behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to know that the arrogant drawl belonged to Aerion.
“Prince Aerion.”
He approached your side, his elbow outstretched like he assumed you would take it. You did not. He bristled for a moment, but willed his face into indifference. At fourteen, he still hadn’t outgrown his childish tantrums—you doubted he ever would.
“It’s rare to catch you not hanging off my brother.”
You hummed. Aerion had fallen into step with you.
“Though I suppose it’s not a surprise. Not after father has discovered your nightly tarries.”
You stopped in place, but Aerion moved a few steps ahead before turning around to you. You despised how smug he looked at catching you off guard. You quickly tried to force your face into indifference, but it was too late.
“I—” You cleared your throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He hummed. “No. I don’t imagine you would.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” you said lowly.
His lips curled and you felt he looked more like a serpent than a dragon. “Your, ahem, visits with my elder brother.”
Cold lead trickled into your belly and you hoped it didn’t show on your face. “I visit with all your siblings. This could be considered a visit,” you replied with what you hoped was coolness.
However, your coolness was no match for Aerion’s flame. “I think you know precisely the visits I’m referring to, my lady. In my brother’s chambers at night. Even a fool would see—”
“It is not like that,” you said through clenched teeth as embarrassment coursed up your neck.
You knew that with Aerion, it was best to just let him talk. A reaction was what he wanted. He wanted to see you flustered and stuttering.
“Oh.” He nodded as if he were truly considering what you had said. You would never be so lucky. “Perhaps that is why your father sends you here.”
“Do not talk about my father.”
Aerion bared his teeth at you. “Perhaps this is what he wanted. For you to return home pr—”
“Enough.” A booming voice called from around the corner. “That is enough, boy.”
Maekar rounded the corner and it was almost comical at the rate Aerion’s expression fell.
“What have I told you about spying in the shadows?”
Aerion floundered. “Father, it wasn’t—”
“No.” Maekar shook his head harshly. “I cannot imagine it was. Not what you were insinuating to a fucking guest in our house, boy.”
“I—”
“Go.”
“Father—”
“I said go.”
You could only stand and watch, your gaze to the floor and your lips pressed tightly together as Maekar ushered Aerion down the corridor by his tunic. He was down by the boy’s ear muttering something you couldn’t make out.
You stood frozen, unsure if you should wait on Maekar to dismiss you.
Aerion had gone down the corridor and Maekar stood staring after him, both hands on his hips. Right when you made your mind to continue down the hall, Maekar turned back to you.
“A word?” His voice was still stern, you’d never heard it not, but it lacked the earlier venom he’d directed towards Aerion. “Please.”
For a moment, you froze, but quickly recovered. “Of course.”
A million things suddenly flashed through your mind—maybe Aerion had been bluffing about him knowing, but either way, you hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. But it didn’t really matter if you did anything wrong, especially if he, the heir to Summerhall, didn’t like it. Maybe he would send you back home. Maybe he would send you home and forbade you from ever returning. Maybe he—
“Are you alright?” Maekar asked.
“Am I in trouble?” you asked at the same time.
You blinked at each other. You wrung your hands together in front of you.
“You are not in trouble, no,” Maekar eventually said.
You nodded.
He nodded back. “Do you—” He paused. “Do you wish to return home?”
Your head whipped over. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean—I love it here, really.”
“I am not offended—it’s alright to be homesick. I know you enjoy it here with my boys—well, most of my boys,” he added quietly. “Do you wish to go home? I can write your father.”
“No. No, I—” You shook your head. “No. I wish to stay here. If that’s alright.”
Maekar nodded. “You should feel comfortable here. Not trapped or afraid.”
“Oh, I do. Feel comfortable, I mean.”
“Daeron informed me of your night terrors. I want you to know that he told me so in confidence, although it appears we had a spy.” He glanced behind him. “If you wish for a companion at night, Daella would love your company.”
Little Daella. You bit back a smile just thinking about her. She thought very highly of you, asking for you when she finished her lessons.
You’d take her into the garden and name off any flowers she’d point at. Sometimes the guards would even escort you to the edge of the woods so you could get a glimpse of a doe, or if you were lucky, a rabbit. It was hard to get Daella quiet enough for it, but once she saw something, she’d keep her voice down.
“Perhaps that is what I need,” you said.
“She would enjoy it.”
“As would I. She’s very sweet.”
“She is.” Maekar didn’t smile, but something soft overtook the harsh lines of his face. “Please let me know if you are ever uncomfortable here. This isn’t meant to be a prison.”
“I will.” You nodded, fiddling with your skirt. “And, with Daeron—I meant no disrespect or–or shame. Truly. I was only—”
Maekar raised a hand. “No need. You were afraid and you sought out Daeron for comfort. You always have,” he said. “You are good. Kind. I know you meant no harm by it, but I must ensure no one gets the wrong idea. I told Daeron the same.”
You nodded. “I understand.”
“Good. But please, if you need anything during your time here, do not hesitate to say something. Or if my son gives you any…ails.”
“I–I will.”
He nodded conclusively and began down the hallway. As his back grew smaller in the distance, you added, “Thank you.”
He stopped and moved like he was going to turn back around, but only stopped halfway. He nodded his head once before disappearing into the stairwell.
It had been the longest period of time you’d spent at Summerhall. It was coming up on your third moon there, and really, you would’ve been content to stay even longer, but your parents’ letters seemed to be growing a bit antsy.
