summary: the aftermath of your unexpected evening with aerion unfolds. (read this fic before or the welcome to the family series)
warnings: none! slightly suggestive, mentions of alcoholism, no direct x aerion in this one only implied
word count: 2.9k
a/n: i actually had so much fun writing this lololol, the modern!aerion is alive in me again
scene one
you try to be as quiet as possible—the heavy door shutting closed behind you with a soft, agonizing click.
you nearly get to sigh in relief, the cold air of the sprawling corridor hitting your flushed, overly sensitive skin, but just when you're about to turn around you hear the crisp, sharp noise of a light switch shutting.
shit.
you can only pray that it's one of the house staff, someone going in early to put the laundry into the washing machine or to fetch some cleaning supplies for the massive estate.
you turn on your heel slowly, the smooth marble floor cold beneath your bare feet, praying to the seven that it wouldn't be—
seven hells.
even maekar targaryen or daeron would have been better than the soul you find staring at you wide-eyed across the long expanse of the hall.
aegon.
his plastic toothbrush is still hanging limply from his wide mouth, a messy smear of white mint toothpaste coating the soft curve of his cheek.
his little eyes are as wide as tomatoes, completely round with a child's pure surprise, and his hand is paused in the air mid-motion where he had been reaching for the wall.
"egg." your voice is a breathy, fragile thing.
he looks from you straight to the heavy dark wood of the door you had just slipped out of—his older brother's room—before looking right back at you.
you can't quite decipher the sudden, shifting look in his eyes, and that silence is already worse than any insult aerion could throw at you.
you swallow hard, the dry back of your throat burning as you open your mouth to formulate some half-hearted, pathetic lie, but the boy cuts you off before you can even start.
"why did you just come out of aerion's room?"
he cuts straight to the point. no beating around the bush. straight to ripping the band-aid off with the brutal honesty only an eight-year-old possesses.
one half of you is deeply relieved by the directness, while the other is brimming with a suffocating anxiety, knowing there is absolutely no avoiding the lens of his scrutiny now.
you inhale softly, mentally preparing your chest to answer the impossible question.
aegon trails his gaze from the very top of your messy head down to the bottom of your bare feet, squinting his brow in deep concentration, as if trying to mathematically figure out and place what all of this could possibly mean.
what you are doing in his house. on a quiet sunday morning when you weren't scheduled to be babysitting him, having made absolutely no plans to come over.
and you're standing there in a pair of tiny pajama shorts. a t-shirt that is clearly, severely crumpled from a night spent tangled in satin sheets. your hair a wild, birds-nest disaster. and a faint, dark purple bruise already blooming like an ink stain right over your collarbone.
though he definitely doesn't need to know the origin of that.
his eyes widen even more (if that is even physically possible) and for one terrifying fraction of a second, the blood in your veins turns to pure ice. you think that the adult realization of what had actually occurred between you and his brother has finally dawned on his innocent mind.
"egg—i swear—it's not like that—"
"y/n, we were supposed to do the prank on monday!" he whisper-yelled, his face twisting into an expression of intense, frantic urgency.
before you can even blink, his small hand reaches out, catching your wrist and dragging you physically into the safety of the guest bathroom with him, quickly shutting the door closed with a dull thud so aerion wouldn't wake up and hear.
you swallow the lump of bile in your throat, your mind involuntarily flashing backward to the image of aerion’s limp, exhausted body sprawled across those dark silk bedsheets.
the same sheets that are currently covered in the heavy, intoxicating smell of your mixed skin, spent silver-tinged lust, and stale smoke.
your mind snaps violently back to reality when egg's frantic, high-pitched voice cuts back into the small bathroom space. "… what were you thinking going into his room like that? and why are you even here anyway? you weren't here yesterday evening… when did you come? is everything okay?"
for one terrible, agonizing moment, you are convinced he's still going to figure it out.
he's going to piece together the atmosphere, the way your breath hitches, the faint scent of aerion's expensive sandalwood cologne clinging to the fabric of your shirt, and he's going to hate you for the rest of his life.
goodbye to the safe haven of babysitting.
goodbye to any chance of helping him grow up into a less traumatized, less broken kid than the rest of his family.
the overwhelming, toxic guilt of what you did with aerion suddenly eats at you from the inside out, threatening to suck the very life from your chest, stripping you down to the brittle marrow of your bones.
stupid. stupid. stupid.
you are supposed to protect aegon from the monsters in this house. you aren't supposed to hurt him by going and sleeping with his brother—the very brother who treats him like a psychological playground, the one who tortures him for fun and leaves him trembling in the grand hallways.
stupid. stupid. stupid.
"sorry…" you mutter under your breath, turning the chrome tap on with a jerky motion and shoving your hands under the freezing stream of cold water.
you need it. you need the temperature to cool your burning skin down, to keep your fractured mind in check. the cold liquid is the only thing keeping the traitorous blood inside your veins from boiling over.
i always knew there was a fire in you.
the phantom whisper of aerion's rough voice echoes in your ears, and you violently shake your head to drown it out, your mind completely numb and your ears buzzing with a low static as egg continues to enthusiastically retell the details of your original plan.
the harmless, childish joke you two had plotted days ago: to sneak inside aerion's pristine room while he was out and pour garlic-smelling water directly into his signature, over-priced cologne bottles.
just a silly, petty thing to make him feel an inch of the misery he caused both you and aegon on a daily basis.
except, before that could ever happen, you went and fell straight into his bed.
"y/n?" egg's voice snaps you out of the dark spiral once again, his small fingers tugging at the edge of your damp shirt.
"yeah. sorry, um." you quickly shut the tap closed, drying your trembling hands on one of the plush white towels as egg finally turns to spit the white toothpaste into the porcelain basin.
"there was this party yesterday evening," you half-lie, the words tasting like ash on your tongue, "and… it got super late, and valarr was dropping me off in his car. so i just told him it'd be easier if he dropped me off here, i guess… you know, since the estate was closer to the apartment and all that."
"oh." egg speaks, his small shoulders dropping as he mulls over your explanation in his head. his brow furrows for a second, deciding if the story is acceptable. he lets out a quiet, satisfied hum in the back of his throat.
he approves.
he believes the terrible, flimsy lie because he trusts you implicitly. he took the bait without a single second thought.
"sure," he says happily, offering you a tiny, gap-toothed smile before scolding you one last time for trying to pull off the "garlic execution" without him.
you apologize softly, your chest aching with a profound sorrow as he happily opens the bathroom door and trudges back out into the grand hallway.
"i'm starving… could you maybe make those delicious pancakes? the ones with the blueberries and the whipped cream? you know they're my favorites when you make them…" he happily scurries down the corridor toward his own room to get dressed for the day, not sparing you a single suspicious glance back over his shoulder.