You were packing your dresses into your trunk when a knock sounded upon your door.
“Come in,” you called.
The door creaked open. “I was wondering where you’d been,” Daeron’s voice rang out.
“Packing,” you said over your shoulder, not bothering to mask the unhappiness in your tone.
“Already?”
“Hilarious,” you deadpanned, finally snapping your trunk shut. “You act as if you won’t be writing me the moment I arrive home.”
He didn’t deny or look ashamed about it. Instead, he said, “Kalea made lemon cakes.”
“You should’ve led with that.”
He held his hand out to you, and you easily interlocked them as the two of you began your walk to the kitchen.
“I know it’s terrible, but I could’ve stayed another moon,” you said in a mock-whisper, swinging your hands between the two of you.
“I’m sure your father misses you.”
“I mean, I miss mother and father too, I just—” You sighed, and Daeron knew. He always seemed to know. He could translate the minutest raise of your eyebrow to the quietest huff of your laugh.
“I wish you could stay too,” he said, squeezing your hand.
You quietly navigated the corridor until you were nearing the kitchen door. Daeron suddenly slowed until he was a step behind you. You went to open the door when his hands came around to cover your eyes.
You flinched, laughing. “What are you doing?”
“Just open the door.” You could hear the smile in his voice.
“Well, now I’m afraid.”
“Just—Go on.”
You pushed the door open and let him lead you into the kitchen. “Can I see now?”
“Hm…” He nudged you a bit further. “Alright.”
Your vision was filled once again with light, and you blinked the room back into focus. The lemon cakes were on the counter. Next to them was a bowl of cream, littered with orange slices, then a stack of books tied neatly with a blue ribbon.
“What is—” You turned to Daeron. “What is all this?”
“Just something for you.”
You wrinkled your face at him and moved to pick up the stack of books. “It is not my birthday.” You ran a finger along one of the spines.
“I know.”
You set it back down to pick up the bowl. You plucked an orange out, smearing it along the edge of the bowl to ensure it was sufficiently covered in cream. As you chewed, you noticed it wasn’t a regular orange. It was tart and tangy, yet held more richness, almost like a raspberry. You looked to Daeron.
“Blood oranges,” he said. “My mother loved them. You love oranges and cream, and Kalea had blood oranges, so—hmph!”
You wrapped your arms around his torso, your ear pressed firmly to his chest. “Thank you,” you said.
A gentle hand wrapped around your shoulders, just resting and then stroking up and down your back. You pulled away to move back to the counter, this time going for the lemon cakes.
“Have one.” You held one out to him.
He took it, easily plopping the whole thing in his mouth. You ate your own, then picked up the books again. Carefully untying the ribbon, you examined the book on top. It was a deep brown with your name inscribed on the spine. You unsnapped its clasp and flicked through its empty pages.
“So you can write me,” Daeron said, nudging your arm.
You glanced up at him. “Is that right?”
“Well, and for any notes you have while you’re reading. The margins of books are only so wide.”
You sucked in a breath. You enjoyed annotating your books, whether that was jotting down thoughts or simply your reactions in the margins, but often found your winding handwriting too large to fit on the page. You didn’t think anyone noticed.
“Thank you,” you said again, setting the journal aside to pick up the next book.
A book of poems. You thumbed through it and landed on a page that wasn’t dogeared, but had creases along its corner that showed that it had been many times before. A smile broke out across your face.
“‘Pangur Bán’—that used to be my favorite as a child.” You knew he knew—of course he knew—but you had to voice it anyway.
“You always insisted I read it, but you had it—”
“Memorized,” you finished for him. “Yes, yes.” You shook your head, smiling. “That didn’t matter. You just had the voice for reading. You always have.”
“I’m sure you have plenty of poetry books at home, but I just—” He gestured at you. “That’s the one we used to read from as children. I just feel like you deserved to have it.”
You clutched the book to your chest. “Thank you, Daeron.”
“It’s not much, but—”
“It means a lot.” You put a hand on his arm. “Truly.”
The two of you alternated between plucking orange slices from the bowl and eating lemon cakes. You sat on the floor, your backs pressed against the counter. It probably wasn’t wise to sit on the floor of the kitchen, but neither of you cared.
“Why do all this for me?” you eventually asked.
“You say that like you don’t deserve it.”
You ignored that. “There has to be a reason.”
“It feels strange that I never do anything for you. That’s all.”
You bristled. “Never—What are you talking about? You’ve done plenty for me!”
He continued, “You deserve nice things. You’re kind and good.”
You laughed but cut it off quickly when you noticed he was quite serious. “And where is this coming from?”
“I’ve just been thinking.” A crease formed between his eyebrows that you reached over and attempted to smooth out with your index finger.
“Well, don’t think too hard.” You prodded his cheek with your finger, causing him to swat at you. “Though I appreciate it dearly,” you said sincerely.
He grabbed your hand and raised it to his lips, not kissing it, only resting it there. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. I’ll write as soon as I get home. You know I will.”
“I know.”
“And perhaps you could come up for a fortnight or two.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll be back here before you know it. It’s strange how at home, time drags on, yet when I’m here, it flies. It feels as though I’ve only just arrived.”
He ghosted his lips across your knuckles before releasing your hand, but you let it rest against his leg.
Goodbyes were always hard, but you noticed Daeron seemed especially somber. Perhaps due to the fact you’d stayed nearly three moons. You weren’t exactly thrilled at the idea of returning home after becoming so used to seeing him nearly every day, but the thought of coming back was enough to keep you going.