"yeah, okay," you reply to the empty hallway, your voice shaking as your thighs ache with the unmistakable, deep bruising soreness of last night's sins. "i'll go to the kitchen and get started on it."
you begin the long walk toward the massive marble kitchen, your shoulders dropping from the sheer physical tension of the encounter.
you can faintly hear him yell a delighted, muffled thanks from behind his bedroom door.
you are still walking on incredibly thin ice, and the dark, heavy guilt of what you did is going to continue eating at you until there's nothing left.
you're going to have to face aerion too—eventually. he's going to wake up, stretch his lean frame out in that dark room, and realize he now has the ultimate, ruinous secret to hold over your head whenever he feels cruel enough.
and he feels more often than not.
but that is a catastrophic problem for later.
for now, you are going to stand in that bright, sterile kitchen and make blueberry pancakes for his little brother.
as you round the corner of the counter, half of your soul tells you the only reason egg had believed your terrible, desperate lie was because his mind simply couldn't even entertain the idea of something else going on between you and his torturer.
i hate him, he's evil, a nepo baby with a god godplex.
all the terrible but righteous things you had ever whispered about aerion brightflame suddenly feel like dirt in your mouth.
you are still walking on incredibly thin ice, and the dark, heavy guilt of what you did is going to continue eating at you until there's nothing left. you're going to have to face aerion too—eventually. he's going to wake up, stretch his lean frame out in that dark room, and realize he now has the ultimate, ruinous secret to hold over your head whenever he wants to break you.
but that is a catastrophic problem for later. for now, you are going to stand in that bright, sterile kitchen and make blueberry pancakes for his little brother.
as you round the corner of the counter, half of your soul tells you the only reason egg had believed your terrible, desperate lie was because his mind simply couldn't even entertain the horrific, reality-shattering idea of something else going on between you and his torturer.
i hate him, he's evil, a nepo baby with a god godplex.
all the terrible, righteous things you had ever whispered about aerion brightflame to yourself suddenly feel like dirt in your mouth.
traitor, a small, dark voice whispers in the back of your head.
you shake it off, but the cold feeling in your stomach remains.
blueberry pancakes wouldn't fix what you and aerion had done in the dark last night. they wouldn't fix what you did to egg.
you are terrified nothing ever would.
…
scene two
just as if this morning couldn't get any worse, when you round the corner into the massive, sunlit kitchen, you find daeron targaryen's familiar, slumped silhouette leaning against the cold marble counter.
he's dressed in a pair of faded flannel pajama pants, his dirty blonde hair tied back in a low, messy ponytail. he's scrolling aimlessly on his phone, his brows squinted in a groggy frown, a steaming mug of some strange, murky liquid sitting on the counter in front of him.
gods, it smells absolutely terrible.
you instinctively scrunch up your nose as the heavy, medicinal scent hits your senses.
"hey." he looks up once he hears your footsteps padding softly into the room. "what— y/n?"
his bloodshot eyes blink in mild surprise, clearly not having expected your disheveled frame to round the corner at this hour. "what are you doing here?"
gods, would the targaryens just stop asking you that exact question already.
well… you were technically the one intruding into their family home. but that just sounded wrong in your head. it wasn't like you had broken in with a crowbar…
it was more like you came over to babysit egg, which gave you certain house privileges.
oh yeah, and you just spent the night sleeping with aerion. how could you ever forget about that little detail?
"um. i'm making pancakes for egg," you reply as evenly as possible, walking over to one of the high-end cabinets and pulling out the heavy bag of flour.
"no— i mean what are you doing in our house," he clarifies, cocking an amused, cynical eyebrow to the side.
you scrunch your nose again, flaring your nostrils at the mug. "seven hells… what is that drink.. it smells like literal horse piss…" you desperately attempt to steer the topic off yourself as you reach up to take the ceramic measuring bowl from the top shelf.
"y/n," daeron chides, his voice raspy and dry, noting your incredibly obvious attempt to ignore his question.
he might be the family drunk. the one who hides away from their father's heavy expectations with cheap liquor and cynical thoughts. but he isn't stupid. far from it.
"nothing… what… it's not like i broke in," you mutter, getting way too defensive, your carefully constructed mask entirely faltering as you crack an egg against the lip of the bowl.
"i just slept over… so what. big deal. i didn't peg you as the one to have an issue with me being here. aerion is the one who usually—"
mentioning aerion. the absolute worst move you could have made.
because almost immediately, you can see the realization click into place across his sharp features.
daeron violently chokes on whatever the hell herbal tea he was brewing—probably some nasty, bitter detox blend his father forced him to drink to help with the lingering alcohol dependency.
"shit," he coughs out, his chest heaving as he grabs a paper towel.
his eyes quickly glance over your entire frame, his posture growing more confident and amused by the second. a slow, wicked grin is already spreading across his face.
"what?" you snap at him, your fingers sticky with egg white.
"shiiiiit," he prolongs, his voice dropping into a low, delighted drawl.
"daeron, i swear to gods if you don't shut the hell up right now—"
"you slept with my brother," he states too calmly. leaning his hip against the counter and grinning thoroughly at the sheer, mortified horror painted across your face.
"what— why the hell would you even think that— i literally hate aerion's guts..."
he just takes another slow, agonizing sip from his steaming mug, humming victoriously behind the ceramic. "mhm. sure. whatever you want to tell yourself, sweetheart."
you begin to blabber on, your words tripping over each other as you attempt to defend your honor. but he casually interjects with the cold, seasoned perception of a guy who has spent his entire youth watching the dark underbelly of the westerosi elite.
"i've seen plenty of the morning after girls in this house to know exactly what someone looks like after getting it… and getting it good," he snorts, his grin turning slightly bitter at the edges. "which is not me complimenting my brother, by the way. i still absolutely hate his guts. he's still a psycho."
"but phew." he moves slowly around the marble counter, preparing to leave the room entirely as you stand there dumbly.
the cracked egg gleaming on the polished surface, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"also… there's a hickey." he points a lazy finger toward his own hip, indicating your waistline.
you look down at yourself in a sudden panic.
your oversized t-shirt must have ridden up when you were reaching high for the measuring bowl on the top shelf, exposing the pale skin of your hip. where darkly against your skin lays a deep purple crescent mark—the violent, possessive imprint of aerion's teeth from a few hours ago.
"better cover that," he nods knowingly, flashing you one last empathetic but highly amused look before stepping completely out of the kitchen and disappearing down the corridor
you stand frozen by the stove, your hands trembling as you aggressively tug the hem of your shirt down to cover the mark.
from the far end of the western wing, the distinct, heavy sound of a bedroom door swinging open echoes through the quiet estate.
your stomach does a violent, nauseating lurch.
those are aerion’s footsteps. you would recognize that distinct, heavy, and deliberate tread anywhere.
you can hear the faint, gravelly groan of him waking up, his low voice muttering a curse into the empty hallway as he realizes his bed is empty.
the phantom scent of his anger and desire already waking up with him. he’s moving. he's going to come looking for you.
before the panic can completely paralyze you, the bright, frantic patter of much smaller bare feet thumps against the hardwood floors from the opposite direction.
"y/n! are they ready yet?"
aegon bursts into the kitchen, completely oblivious to the thick, toxic adult tension currently suffocating the air.
he's freshly dressed in his favorite cartoon t-shirt, his little hairs sticking up in wild, adorable cowlicks, his face entirely bright and hungry.
he slides slightly on the polished marble, pulling out a stool and climbing up onto it with a massive, gap-toothed grin.
"i want extra whipped cream," he demands happily, resting his chin in his small hands, completely clueless about his brother waking up down the hall. completely clueless about the marks hidden beneath your clothes.
"yeah, egg," you whisper, your voice thick as you turn back to the hot stove, pouring the batter onto the pan while your chest tightens. "extra whipped cream. coming right up."
TRANCE ✧ modern!aerion targaryen x egg’s babysitter!reader (part of the welcome to the family series)
✧ synopsis— Aerion Targaryen hates you. And you hate him. It is merely a simple fact of nature. But after weeks of riling you up and pushing you dangerously close to the edge— everything threatens to boil over at a party hosted by one of Valarr’s campus friends.
✧ warnings— enemies to lovers but they actually hate each other (kind of?), slowburn, very toxic dynamics aka aerion is severely immature but it’s ok we forgive him because he’s hot (and blonde), english is not my first language so potentially some sentences and grammar that make absolutely no sense, alcohol, mentions of substances and intoxication, smoking, uhm very messy kissing and graphic descriptions of blood
✧ word count— 14k
✧ author’s note— i’ve been waiting for this one. turn it up. seriously though haha tysm for being this patient with me, i know a lot of you have been waiting for this fic since april. it was really fun writing it though and i can only hope you enjoy reading it equally as much ! <3
. . . ♬ on the radio ; the cure by olivia rodrigo & haunted by beyoncé.
The blue light of your laptop was a cold, unforgiving sun in the dimness of your studio apartment. You were sprawled across the floor, the plush fibers of the taupe carpet pressing against your cheek, providing a strange grounding sort of friction against the drift of your thoughts.
Around you, the world felt static— a tableau of half finished coffee cups and a mountain of open tabs that hummed with a quiet, persistent buzz.
The emails sat in a neat, daunting row. A digital wall of obligations you weren't quite ready to climb yet.
“And then— Y/N! Are you even listening to me?” Aegon’s voice, tiny and sharp through the phone speakers, sliced through your temporary trance.
You blinked, your eyes burning from the screen glare as you shifted your weight, propping your chin up with your palm.
In the small, glowing rectangle of the FaceTime window Aegon—Egg— looked borderline offended. His shaved head an evidence of rebellion in a family that prized their silver-gold manes like religious relics. His face catching the light of his bedside lamp.
“Huh!” You shook your head, the motion making the room tilt for a fraction of a second. “I’m here, Egg. I’m listening, I swear.”
Egg sighed. A dramatic, heavy sound that seemed too weary for a boy his age. He rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated by the camera angle. “Right. Sure you are. So, what did I just say? About Daeron promising to take me to that amusement park?”
You stared at him, your brain a chaotic, filing cabinet of unfinished assignments and to-be-attended seminars. “Uhm… well… I know it involved something about… the dornish puppeteers? Did they have a pop-up show near the ferris wheel?”
“See! I knew it!” He pointed a traitorous finger at the camera, his expression a mix of triumph and genuine annoyance. “You weren't listening. You were doing that thing which you do when my dad is talking and you’re pretending like you’re listening.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay!” You groaned, finally surrendering to the fatigue and letting your head thud back against the base of the velvet sofa behind you. Choosing to ignore his side remark for your own sanity.
You reached out, fumbling to perch the phone against a discarded thrown pillow so you could look at him without holding the device. “I’m just… I’m swamped Egg. College is kicking my ass. It’s a relentless cycle of deadlines, and your family… your beautiful, brooding, weirdly passive-aggressive family… they’re a lot to handle sometimes.”
You knew, logically, that you shouldn't be venting the intricacies of Targaryen interpersonal drama to the youngest member of the dynasty, but Egg was anything but a normal kid.
He was the sixth son of a fourth son. He was free to do as he pleased, yet he still carried the weight and prejudice that came with the Targaryen name.
“Tell me about it,” Aegon deadpanned.
He flopped onto his back, his camera swinging wildly to show a ceiling painted with a mural of the night sky— it was expensive, meticulous, and cold.
“They’re exhausting. Especially when Daeron starts drinking those ‘medicinal’ herbal teas that smell like a brewery.”
You didn’t even want to know.
“The point is,” you sighed, closing your eyes and letting the hum of your laptop anchor you, “I’m trying to keep my head above water, and I’m sorry if I can’t remember every minuscule detail of the amusement park itinerary. I’m trying to be a person, Egg. It’s harder than it looks.”
Aegon went quiet suddenly. Through the screen, his expression softened, his eyes losing that sharp, precocious edge.
He looked, for a moment, like a little boy who just missed his friend.
“I know,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t mean to be difficult. Much.”
“It’s fine,” you whispered, biting the corner of your lip, suddenly feeling guilty for dumping everything onto him.
You felt the familiar ache of your own position. The permanent babysitter, the girl who came over every friday, the honorary older sister who still had to submit invoices to a business manager at the end of every month.
You loved them, you truly did.
You loved the chaos of Kiara’s friendship and the way she navigated the social stratosphere with a grace you could only envy.
You loved Daella and Rhae, even when they were being impossible.
But you were an orbit away from their sun.
“Plus,” you added, the bitterness leaking out before you could stop it, “your asshole brother has made it his personal mission in life to make sure I don't have a single moment of peace on campus.”
You didn’t bother to censor the word.
‘Asshole’ was perhaps the kindest descriptor you had for Aerion Targaryen.
“Aerion?” Egg’s voice sharpened with genuine confusion and a flicker of something that looked quite like dread. “What’s he doing now? Is he being… weird again?”
You remembered when Egg had told you— about how apparently Aerion had drowned his cat in the well once. Looking at the dying creature with cold, detached eyes. A shudder ran through you, a cold finger tracing the length of your spine.
“Nothing direct,” you lied, though the lie felt thin, even from your own lips.
“Just comments. He’s always there Egg. In the student union, in the courtyard… leaning against that ridiculous car of his. He always makes these… remarks. About my clothes. About how I look like I’m constantly lost. About how I don’t ‘belong’ there.”
“Y/N…” Aegon sounded worried now.
“It’s stupid. He’s just a nepo baby with too much time and a god complex,” you said, trying to regain your footing. “He’s an asshole, and that’s just the natural order of things.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to take his offenses just because you’re working for—babysitting me,” Egg quickly corrected himself, his loyalty flaring up.
You bit your lip harder. That was the crux of it, wasn't it? You were the help, even if you were the help that got invited to Christmas dinner.
You were terrified of the day you might snap, of the day you might finally tell Aerion Targaryen exactly what you thought of his entire ‘brightflame’ persona, and subsequently find yourself without a job and a roof over your head.
Maekar, his father, was a fair man—hard, but fair, but you knew that blood was thicker than any employee contract.
“I know. I can handle it. Really,” you assured him, though your voice lacked the steel you wanted. You were tired of constantly being the resilient one, the punching bag.
Aegon huffed, clearly unconvinced, but he knew better than to push you when you were in this mood.
He rolled over in his bed, the rustle of his cotton sheets audible through the phone. “Well… anyway, I need to go. Maester Mellon is taking us for a ‘nature walk’ tomorrow. Which is just code for looking at dirt and pretending it’s interesting.”
“Ah. How academic. How very thousand eyes and one of him,” you snickered, referencing the old campus joke about the faculty’s surveillance.
“Shut up,” Egg grumbled, but there was a smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Egg. And don’t stay up late playing Minecraft. I can see your status on Discord, you know.”
“Love youuu! Bye!”
He didn’t even wait for a response before the screen went black, the call cutting off with a soft bloop.
The silence came abruptly after. The ‘I love you’ lingering in the air. A warm, soft thing that made the cold blue light of the laptop feel a little less clinical. You hated how natural it sounded.
He was the reason you stayed. This little boy and his ridiculous shaved head were the only thing currently keeping you motivated.