You thought about saying as much, but decided at the last moment it was too intense. Knowing Daeron, he was probably reading your thoughts anyway, so it didn’t really matter.
A bird was chirping somewhere outside the window, but inside the kitchen, all that could be heard was the gentle scraping of a bowl. Daeron wrapped an arm around you and let his head fall gently against your shoulder. His hair tickled your cheek and he brushed his arm up and down your upper arm.
Love, you thought suddenly, as you raised another orange slice to your mouth.
When your father insisted you join him on his trip to the Red Keep, you had instantly suspected something was up. It was not unusual for him to invite you on the various trips he took, but it was rare he would invite you to the capital. As a child, you once asked to accompany him, but he informed you he went to conduct business and you would be bored out of your senses.
You argued that Daeron, Aerion, and Aemon may be there (as the others had not been born yet), but he told you that if they were there, they would be busy with their lessons and their own duties and that you would be forced to entertain yourself.
Boredom was more than enough of a dealbreaker for you, so you hadn’t mentioned it again, even well into your teenage years. The Red Keep was the place of business, while Summerhall was the place of fun—to you, at least.
You reminded your father of this when he invited you with him. “Will I not be bored?”
He seemed to have forgotten any of his previous words as he frowned at you. “I would think not with Maekar and Baelor’s children there.”
You were tempted to remind him of his previous claims, but were too afraid that he would go back on his word.
The first day you had arrived, you spent it mostly in the chambers you would be sleeping in while your father was in meetings. You were quite tired from the journey and even slept through dinner, and found someone had left a tray at the desk for when you awoke.
The next day, you had been walking down the corridor to the library, hoping to find Daeron, when a flash of sandy blonde hair dashed past you and attached to your waist. You were startled, but quickly recovered upon realizing it was only Daella.
“Oh, hello, princess!” You laughed, patting Daella gingerly on the shoulder.
“I’m so glad to see you.” She squeezed you around your torso, burying her face in your skirts.
You combed a hand through her hair. “As am I.”
“Have you heard?” She set her chin against your beltline to look up at you.
“Heard?” You faltered. “Heard what, princess?”
“Perhaps I am not to say…” She looked off down the corridor, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips.
“Say what?”
“Oh, my lady, if I am to tell you, you mustn't tell father I told.”
You found it unlikely you would cross paths with Prince Maekar, let alone hold council with him. You nodded.
Daella released you. “Well, come here!” She tugged at the sleeve of your gown.
You leaned down to her and for a moment, all you could hear was the puffs of her laughter.
“Why—”
“Sorry, sorry.” She leaned back to compose herself before leaning in and cupping her hands around your ear. “We are to be sisters.”
Sisters.
“Daella, what are you—”
“I overheard father speaking with your father this morning. I mean, we all thought you would marry one of my brothers, but it is true!”
You stood up a little taller despite yourself. “Why—are you sure?”
“Yes! Yes!” Her voice was nearly a squeal as she clasped her hands with yours, jumping. She suddenly became grave. “But you must pretend you don’t know.”
“Well, as you said, everyone already assumes—”
“Still! Father mustn’t know I was spying or else he’ll—” The young girl was getting worked up.
“I will not tell, sweet girl.” You pet her shoulder.
“Is it not so exciting?” She sighed wistfully, as if she was the one to be married. “I always wished for an elder sister.” She twirled around you, clutching her skirts. “Well, I must continue my lessons, if I am late again, father will surely have my head.”
“Go on.” You smiled. She had always been a busy child.
Daella took off down the corridor, the pitpat of her sandals growing quieter until they bled into the ordinary creaks and moans of the castle walls.
Married. You were to be married.
Of course, a part of you always knew you were to be married to one of the dragon princelings. At eighteen, you were certainly nearing the age for it—many noble ladies your age had already been married for years.
Your thoughts drifted to Daeron. The way you’d clutch his arm as he led you through the gardens. The way he’d let you place flowers in his hair while he recited lines of poetry. How you’d run about the corridors and into the library, sprawling out atop the rug. How you’d caught him watching you read many times, and the way the tips of his ears would redden and his eyes would shoot to the forest out the window.
Then, you thought to the way his eyes darkened as he recounted his dreams—nightmares, really—to you. The way it wasn’t unusual to spot him with a cup of something before the sun had hardly peeked from the horizon.
But it was Daeron. Your Daeron you’d known since you were children.
You continued walking down the corridor, your steps a little lighter. And when your father requested your presence in his temporary chamber after dinner, you couldn’t stop the skip of your heartbeat.
“Father,” you greeted as you entered the chamber. “You requested to see me.”
He was sitting at the table, sloshing the contents of his goblet about. “Sit, my dear.”
You moved across the table, plopping down in the chair. You twiddled your fingers and bit back a smile.
“I assume you have suspicions as to the reason I have summoned you.” He did not wait for you to reply. “Since you were a child, there have been whispers about your marriage to one of Maekar’s sons.”
Your heart lifted and you sat up a little straighter despite yourself.
He continued, “It is true. That is partially why you have spent so much time here as a child leading up to your young adulthood. While some men see marrying off their children as nothing more than a political necessity, I could not. It is of importance to me that you are safe, well-cared for, and happy. Seeing you here, I have no doubt you would be all three.”
You listened eagerly.
“I have spoken with Maekar this morning and it has been decided.”
You nearly rose from your seat then and there—nearly ran to your father and tossed your arms around him, peppering kisses along his cheek.