But tomorrow was Monday. Tomorrow meant the university campus. It meant navigating the labyrinth of ivory towers and the even more treacherous social hierarchy of the ‘great houses’ students.
“Oh, fuck me,” you muttered, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache was already beginning to bloom behind your eyes. The humming of the fridge audiable in the background.
You thought of Aerion— the way he wore his arrogance like a tailored suit, and the way his eyes always seemed to find you in a crowd, tracking you with the predatory focus of someone who had never been told ‘no.’
You considered, just for a moment, the blissful possibility of staying in bed. Of letting the emails rot and the classes pass you by.
But then you thought of Egg’s laugh and Kiera’s frantic texts about the next big event, and you sighed.
You wouldn't give Aerion the satisfaction of your absence.
You’d show up, you’d take his insults, and you’d survive.
Because that’s what you did. You were the permanent babysitter, the girl who kept the dragons from burning down the house, even if it meant you got a few singe marks along the way.
Transitioning from the claustrophobic, blue light drenched sanctuary of your apartment to the sprawling, high-gothic grandeur of King’s Landing University always felt like a leap between two different centuries.
The previous night’s two hour digital marathon with Egg, his face a pixelated mess of adolescent indignity, felt like a fever dream by the time the morning sun hit the red brick facade of the Law building.
You were walking arm in arm with Kiera, your boots clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones that had been smoothed by centuries of entitled footsteps.
Kiera was a walking riot of color, as usual. A middle finger to the beige and navy minimalist aesthetic of the university’s elite. Her curls were a defiant, ethereal bubblegum pink, a nod to her Tyroshi heritage that she wore like a proud, neon sign.
She was draped in an oversized, custom hand painted silk coat that billowed behind her, looking effortlessly chic in a way that made the old money students in their barbour jackets look like they were wearing uniforms. All of them dulled in comparison to her.
"I’m telling yo Y/N, the look on Valarr’s face was priceless," Kiera giggled, the sound like wind chimes in the crisp morning air. She was recounting the latest scandal from the Breakspeare household.
"We were at this tiny, artisanal bistro very low-key, very ‘we’re not that famous'— and then Matarys calls. He sounds like he’s trying to describe the color of his own soul. Apparently, he thought those brownies in the fridge were just… well regular brownies."
You snorted, a stray lock of hair whipping across your face. "Matarys?” Your voice is filled with disbelief, imagining the straight edged, Dondarrion freckled, golden boy who apparently took an edible? By accident? How does that even happen?
"Accidentally, my ass. On purpose, maybe," Kiera deadpanned. "He told Valarr he was 'too scared of the ceiling' to call Baelor. Can you imagine? Calling the deputy of Targaryen corp who also happens to be your terrifyingly perfect father— to tell him the room is spinning? Valarr had to leave our dessert to go rescue him from a very intense conversation with a floor lamp."
"I think it's sweet that they trust each other like that," you noted, though a pang of envy flickered in your chest.
The Targaryens were a mess. A beautiful, sprawling, high functioning disaster, but they were a unit. Even when they were spiraling, they had someone to call. "I don’t think I’d have the courage to call anyone in that state. I’d just accept my fate and become one with the carpet."
"Oh, please," Kiera nudged you, her elbow sharp but affectionate. "You would’ve called me. Mostly because I’d probably be the one who gave you the brownie in the first place."
"True," you admitted, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to dissipate.
The campus was nothing short of electric today. Between the towering library and the ivy choked faculty buildings, a sea of white tents had been erected.
The KLU Student Body was hosting a massive charity drive for the urban renewal of Flea Bottom. The low income district that sat in the shadow of the university’s pristine hill. It was the kind of performative altruism the university adored; students in five hundred dollar sneakers selling cupcakes to 'end poverty.'
Still, it meant the atmosphere was festive rather than academic. No three hour seminars on ancient tournaments and conquests. No grueling geography tests on the tourist economies of the Summer Isles.
For a moment, you felt invincible. You were young, you were wearing your favorite thrifted leather jacket, and you were flanked by a woman who looked like a walking sunset.
"Looks like we have a penchant for trouble—" you started to say, the words light on your tongue. But as soon as the words escaped your lips, you wished they never had.
The scent is what gave him away. The sandalwood and expensive tobacco, and a sharp, metallic note of something like ozone. It was a fragrance that cost more than your monthly rent.
And the very air in the crowd seemed to shift, as if out of reverence.
Standing near the fountain, leaning against a stone gargoyle with a level of practiced arrogance that bordered on the divine, was Aerion Targaryen. A vision of monochromatic cruelty.
His hair, that signature Targaryen silver-white, was messily styled but perfectly maintained, catching the morning light like spun glass. He was wearing black dress pants that looked custom tailored to his lean frame and a crisp, white shirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing the pale line of his throat. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dirt of the path he clearly felt superior to.
"Seven hells," you whispered, the invincibility of the morning shattering like dropped porcelain. "Just the thing I needed. My daily dose of arsenic."
Kiera’s upbeat expression flattened instantly. Her pastel brows furrowed as her eyes landed on her boyfriend’s cousin. "Oh. Him."
You tried to pivot, to blend into a group of passing freshmen, but it was too late.
Aerion’s gaze—a pale, violet-grey that felt like being stared at by a glacier— already snapped to yours. He straightened up. A slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He practically descended upon you.
"Not babysitting the impudent little rat today, are you?"
His voice was a smooth, melodic drawl, the kind of voice that belonged to a venomous serpent draped in silk, and was currently being used as a weapon. He didn't even bother with a greeting. To Aerion, you were a fixed point in the universe— a target.
"Aerion," Kiera said, her voice dropping into the clipped, diplomatic tone she used when dealing with the more volatile members of the family tree.
He offered her a shallow, mocking nod, his eyes never leaving yours. He was sizing you up, his gaze raking over your outfit, the slightly worn boots, the frayed hem of your jeans—with a visible, shimmering disdain. It was as if he were looking at a smudge on an otherwise perfect canvas.
"And you," he turned his focus to Kiera, his presence suddenly suffocating. "Not hanging off my dear cousin’s arm today, Kiera? Or has Valarr finally realized that your color palette is… shall we say, a bit too much for a future diplomat?"
Kiera visibly tensed beside you, her hand tightening on your arm. "Valarr is busy with the faculty. They’re organizing the fundraiser. You know, for people who actually need help?"
Aerion let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He looked at the charity tents with an expression of profound boredom.
"How lovely. Charity being organized by… charity cases." He leveled a pointed, malicious look at you. The implication hung in the air like a foul mist: You are the help. You are the Flea Bottom they are pretending to care about.
"If you have nothing nice to say, Aerion, you might as well take your expensive cologne and your bad attitude back to the economics wing," you managed through gritted teeth, your pulse hammering in your ears. "Some of us are actually trying to have a good day."
He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could see the fine, silver lashes framing his eyes. "Careful," he hissed, his voice dropping to a poisonous whisper that only you could hear. "Remember, sweetheart, you still work for my father. One word about your… 'unprofessional' outbursts, and you’ll be back to working at the puppeteer shows without a paycheck to catch you."
"You have some nerve—" Kiera started, stepping forward to defend you, but you caught her hand.
Aerion chuckled, a sound of pure amusement. "Careful Tyrosh. Calm your little friend. We wouldn't want those wedding bells with Valarr to stop tolling before they even start, would we? Uncle Baelor is so very particular about the company his heir keeps."