“You shall be married to his second son, Aerion Brightflame—” Your father kept on, likely saying how Maekar’d spoken to his son, likely explaining when the ceremony’d be, but you couldn’t hear it.
Second son. Aerion Brightflame.
Second.
Aerion.
Your lips tugged downwards and, gods, you knew you were no longer a child. You never considered yourself spoiled (although you undoubtedly were), but in that moment, you were struck strongly with the urge to jump up and stomp your foot.
“Father,” you interrupted. “Second son?”
He blinked at you. “Yes. Maekar’s second son, Aerion—”
“Who is the first son to be married to?”
He blinked again. “Daeron? He is not—” He shook his head. “Why do you—” Your face must’ve revealed more than you thought because he sighed. “I know you think very highly of Maekar’s eldest son, but you must look at it from my perspective.”
“And what perspective is that?”
He sighed again, pressing his fingers into his temples. “I should have seen this coming, you always did follow Daeron about as a girl.”
“Father.”
“It has been determined that Aerion is a better match for you, my girl—”
“But father, please—” You rose.
“Prince Aerion will be a good match for you—”
“Father, Aerion is dreadful!”
“Maekar has promised that the boy is to stay in line.”
“But—”
“He has insisted upon your hand.”
“Oh, well, if he insists—”
“He is the prince, what he insists matters a great deal, dare I remind you.”
“What about Daeron?” you asked suddenly.
“What about him?”
“Does—Does he know?”
Your father sighed once more. This time, not in frustration. “He agreed it would be best.”
You recoiled. “He has—what?”
“Maekar claims the boy has agreed this to be the best match—”
“Don’t make me, father; please don’t make me marry him.” Tears sprung to your eyes.
Your father stood, moving to your side. He wrapped his arms around you, but you remained stiffer than the heart tree, your arms straight at your sides. “You will be happy. Remember when you return home from Summerhall, how you have nothing but wonderful stories about your time with the princelings—” It was clear he was truly trying.
Enveloped in his grasp, you were struck with the urge to sob into his warm chest. To screech how it wasn’t fair. But somehow, you held it together, despite your glassy eyes. “May I be excused?”
He combed a hand through your hair. “I—”
“Please.”
He nodded, releasing you. He plopped back down in his seat, raising his goblet to his lips. “Go ahead.”
The chamber door slammed behind you as you navigated the Red Keep. The castle was vast and you truly only knew the way to your father’s chambers and your own, but you managed to find Daeron’s.
You were not gentle as you brought your fist down to it, and you did not wait to hear a reply before barging in.
Daeron was sitting in a chair next to his hearth, nursing a goblet. You were certain it was not his first one of the day. “I figured I would be seeing you,” he said, raising the goblet to his mouth.
“Your brother.”
“This is for the best—”
“He is dreadful, Daeron—”
“Perhaps you will soften him.”
“‘Perhaps’? Perhaps he will be my ruin!”
“My father would never allow it,” he said coolly.
Your mouth opened and closed, working around words that you were positive were not the correct ones. Daeron seemed confident in his words, although you weren’t sure if it was confidence or if he’d just sat with them for so long he’d come to accept them as truth.
You wanted to spew confidence back at him—demand that he listen to you and not wave you off for what he had come to believe as obligation. But despite how hard you fought to keep your voice steady, it wavered. Instead of demands or thought out arguments, what cracked from your lips was “I will never forgive you.”
He kept his gaze locked on the burning logs. “I know we have fun—had fun together, but this is for your own good.”
“How do you know what is good for me?” He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued, “You! You are good for me!”
You thought about the book of poems sitting next to your bed at home and the journal currently stuffed into your trunk because you never left home without it. You thought about blood oranges and lemon cakes.
Daeron shook his head.
“Yes. You are and you know it.” You neared his chair, falling to your knees. You took the goblet from his grasp, placing it on the ground, to grab both his hands. “Have you had a nightmare? Is that what this is?”
“I need not have dreams to know I am unfit for you.”
“Unfit? Aerion is unfit.”
He was looking down at you with an unreadable look in his eyes. His face looked hollow and sunken in, dark rings circling his eyes.
“Have you been drinking all day?”
He shook his head once. “Rise.” He tugged you up gently, not releasing your hands even when you stood at full height again. “The floor is no place for you.”
“You cannot expect me to simply accept this.”
“You must.”
You looked at your interlocked hands. The hands that had led you through the gardens of Summerhall, that had flipped hundreds of pages reading aloud to you, that had reached for yours during dinners when Maekar’s gaze hardened just enough. You ran your thumb along his fingers, if for no other reason than to feel where bone met joint.
He tugged you gently into his lap. Your head met the crook of his neck like it had countless times before. You stared at the pale expanse of flesh, tucking your face beneath his jaw. You felt his fingers brush across your cheek.
“It’s not fair.” Your voice was muffled. “It’s not, you know it’s not—”
He shushed you, stern but not unkind. “It will be alright.”
“How can you say that?” You moved to make eye contact with him, but his palm flattened against your head, keeping you tucked into him. It hit you that perhaps this was as much for him as it was for you.
“Because it must be.”
You felt heat rise to your face and warmth prick your waterline. You tried to breathe through it, but any attempt was futile. “Buh—but I don’t want it to be.”
He shifted to plant his chin atop your head, shushing you again.
“I don’t want to marry him.” You grabbed two fistfuls of Daeron’s tunic, as if it would bring you any closer to him.
“You must,” he said gently into your hair. You thought if he said the word must one more time, you would simply explode. “I will still be here. I am not going anywhere.”
“I—” You took a deep breath through your sniffling. “I thought we were to be married. I wanted—I want to marry you.”
He did not reply, only continuing to run his fingers gently across your face.
“Have you nothing to say?” You tried to sound harsh, but it was impossible with the wavering of your voice.
“What would you have me say?” His chest rumbled as he spoke.
You knew you were nearing the attitude of a spoiled child, but you couldn’t stop yourself from saying quietly, “That you will marry me.”
He did not say anything.
“Tell your father and–and I’m sure my father would—”
“Shh. Don’t get wound up.”
You shifted so that your face was buried into the fabric of his shoulder. It was unfair to ask—you knew you were not the only person who would be affected by this union—but yet you did. “Why would you do this to me?”
He smelled faintly of wine, as he often did, but also of what you had come to know as parchment. It was earthy and warm and almost held the scent of leather or dry wood. There was a hint of spice that you noticed was the soap he used for his hair. You let it surround you, a blanket, while the thump of his heartbeat served as a lullaby.
When Daeron noticed your breathing had evened out, no longer shallow and choppy, he finally lifted his chin from your head and answered you. “Because I cannot give you what you deserve,” he told the cold room. Tears glistened on his cheeks against the light of the fire and for a moment, he simply sat there, holding you against the flickering orange glow.
He knew it was not wise, but he scooped his arms beneath your legs, keeping you cradled safely against him as he rose from the chair. Careful not to wake or jostle you too much, he crossed the room, and laid you gently atop his bed.
He thought you looked at home, despite your puffy red face. Even in sleep, you must’ve felt the same, because you did not hesitate to nuzzle against the pillow and shove one arm beneath it.
Daeron thought back to when you were younger, when you’d sneak into his room at Summerhall and crawl beneath the sheets with him.
He climbed into bed next to you, and even in sleep, you gravitated to his warmth and tucked your head to his chest. He let himself imagine this as his future. A lifetime of waking next to you. A lifetime of you coiled around him.
A lifetime of him waking you in the middle of the night shouting, he reminded himself. This is what she needs. Sure, his brother could be arrogant, and there was no denying his temper, but this was for the best. It had to be.
But for the night, he let you cling to him. He pretended this could be the rest of his life. Just for the night.
When Daeron woke, the sun was already streaming through the window and the spot where you had been laying was already cold and somewhere deep within his chest, something had split. He did not think about the fact that this night, out of all nights, his body chose to grant him peace in sleep.
You stayed in your chambers for the rest of the trip, even taking meals in your room. When the day of your departure came, you stood in front of everyone and gave polite nods, even to Daeron, who pointedly avoided your gaze. You even tilted your head at Aerion, your lips pulled tight, and he looked too smug, but when did he not?
On the carriage home, your father informed you that you would be married following your twentieth name day, and for a moment you were surprised—most other ladies of your status were already married at your age. But looking at your father’s face, you realized this was his way of attempting to amend things with you, even if by just putting it off.
You had no other choice and you knew that, so you simply nodded and accepted it as fact.
At first, Daeron sent letters. They sat unopened at your desk before they were eventually raked into the trash. You did not return to Summerhall the following year, nor the one after.
synopsis: your family and the targaryens were always close in business and friendship, different from you and aerion. until his family's public situation starts to degrade.
warnings/tags: fake dating, rivals to lovers?, reader has mommy issues, aerion is his own warning, reader is a bit of bitch, english is not my first language so possible bad grammar, alcohol and drugs abuse, suggestive themes
the backstage was complete chaos, makeup artists and hairstylists running from one side to the other, models complaining about theirs clothes. it was routine.
not you though, you were great as always.
if only that damn pill wasn't staring into the deep of your soul. you promised you'd stop for the season, but it was hard to relax normally when there was, at least, 7 girls screaming as if they were fucking Mariah Carey.
fuck it, you thought, giving in to the temptation and swallowing it dry.
"Ya heard who's here?" some girl, who you were sure were from Texas, next to you squeaked to her friend.
"Who?" the other one asked, while applying some mascara.
"The Aerion Targaryen."
of course, the targaryen prince. what's so amazing about him anyway?
"No way, oh my gosh. He's so hoooot."
"I know!"
"Do you think we will be able to see him on the After-"
"Don't fall for it" you interrupted her, tired of that bullshit.
".....What?"
"He gives this sexy bad boy energy, but his dick is as small as your little finger. And he ghosts any girl who talks to him, like every girl."
"Wait, you serious?" she look genuinely startled.
"Im always serious." you weren't actually, you have never even seen his cock and or was interested on him, you just needed to make them stop talking about that asshole. which they quickly did.
Aerion Targaryen. or Aerion Brightflame, as they called him. you have met the guy since you can recall, and he was a total idiot, selfish and arrogant as hell. your father always told you to take easy with him since he lost his mother when he was younger, but seriously? there was a millions of kids out there that lost their mothers too, and were much better than him.
it's not like you hated him, though. you just thought he is a spoiled brat that needs to be put in his place, and you would love to do so. nothing beyond that. oh, and rip his hair off, it's too pretty to be wasted on someone like him.
"Ladies, ladies, the show is about to start and we must be perfect!" the director called from the middle of the room, with her obviously fake french accent.
you stood up from your place and followed the others models to the line, but not before sipping some vodka on the way. it helps you on your catwalk, what can you do?