The threat was veiled, but heavy. He was reminding both of you of the precariousness of your positions. Kiera was a girlfriend; and you were an employee. He was something neither of you would ever be. He was blood.
"Have a fun time, ladies," he added casually, slinging his hands into his pockets and stepping back.
He swept his gaze over you one last time, his eyes lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second too long before turning cold again. "Taking care of… blind children and narcomaniacs. It suits you. Very 'salt of the earth.'"
And with that he vanished into the crowd, his silver hair a beacon of light amidst the sea of brown and blonde. The scent of his cologne lingering like a physical weight, a reminder of the encounter that made you feel suddenly, violently small.
"What the hell is actually wrong with him?" Kiera muttered, practically dragging you away from the fountain and toward the arts and humanities building. "He’s getting worse. It’s like he’s bored of being a Targaryen, so he’s decided to try his hand at being a demon."
"Nothing’s wrong with him, Kie," you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. "Some people are just inherently evil. It’s a biological trait. He was born with silver hair and a missing conscience."
"You really believe that?"
"Don't you?"
Kiera didn't answer. She just hummed a low, thoughtful note as you reached the sanctuary of the arts building.
Inside (to your relief) the atmosphere changed instantly. The clinical, cold air of the campus was replaced by the scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and stale coffee.
Tanselle was positioned in the center of the atrium, perched on a wooden stool that looked like it was held together by prayer and old paint.
She was a muralist by trade, but today she was doing 'quick fire' portraits for the charity drive. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and a smudge of cerulean blue decorated her cheekbone. She was focused, her brush moving with a grace that made the chaos around her seem like background noise.
"Oh! Hey!" she greeted once she had noticed your presence, not looking up until she’d finished a delicate line on the canvas. "What’s up? I’m just finishing this one… it’s a portrait of a 'lost soul’ or something… I think the student just had a bad hangover."
"We ran into the devil on the way here," you deadpanned, leaning against a nearby table cluttered with jars of brushes.
From the shadows of a nearby pillar, a girl with fiery red hair and a look of permanent skepticism emerged. Rowan— she was holding a thermos that you knew for a fact contained more vodka than tea.
"You mean prince brightflame?" Rowan mocked, her eyebrow arching. "Did he set anyone on fire today, or was he just being his usual, sparkling self?"
"The one and only," Kiera sighed, leaning down to give Tanselle a quick, paint avoidant squeeze.
"Okay, enough about Targaryens. Especially the ones who think they’re God’s gift to the student union," you groaned, rubbing your temples. "I need to forget his face exists for at least four hours."
"What’s got your panties in a twist?" Rowan giggled, taking a long swig from her thermos. "Is it the insults? Or is it the fact that he looked particularly edible in that white shirt today?"
You stared at her, your expression flat. "Do not even finish that thought, Rowan. I don't care what the university policy is on student on student violence."
"Alright, alright, Seven Hells… no need to go all Maegor on me," Rowan grumbled, though she was still grinning.
She had an ongoing bet that your mutual hatred with Aerion was just a very long, very exhausting preamble to something else.
You hated that she even thought it. You hated even more that, for a split second by the fountain, you’d noticed the way the wind caught his hair.
"Anyway… on a lighter and happier note…" Kiera spoke up, leaning against another table of art supplies. "One of Valarr's faculty friends, some guy named Raymun, is hosting a party tonight at his off campus loft. It should be cool. Not too many nepo babies, good music, and an appropriate amount of booze. Valarr said it’s a 'no ego' zone."
“I'm in," Rowan said instantly, gleaming with newfound enthusiasm. “I have a constitutional right to be at every party within a five mile radius.”
“Um… yeah, sure,” Tanselle said, her voice a bit more hesitant as she cleaned a brush. “If I finish the mural for the atrium…”
"Don't worry, Tans. Duncan will be there," Kiera winked.
Everyone knew Duncan— the towering, incredibly earnest rugby captain who followed Tanselle around like a particularly large, loyal hound.
Tanselle flushed a deep, violent crimson, muming something about “not caring about rugby players” that everyone gracefully ignored.
“What about you, Y/N? You in?” Kiera turned her gaze to you, her eyes hopeful. "You need this. You’ve been buried in schoolwork and Egg’s drama for weeks. One night. No babies, no Targaryens, no responsibilities."
You mulled it over. You had a Yi-Ti translation due on Wednesday. You had three chapters of The Citadel Chronicles to summarize. And, you had a lingering headache from Aerion’s venom.
In the back of your mind, a small, cynical voice whispered that a party hosted by Valarr’s friends was a dangerous place for someone trying to avoid the ‘inner circles.’
But you pushed it down. You were with your friends. You were in the Arts Building and the sun was out.
“Sure,” you said, the word feeling like a victory. “To hell with the emails. I’m in.”
You didn't realize that in the world of the Targaryens, the 'no ego zone' didn't exist. And Aerion Targaryen was never the one to miss a performance.
The first thing that catches you by surprise is not the overwhelming, sweet haze of top-shelf Dornish cannabis or the sharp, botanical sting of expensive gin.
In a place that was supposed to be a temporary Friday night sanctuary— a casual, off-campus loft in the old industrial district, supposedly void of any high-end drama or old-money politics, and the insufferable nepo babies of the Red Keep quad— you expected paper cups and vinyl records.
Instead, you stepped into a room filled with exactly the kind of royalty you had spent the entire week trying to escape.
A party hosted by a close friend of Valarr Targaryen. You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second, cursing your own naivety.
How fortunate.
What had you honestly been expecting? A gathering of normal people? Students who actually worried about tuition and supermarket receipts like you did?
But the true shock wasn't the sheer, architectural immensity of the living room, with its polished concrete floors, exposed steel beams, and massive glass panels showcasing a panoramic view of the twinkling King's Landing skyline.
It was that sharp, jagged bolt of white light across the room. A head of messily perfect, silver-white hair that you had been praying to the Seven you wouldn’t see tonight.
And much worse, draped elegantly over his arm was Alicia Florent.
Alicia was widely considered the campus’s reigning deity of effortless glamour— excluding Kiera, of course, who occupied a stratosphere entirely of her own.
A finely manicured, diamond-ringed hand was splayed possessively across Aerion’s forearm, the dark wool of his designer jacket a stark contrast to her sunkissed skin. Her perfectly lined, glossy lips were curved open in a rich, musical laugh at whatever witty, venomous thing he was currently whispering into her ear.
She looked entirely, infuriatingly perfect.
Her makeup was a masterclass in high-end minimalism; a subtle, glittering shimmer danced across her eyelids and collarbones, looking so natural it defied the hours it must have taken to apply. Her clothes, a silk, emerald-green slip dress fitted her like a second skin.
It was obviously expensive, the kind of fabric that didn't wrinkle or catch, and you were suddenly, violently overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of inferiority.
She was a natural. A creature born to inhabit rooms like these, to drink from crystal flutes and look down on the rest of the world with a lazy, secure smile.
You desperately tried to tuck that jealous sense of inadequacy away, but it was hard when your own outfit suddenly felt like a joke.
The structured black crop top and matching silk skirt (which Kiera had practically forced you into, insisting you needed to show a little skin and live a little) now felt entirely too revealing. Under the invisible, judgmental gazes of the KLU elite, the fabric seemed to suffocate you. Making you feel exposed and clownish instead of gorgeous.
You felt like an imposter who had snuck in through the servant's entrance.