☣︎
"Sup, pretty family?" your voice echoed through the silent dining room "I see none of you came to my show."
your family wasn't the close type, most of the time, all of you would only meet during dinners or parties. you liked better that way anyway.
at the head of the table, your father was staring at you with a look of boredom. at his left your uncle was drinking some expensive wine, and at his right your mother didn't even raised her head.
"You never come to our job, why should we go to yours?" your older brother said from his chair, with a provocative tone in his voice.
"Thank you, big bro, i always recieve the warmenests comments from you. I'll take a bath, if you excuse me."
"Come back." it was your father's time to speak. "I need to speak to you"
"Can't it wait?"
"If it could, i would not call you."
you took two steps back to where you were stading, in front of the long table, and waited in silence for your old man's words.
"You know we've been friends with the Targaryens for ages, and we always help our friends."
his voice was carried with weariness, as it always has been. you can not remember a moment of your life where your father's persona wasn't tired or bored, you thought this was the only emotions he could transmit.
"I was thinking we could help them , considering the situation they're on publicly, in the moment." he continued,
"I do not understand. What does i have to do with anything?"
"Me and Maekar made..... a business alliance, but we thought it would be good to also make a sentimental one, to keep away the public eye from the lasts polemics. An alliance between you and Aerion."
oh, oh.
he's got to be kidding, there was no way this could happen.
"What is this? The Middle Ages?!" you burst out before even thinking. "Why does it have to be me? And why does it have to be him?!"
"It will be best that way-"
"Well, it doesn't look like it for me!"
at that point, your mother finally raised her head to look at you and practically screamed your name. you found only disgust and anger on her glance.
"You still live under your father's roof and he's still the one providing you a good life. It is your duty and obligation to obey him."
"Mother-"
"Don't." and that was the final word.
you stood there, staring at her while she went back to eating for some seconds before heading to your room.
your eyes burned with the tears you were holding back. you could never win with your mother, she would always keep up with you until you'd give up. you stopped trying to earn her fights years ago, it wouldn't change anything.
after what it seemed like a long walk, you finally reached your bedroom. you went straight to the shower, believing the water would calm your nerves. it did not.
by the time you finally laid down, your head was still hot with anger. you turned and turned around on the bed, trying to rest, but sleep didn't come.
how could your father belive that you would accept a fake relationship, against your will? with Aerion of all people?
you could picture his smug face when his father gave him the news. ugh! You tossed around in the sheets once more.
you must have stepped on Queen Rheanyra's silk dress on your past life to deserve this!
☣︎
"Is this what you will wear?" you heard your mother's voice from your doorstep.
she wore a fitted gray blazer and mini skirt with black thighs and a Louis Vuitton heels. the exact image of a matriarch that stepped into action, while her husband took care of the children. definitely not the self-centered unhappy woman that gave birth to you.
"Yeah, i mean..." you stared at your reflex in the mirror again. it's not that bad, you were wearing a simple black long sleeve dress with an open back.
"You look like a whore."
"You always say that."
"Because you always do. At least tame that fucking hair." she said before leaving you alone to stare at yourself.
any other day, you would have kept your looks the way you chose. not today though, you were trying your best to be on your mother's (and father's) good terms. you put your hair on a mid ponytail and changed the boots for some black high heels.
it was a tradition for your family to throw a party randomly and invite others rich families, and your dear father thought it would be great to declare that you and the Targaryen boy were """dating""" at this one.
you just hoped you'd have to interact with him only once or twice and could spend the rest of the night drinking with your brother.......
......and you were wrong.
"Was it part of the deal you tormenting me the entire night or you're doing it just because you want to?" you asked the silver haired boy, while sipping some hot whiskey.
"If i had the choice to not be with you, i would not."
"Yes, if only you didn't burned your entire family image because you are a egocentric brat." you striked back at him.
"Says the coke whore." he finally gains the courage to look you in the eye, making holes in your forehead while doing it.
"At least whores are hot, egocentrics brats are just...... spoiled nepo babies."
"You're calling me ugly?"
"Im calling you a bastard."
"So you think im pretty?"
"I think you need to shut up, Brightflame, that's what i think."
he stayed in silence after that, not a defeated one, just..... acceptance, you thought. you both stayed in that, somewhat, comforting silence, only listening to other guests talking and drinking. until he broke it with his annoying deep voice.
"I never asked you, what is it like to be an addicted?"
"I don't know, ask your brother."
"He is an alcoholic, it's different."
"And i'm a woman who needs to take controlled medication, it's different too."
"Methamphetamine is not a med, people's princess, and neither is heroin."
it was your turn to stay silent now. you coudn't deny it, you have used those drugs and more. but now you only take your prescribed pills and drank and smoked a cigarette sometimes. or at least that was the narrative you were keeping to everyone.
"I don't do that anymore."
"Really?"
"Yes, Aerion." your tone was more obscure now.
"If you say so.." he turned his glance back at the party.
you did not have the strenght to be sober while interacting with him. you stood up and went to the bar to pour yourself more whiskey, you took a sip and just when you were going back to your table, your eyes found him. your ex agent.
he worked for you in the fashion industry for 4 years, since you were 15 years old to 19. he was a good agent, sure, but god wasn't him an asshole too? you fired him exactly for that, he started making some weird comments about the others models and it was making you sick.
and the bastard was coming to your direction, jesus, today was not your day.