You forced yourself to shake off the feeling, taking a deep breath as you stepped further into the warm, bass-heavy atmosphere of the loft, hand in hand with Rowan.
Rowan, bless her, was a necessary shield against the room's collective snobbery.
She was sporting a vintage leather jacket slung effortlessly over a fiery, scarlet jumpsuit that perfectly matched her untamed nature. Her thick, red curls were propped into a flawless, artfully messy topknot on her head, and she moved through the crowd like a queen inspecting her subjects.
“Hi! Hello! Oh my god, babe, you look so stunning!” Rowan called out, waving to a group of arts students by the balcony. She was so painfully, beautifully natural at this— at being kind, funny, charismatic, and universally liked.
While she floated through the social waters with ease, you just stood there awkwardly, anchoring yourself to her hand and pinning a tight, plastic smile to your face, hoping no one would look close enough to see the panic in your eyes.
Tanselle and Kiera were a few paces behind you, following closely on your heels, looking equally shimmering and joyful.
The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the bass from the speakers couldn't drown out the sudden shift in the air behind you. You caught the faint, warm sound of Valarr’s deep voice as he approached their group.
Turning your head slightly, you watched as the heir apparent to the Breakspeare fortune greeted Kiera, his chocolate brown hair catching the amber pendant lights as he leaned down to press a tender, familiar kiss to her temple.
Right beside them, Duncan— the towering rugby captain who looked slightly terrifying but possessed the heart of a golden retriever— was already hovering over Tanselle.
He muttered a shy, earnest greeting, and even in the dim lighting of the loft, you could see Tanselle flush a furious, violent crimson.
You turned around fully just to shoot her an encouraging, all-knowing smile. She caught your eye, her blush deepening as she biting her lip, a silent plea for you to stop teasing her.
Before you could offer any more silent solidarity, Rowan was suddenly pulled to the side. The host of the party himself—Raymun Fossoway— had caught sight of her.
He intercepted your path with a wide, bright grin, and the immediate body language between them suggested they were much more familiar than you had previously realized.
“Hey,” Raymun greeted you, extending a hand to shake yours.
His grip was polite, but it was entirely clear that his brain had ceased to function the moment he looked past your shoulder. His eyes literally could not leave Rowan’s stunning, scarlet-clad figure.
You couldn't even find it in yourself to be annoyed. You got it. Everyone looked at Rowan when she entered a room.
You offered him a quick, polite greeting, gently squeezing Rowan's hand before letting it go. "I'll be totally fine on my own," you assured her in a quiet whisper, giving her a reassuring nod as Raymun already began pulling her into a conversation about some indie band.
“Okay, scream if you need anything!” She managed to let out before Raymun dragged her away towards some friends.
Turning away from the couples and the social butterflies, you looked toward the far side of the room.
You needed a barrier between yourself and the silver haired specter by the window.
Deciding to put some distance between yourself and the crowd, you began to weave through the sea of silk and linen, heading straight toward the crowded kitchen counter to grab a drink.
The kitchen was nothing short of breathtaking, a cathedral of high end consumption, dominated by a vast marble island that looked like it had been carved from a single cloud.
It was cluttered with an array of spirits that felt more like museum artifacts than party supplies— bottles of triple-distilled vodka and vintage Dornish reds with labels so ornate and script so archaic you could barely pronounce the names, let alone guess the price point.
You were in the middle of decanting a suspiciously shimmering liquid into what felt like a genuine crystal tumbler (half-convinced the glassware alone cost more than your monthly rent) when a sudden clearing of a throat vibrated through the air beside you.
Before you even turned, the scent hit you like a sensory ambush.
It was a suffocatingly sweet cloud of Ashai vanilla and sun-ripened strawberries— a fragrance so curated and polished it felt like walking into a high-end boutique in the middle of a summer heatwave.
It was the smell of someone who had never known the scent of a crowded subway or a cheap laundromat. It was the scent of a walking candy cane.
You turned, the heavy bottle still poised awkwardly in your hand. “Hm?” Your gaze collided with Alicia Florent.
“Hey.” Her voice was like honey dripped over velvet— painfully sweet and effortlessly melodic.
She flashed a smile that belonged in a Vogue editorial, her teeth so perfectly white and aligned they looked like a row of polished pearls. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice dropping as a group of boisterous students pushed past, forcing her to press into your personal space.
Up close, the perfection was devastating.
Her blonde hair didn't just curl; it spiraled in a way that suggested a personal stylist had spent hours meticulously crafting a 'natural' look. Her eyes were two pools of shimmering, ocean-like blue crystals, framed by lashes so long they seemed to cast shadows against her high, sculpted cheekbones.
You felt a sudden, sharp pang of grounding reality; you totally understood why Aerion had her anchored to his side.
She was a goddess crafted from old money privilege and premium skincare.
You stood there, feeling like a low resolution glitch in a high definition movie, holding the glass bottle with a grip that was far too tight. You were painfully aware of the contrast— her glittering, effortless grace against your own sense of being an intruder in a world built for people like her.
“Oh, I just came over to grab us a drink,” she said, her smile widening as she registered your wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.
The ‘us’ hung in the air like a territorial flag.
It was a subtle, sharp reminder that while you were here as a guest of a friend, she was here as a part of the dynasty. People like Alicia Florent and people who spent their weekends parsing complex Yi-ti sentences and babysitting the youngest Targaryen did not inhabit the same social stratosphere.
It was just a biological fact of campus life.
She let out a soft, airy giggle— a sound that was probably practiced to perfection— and reached for a gold-labeled bottle of Arbor Gold. “Do you mind?” she asked, her gaze flicking down to your hand, noting that you were essentially guarding the bar.
“Right… um, sorry,” you stammered, your face heating up as the ice in your glass rattled.
You cleared your throat, the unknown liquid in your cup sloshing dangerously as you stepped back, yielding the marble altar to its rightful priestess.
You didn't wait for her to say anything else. You pivoted, ducking your head and weaving your way through the press of bodies, heading toward a shadowed, secluded corner of the loft near the floor to ceiling windows.
You decided then and there to leave the expensive drink-mixing to the expensive nepo babies; you needed the darkness of the corner to hide the fact that you suddenly felt very, very visible.
You bumped into people muttering quiet little ‘sorry’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ until you finally found the heavy glass sliding doors that led out to the expansive terrace.
You needed air. You needed to escape the suffocating sweetness of Alicia’s strawberry scented perfection and the low, heavy hum of bass that was beginning to rattle the inside of your skull.
As you stepped outside, the climate shifted instantly.
The cool, midnight breeze of King’s Landing clipped at your bare shoulders, a welcome shock to your system. Below the loft, the sprawling, chaotic expanse of the metropolis hummed with nocturnal life.
You could hear the faint, distorted sounds of the city filtering up to the penthouse level— distant shouts from the entertainment district, the aggressive honk of car horns, and the low, rhythmic wail of a siren echoing somewhere down in the valleys of the concrete jungle.
Above it all, the towering skyscrapers of the financial sector gleamed like sharp, metallic monoliths, their glass windows reflecting millions of tiny, artificial lights against the dark canopy of the sky.
It was the quintessential Westerosi dream: a glittering, cutthroat paradise built on old money and modern ambition.
You leaned your weight against the sleek, black iron railing, closing your eyes as you took a deep, centering breath. You let the crisp night air fill your lungs, hoping it would cleanse the dizzying haze of the Dornish wine and the residual contact smoke from the living room.