"Oh my god, it's been so long!" he said after he finally reached to you.
"Yeah, it has..."
"Gosh you've grown." his eyes were running trough your body when he said it.
"It's been only 2 years."
"Well you have changed in 2 years. Im sure the big guys must be falling on their knees to contract you."
the big guys, sure. that's what you called when you wanted to talk about the powerful men behind the big media that controlled the runaways shows and the fashion world. most of them were sexual traffickers and exploiters.
"Hm....hey, do you mind following me, for just a sec?" you said already moving towards the balcony door, him following behind you.
he didn't even had the time to breathe, after closing the double doors, before you kicked his balls. and you didn't hesitate to step on his cheek with the point of your heel, the moment his knees hit the ground.
the attrition between his face and your foot made his back touch the floor, and you didn't stop.
you didn't stop when he started groaning
you didn't stop when a cut opened on his skin.
you didn't stop when your shoe, his face and the gound were staining with blood.
you didn't stop when you heard some claps behind you.
you didn't stop when Aerion said "Alright, that's enough, showtime's over."
you only stopped when the Targaryen prince dragged away from you ex agent.
but that didn't stop you from draining some more blood from him when you kicked his head away.
an: the fact i finished this instead of celebrating the junine festives with my family says a lot abt me. this is shit btw.
summary 𓂃 after stumbling across a poster in Crime Alley advertising an upcoming fight headlined by Gotham’s newest fist, the Red Hood, you decide it migjt be worth investigating. the city’s underground fighting scene could make for an interesting story—and with your job on the line, you’re not exactly in a position to pass up potential leads. so, against your better judgment, you buy a ticket and see where it goes.
knockout masterlist.
THE POSTER WAS UGLY.
That should have been the first red flag. Not a danger kind of red flag, but a red flag like this entire event is going to be a wonderful waste of forty bucks and a Tuesday night that could have been spent at a bar getting picked up by 50 year old dudes.
It was stapled to a telephone pole near the corner of Crime Alley. It was easy to tell that this was some poor printing given that the paper had already started curling at the edges from some earlier rain, the ink was already partially scratched off, and someone had drawn a mustache on the fighter's face with what looked like permanent marker. Classy neighborhood. Typical Gotham.
You stopped anyway. Because that's what desperate people do. They stop for ugly posters.
GOTHAM'S NEWEST FIST, the headline blared, which was grammatically weird and also kind of threatening in a way you couldn't quite make sense of. Below that, a black-and-white photo of a guy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Which was not how ring-fighters usually posed. You know, they should be all hyped up and what not. He seemed like he was in his mid-twenties, sharp jaw, dark hair with a white streak down the middle that fell over his forehead like he hadn't bothered to push it back. Interesting choice of hair dye. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't snarling, either. Just staring at the camera like the photographer owed him money or something.
Jason Todd. The Red Hood.
Below that, in a smaller print that was hardly readable because of the shit print quality: UNDERGROUND TOURNAMENT CHAMPION. THREE STREET FIGHTS. ZERO LOSSES. COME WATCH HIM BLEED.
You sighed, pulled out your phone and bought a ticket before you could talk yourself out of it.
SOMEWHERE ON-EAST GOTHAM , day of the tournament.
The venue was a converted warehouse on the east end, the kind of place that reeked of sweat, old beer, and men who had no better use for forty dollars. Seriously, who spends that kind of money to come watch dudes beat the hell out of each other? Doesn’t matter—not like you had room to talk anyway. You’re sitting right there next to a guy that stinks of things you don’t even know how to name.
Folding chairs circled a makeshift ring that was really just ropes tied to metal poles. The lights hung too low, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that made bruises look worse and hope of finding a viable story look stupid.
You had found a seat near the back, pressed your notebook into your jacket pocket, and tried to look like a person who regularly attended illegal-ish boxing matches instead of a journalist who'd been covering city council meetings for three years and was about to get fired from even that.
Your boss’ words were still rattling around your skull like a bad hangover.
"You want to keep your desk? Find me something with teeth. I don't care if it's a crooked cop or a ghost story. Just make sure people click on it."
A ghost story. That's basically what you were here for. Gotham's newest fist, the so-called Red Hood, a kid from the streets who'd apparently been scooped up by some old coach after he was caught dismantling a robber with his bare hands outside some bodega.
The story wrote itself, really. Poor boy fights his way out of the gutter. Inspirational. Tragic. Click here to feel something. That kind of shit that people seem to love.
You hated it. You hated that you needed it.
But not as much as you hated being broke, though.
The first match of the night was forgettable. You almost fell asleep. Two guys in their thirties who moved like they were carrying groceries. The crowd barely cheered. Someone threw a peanut at the loser.
By the time Jason Todd climbed through the ropes, you'd almost convinced yourself to leave.
Then he moved.
There was no other way to describe it. The guy didn't enter the ring so much as occupy it. He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck like he was shaking off a long nap, and then looked at his opponent—a man easily fifty pounds heavier—with an expression that said I'm going to enjoy this, and you're not.
The bell rang. The referee whistled. The match was over before it even really began.
Forty-seven seconds later, the other guy was on the mat, blinking up at the lights like he'd just been hit by a truck. Which, technically, he had. A truck named Jason Todd.
It wasn't just the speed, though there was plenty of that and probably more where it came from. It was the system. Every movement had a purpose. A jab here to set up a hook there. A step back that looked like feint until suddenly it wasn't, and his fist was colliding with the other man's ribs with a sound like a door slamming.
The ref called it. The crowd went wild with people already noting in their heads who they’re betting on for the next matches. And Jason Todd—the Red Hood, Gotham's newest fist—looked mildly bored.
He didn't celebrate. Didn't raise his arms. Just walked to his corner, grabbed a towel, and wiped his face like he'd just finished a light jog.
Then he looked up.
Straight at you.
Not because he knew you. Not because he was posing for some imaginary camera. Just because—well, who knows why fighters do anything. Maybe he was scanning the crowd for threats. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was wondering why someone who was dressed like you—all neat and organized—was in a dump like this.
Your eyes met for half a second—maybe even less. Not long enough for him to remember if he saw you again.
Then he looked away, and the moment was gone.
After the match, you lingered near the exit, pretending to check your phone. The crowd thinned out pretty soon after. A few guys in track suits clapped each other on the back. The peanut-thrower from earlier was already halfway to drunk.
You spotted him near the back door, pulling a hoodie over his head. He was talking to an older man—gray hair and permanent scowl, the kind of face that had probably seen too many fights and forgotten too few. The coach that trained him, probably.
You couldn't hear what they were saying. But you saw Jason nod once, then shake his head at something, then shove his hands in his pockets and walk out into the alley like he didn't have a single care in the world. Like he didn’t just knock out a man that was built like a nicely cemented brick wall.
You followed. Not closely. Just far enough to see which direction he went.
He disappeared around a corner and you decided that was enough stalking for the night.
You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.
Okay, you thought. That's the story.
Now you just had to figure out how to get it.
— — —
The gym was called The Corner, which was either deeply uninspired and gotten through a Google search or deeply meaningful, probably heavily depending on how much poetry you'd ingested before noon. Up to interpretation, perhaps. It sat wedged between a pawn shop and a laundromat, its windows fogged with condensation, most likely from the sweat of a hundred sad attempts at glory. Dudes who think they’ll make the next big thing. Well, one of them did. That’s who you’re here for.
You'd done your homework. The coach's name was Vince Maroni, a former middleweight who'd blown out his knee in the nineties and never quite recovered. He'd trained a few decent fighters over the years, but his last prospect—a kid named Danny something—had gotten hurt six months ago. Broken orbital. Might not fight again—scratch that—definitely won’t fight again.
And now here was Jason Todd. The replacement.
You pushed open the door on a Thursday morning, wearing leggings you haven’t touched in three years and a tank top that was two sizes too big (used to be your dad’s). You'd signed up for the beginner's boxing fitness class online, using a fake name and an email address you'd created specifically for this purpose. God, the things adulthood are making you do.
Inside, the gym smelled like leather and liniment and old sweat. Punching bags hung from the ceiling like dead animals. Some of them were cheap sandbags and a few were torn up and taped together. A few guys were already working the heavy bags, their gloves thudding in rhythm.
And there he was.
Jason Todd was sitting on a bench near the back, taping his hands. His hoodie was off now, and you could see the muscles in his shoulders shift as he pulled the tape tight. He hadn't noticed you yet. A good thing.
You walked to the front desk, where a bored-looking woman with a nose ring handed you a waiver and pointed toward the locker room.
"First time?" the woman asked, looking you up and down like she was wondering what you were doing in a place like this. You looked like you read for fun. This isn’t a place where the dudes even knew how to read. Beyond… second grade, maybe.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You're wearing running shoes. You'll want flat soles for boxing."
Right. You made a mental note. Flat soles. Pretend you know what you're doing.
The class was hell.
Not the good kind of hell, where you feel accomplished afterward and post about it on your Instagram. The real kind, where your lungs burn and your legs shake and the instructor keeps yelling "HIPS! TURN YOUR HIPS!" like that means anything to a person who's been doing inconsistent cardio for three years and calling it decent exercise.
By the end, you were pretty sure you were going to die.
You were also pretty sure you'd successfully avoided eye contact with Jason Todd the entire time, which was good, because you didn't want him to notice you. You were just another face. Another beginner who couldn't throw a proper jab. Invisible. At least you hoped.
You were leaning against the wall, trying to remember how breathing worked, when a shadow fell over you.
"You punch like you're pissed at the air."
You looked up.
Jason Todd was standing there, holding a water bottle, his expression unreadable. Up close, he looked younger than the poster suggested. But also more tired. There were dark circles under his eyes that the black-and-white photo had smoothed over. Probably some cheap at-home photoshop work.
"Excuse me?" you managed, trying not to look like you’ve been fighting air (and losing) for the past hour.
"Your hook." He gestured vaguely at your shoulders. "You're not using your legs. Just your arms. That's how you throw out your shoulder and look stupid at the same time."
"Thanks," you said dryly. "That's very motivational."
One corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like the idea of a smile, considering it and then deciding against it.
"You from around here?" he asked.
"No," you said. Then, because lying felt safer than what you were actually planning, you added: "Just looking for a hobby."
He studied you for a moment. Long enough that you started to feel like a bug under glass. Naturally, the guy’s tall and built—pretty scary.
"Right," he said finally. "Well. Hobby's gonna hurt tomorrow."
He walked away without another word.
You watched him go, your heart pounding for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the workout.
That went well, you thought. Now I just have to do it again. And again. And again until he trusts me.
You pulled out your phone. No messages from your boss or your editor. No retraction of the deadline.
Just a calendar reminder for next Thursday's class.
dededos
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
annaxmalina
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