Out here, the party was beautifully muted. The thumping bass became a dull, rhythmic heartbeat against the glass, and the loud, overlapping conversations of the KLU elite drifted away into the wind.
For a few fleeting seconds, suspended high above the streets, you felt entirely untouched by the hierarchy inside.
A movement in the far corner of the terrace caught your eye. A couple was deeply entrenched in the shadows, draped over one another on a low outdoor sectional. They were clearly drunk, murmuring slurred, lovey-dovey obscenities into each other’s ears, entirely oblivious to the world.
You squinted at them for a fraction of a second, rolled your eyes with a quiet shrug, and walked purposefully toward the furthest, most isolated edge of the balcony, seeking whatever true peace you could salvage.
Then, the heavy glass door hissed open behind you.
You didn't turn around. You assumed the amorous couple had finally taken their business indoors, or perhaps another drunk freshman had come out to throw up over the side. You remained still, staring out at the golden grid of the highway below, until the air around you changed.
The wind shifted, carrying that familiar, dangerous fragrance— sandalwood, rich tobacco. Your breath hitched in your throat.
Before you could even process the sensory warning, a lean, broad-shouldered frame leaned onto the railing right beside you.
Up close, the first things that caught the ambient light were his hands. His long, aristocratic fingers were loosely gripping the cold metal of the railing, adorned with an array of heavy, intricate rings.
They were beautifully crafted jewels, shaped into coiled dragons and sharp, jagged scales that caught the neon glow of the city lights. They were forged from dark, smoky Valyrian steel— the ultimate heirloom status symbol, modernized for a prince who wore his legacy like brass knuckles.
The irritation began to simmer in your chest, a biological knee-jerk reaction to his very existence. Your spine instantly straightened into a rigid, defensive line.
"Come out here to make my life a living hell again?" The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them, laced with a bitter, cynical venom.
Perhaps it was the cheap courage of the alcohol flowing through your veins, or maybe you were just entirely exhausted by his games, but you didn't care that you were speaking to your employer's volatile son with complete disrespect.
But to your absolute shock, the sharp, cutting retort never came.
There was no dry remark about your attitude, no poisonous reminder that he could have your contract terminated before sunrise. Aerion remained perfectly still.
He just stared straight ahead into the sprawling labyrinth of the city lights, his expression unreadable, as if entranced. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket and pulled out a classic, crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.
You stood there silently, utterly dumbstruck by this newfound, quiet iteration of him.
Your gaze involuntarily drifted to his side profile. In the dim, ambient wash of the terrace lights, his features looked sharp enough to draw blood— the perfect curve of his nose, the slight clench of his jawline, and that notoriously messy, silver-white hair that somehow always managed to look effortlessly styled.
A sudden, sharp click broke the silence as he flicked open a matte-black lighter. The small, orange flame illuminated his face for a second, casting long shadows across his high cheekbones.
He inhaled deeply, taking a slow, heavy drag before letting the gray smoke curl lazily from his lips, wrapping around the space between you like a shroud.
You watched the way he held the cigarette between his fingers— so delicately, almost gently, as if he were tracing the fragile skin of a lover. It was a vulnerable, quiet posture that felt entirely out of character for the brutal, arrogant boy you encountered on campus.
You cocked your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowing as you silently questioned what kind of psychological game was unfolding.
"If you keep staring at me like that, I'll have to assume you like what you see." His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, rough from the smoke but dripping with his signature, lazy arrogance.
The tip of his cigarette glowed a fierce, angry orange as he took another slow drag. His violet-grey eyes never shifted from the concrete jungle below, but a slow, maddening smirk was beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth.
You let out a sharp, breathless scoff, though to your own horror, a strange sense of comfort washed over you at the sarcastic remark. It was predictably, entirely Aerion.
"You are so incredibly full of yourself," you muttered. And for the first time since you had met him, your words felt less like a defensive shield and more like a tease.
You blamed the wine. You blamed the heavy midnight air, the glittering skyline, and the infuriatingly perfect way the neon lights reflected in his pale irises. There was absolutely no logical way you were enjoying Aerion Targaryen’s company.
"You'd be profoundly bored without it," he bit back smoothly, finally turning his head to look at you.
When his gaze locked onto yours, it felt like a physical shock. His eyes were sharp, electric, and possessed a dark, hungry intensity that made the air in your lungs feel dangerously thin.
"You know, Aerion," you sighed, leaning back against the railing and trying to maintain your grounded, deadpan demeanor despite the sudden hammering of your pulse, "you are, without a doubt, the most irritating person I have ever encountered in my entire life."
"Say that again," he whispered. The shift in his tone was instantaneous. Something dark and predatory flashed in the depths of his eyes.
And you would have rather labeled yourself entirely delusional than admit that his lean frame had just gravitated toward yours, his shoulder brushing against your leather jacket as he leaned in close.
"What? That you're the most irritating person I’ve ever—"
"No," he snapped softly, his jaw clenching with a sudden, rigid intensity. "My name." He clarified.
You froze, your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stared at him. The sheer, magnetic weight of his presence was overwhelming. You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you finally relented to the gravity of the moment.
"Aerion," you spoke, the syllables falling from your lips more deliberately this time.
You tasted the weight of his name on your tongue, weighing the vowels as if testing a dangerous secret. It felt dizzyingly, terrifyingly intimate. No, you hate him. You absolutely despise his entire existence.
Suddenly, Rowan’s laughing voice flashed through your mind from earlier in the afternoon—You two just have too much mutual attraction. It’s chaotic chemistry, simmering until it bursts.
You forced yourself to clear your throat, aggressively pushing those chaotic thoughts into the darkest corners of your brain.
"So…" you began, desperate to fracture the suffocating tension that had built up between your bodies. "Where exactly is Alicia? I’m surprised she let you out of her sight for more than thirty seconds."
You wondered how the campus goddess had managed to lose her prize. Aerion's arm candy usually followed him everywhere at events like this, not necessarily because he possessed a genuine shred of affection for them, but because they served as a pristine status symbol.
"Inside," he said flatly, as if the answer were entirely inconsequential.
At the mention of the blonde girl, his silver brows furrowed with a brief, visible flicker of annoyance.
"I thought you liked her?" You shrugged, nervously fiddling with the rings on your own fingers, desperately trying to quell the strange, fluttering sensation that was beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach.
Aerion watched your hands, tracking the nervous movement of your fingers before he straightened his posture.
He cleared his throat, the flashing silver face of his luxury watch catching the moonlight. "She’s…"
He cocked his head to the side, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh that sounded entirely uncharacteristic. He nervously racked a hand through his white hair, his fingers disrupting the perfect mess of his strands as if he were genuinely struggling to find the right vocabulary.
"She's just…"
"Alicia," you finished for him, your tone flat.
"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver down your spine.
He turned his head fully now, his violet eyes locking onto your face with a dangerous, undisguised hunger.
"Don't look at me like that," you whispered, the words small, a desperate attempt to swallow the rising anxiety in your throat.
"Like what?" he chuckled, the sound rich and low against the background hum of the city.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I hate you, Aerion. Remember?" you reasoned, trying to remind both him and yourself of the boundaries.
"You say that like you're trying to convince yourself," he murmured. He shifted his weight, turning his torso fully toward you now, completely invading your personal space.
Before your brain could formulate a cohesive, defensive response, his hand rose.
His long fingers reached out, the cold, heavy metal of his Valyrian steel rings brushing against the hypersensitive skin of your jawline as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
His touch was agonizingly slow, a gentle contrast to the volatile persona he usually was.
"Let's just say…" he whispered, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from your ear, his breath a warm mix of heavy tobacco and expensive alcohol against your skin. "I vastly prefer you when you're not playing house for my little brother."
He was so incredibly close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. Your mind snapped under the proximity, an embarrassing, violent heat crawling up your neck.
What kind of twisted game was he playing? He had to be mocking you. This was undoubtedly another one of his cruel, depraved psychological experiments to see how easily he could break you—
The electric moment was violently shattered by the sharp hiss of the sliding glass door opening once again.
"There you are!"
Alicia’s glittering, emerald-clad frame stepped out onto the concrete terrace, her voice bellowing over the quiet hum of the night.
She was looking directly at Aerion, her glossy lips pouted in exaggerated annoyance. "I've been looking for you literally everywhere, everyone is in the lounge."
Aerion made a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat— a guttural, irritated sound as if pulling his weight away from your body physically pained him.
He straightened up, his demeanor instantly freezing back into its familiar, icy mask.
"Is everything… okay out here?" Alicia asked innocently, her ocean-blue eyes flicking curiously from Aerion's rigid posture to your flushed face.
She seemed entirely devoid of jealousy. In fact, the absolute absurdity of person like Aerion Targaryen harboring a genuine, consuming interest in a girl like you was clearly a concept so laughable she didn't even possess the capacity to entertain it.
To her, you were just the girl who watched Aegon. You were part of the background scenery.
You quickly cleared your throat, desperately trying to construct a normal sentence before the silence became incriminating. "Yeah. Um, we were just chatting about—"
You didn't even get to finish your lie. Alicia reached out, her manicured hand wrapping tightly around Aerion's forearm, physically dragging him toward the glowing warmth of the interior.
"Oh, perfect! Well, you can finish your little chat another time. Valarr is looking for you in the kitchen, they’re opening the good bottles."
With that, she began pulling him back toward the glass doors. Aerion aggressively shood her hand off his arm with a sharp flick of his wrist, but he was already trailing reluctantly on her heels, his compliance a necessity of the crowd inside.
Just before he crossed the threshold back into the roaring noise of the party, he stopped.
He looked back over his shoulder once, his pale, violet-grey irises catching the harsh glare of the neon signs.
"You're trouble," he murmured, his voice carrying a strange, low weight that felt dangerously pleasant.
You swallowed the remaining panic in your throat, anchoring your heels into the concrete. "You'd be bored without it," you managed to fire back, throwing his own line right back at his chest.
Aerion shook his head, a genuine, quiet huff of a laugh escaping his lips before he turned and vanished into the sea of silk and gold.
The glass door hissed shut behind him.
You let out a long, shuddering breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your fingers tightly gripping the iron railing as your knees felt suddenly, dangerously weak.
You stared blindly out at the twinkling lights of the King's Landing skyscrapers, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco still heavy in the midnight air.
What the hell had just happened?
The heavy glass door slid shut behind you, cutting off the crisp midnight breeze and plunging you back into the sensory overload of the penthouse.
The sudden spike in temperature, the thick scent of luxury perfumes competing with expensive cannabis overwhelmed you once again, and the sheer volume of the bass rattling through the hardwood floors.
You needed to drown out the memory of the balcony. You needed to dance, to drink, to find Kiera or Tanselle— literally anyone who could act as an anchor to reality before your thoughts completely spiraled into dangerous territory.
Like a neon beacon of hope in a sea of unknown faces, Kiera’s familiar head of bubblegum pink curls caught the light near the edge of the sunken living room. She was leaning against a sleek minimalist pillar, gesturing animatedly with a tiny martini glass as she talked to Valarr and a guy you didn’t recognize.
"Hey," you said, stepping into their orbit. A sudden, nervous energy carried you forward, your heart still beating a little too fast from your encounter outside.
The trio turned toward you. Kiera’s face lit up instantly, her eyes bright and slightly glassy— a telltale sign that she had been indulging a little too heavily in the free-flowing liquor.
She held her martini glass at a dangerously loose angle, the clear liquid sloshing near the brim. You didn't worry, though. Valarr was right beside her, his hand already resting protectively at the small of her back. He always looked out for her.
"Y/N!" Kiera beamed, throwing her free arm around your neck in a sudden, bone-crushing hug. She was definitely more intoxicated than she’d let on via text earlier. "You made it! I thought you died on the balcony!"
"Whoa, whoa, careful, love…" Valarr’s deep voice intervened smoothly.
With the practiced reflexes of a seasoned athlete, he leaned across, his long fingers gently but firmly catching the stem of the martini glass just as it slipped from Kiera’s grip. He wasn't fast enough to stop the liquid entirely though, as a splash of the gin sloshed straight onto the front of her silk top.
"Oh, shit," Kiera grumbled, staring down at the damp fabric and sighing in deep frustration at her own clumsiness.
"I'm going to go get this cleaned up," she mumbled, pouting as she gestured vaguely toward the corridor where the guest bathrooms were located, her legs a little wobbly beneath her.
"Yeah, and you’re not going anywhere alone in this crowd," Valarr pointed out, a tender, amused smile breaking across his handsome features. He looped an arm around her hips, effortlessly guiding her through the dense press of people. Before they disappeared, he offered a polite, apologetic nod to you and the remaining guy. "Excuse us for a minute."
You shook your head, a fond smile playing on your lips as you watched them go. Valarr really was the golden boy of the Breakspeare line— so effortlessly smooth, attentive, and diplomatic. He would make an incredible politician one day, exactly as his father Baelor intended.
Your eyes broke away from the retreating couple when a quiet throat-clearing sounded across from you.
You snapped your attention back to the stranger left standing in Valarr's wake. He was someone you had genuinely never seen before—not in the crowded lecture halls of the law building, not in the quiet, dusty corners of the study halls, and certainly not hanging around the high-end sports cars parked in the Red Keep quad.
He was blonde, but not the striking, otherworldly silver-blonde of the Targaryen dynasty. His hair was a softer, warmer shade of honeyed gold, messily strewn about his head in a way that suggested he had spent the day outdoors rather than in front of a mirror.
He possessed a wide, incredibly friendly grin that immediately crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was like a golden puppy. Lean and approachable, he wore a simple, well-fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of crisp, dark trousers. He looked entirely… safe.
"Hey… sorry for the chaos," he said, holding out a hand toward you. "Didn't even get a chance to introduce myself properly amidst the martini crisis. I'm Art."
You reached out and took his hand. When your fingers gripped his, you were caught off guard by the sheer warmth of his skin. There were no heavy, cold Valyrian steel rings biting into your palm this time. Just a normal, human touch.
"Me and Valarr are in the same political science major," he clarified, his smile widening as you exchanged names.
"Ah, right. You're Kiera's best friend," Art said, a look of recognition dawning on his face as he gestured toward a slightly quieter corner of the loft where a low leather bench sat empty. "Shit, Valarr mentions the two of you all the time when we're studying."
"He does?" You giggled, letting him guide you away from the main traffic of the walkway.
"Yeah… I mean, mostly he talks about Kiera. The man is completely, painfully down bad for her," Art laughed, scratching the back of his neck.
“Sound about right.” You bit back, sitting down beside him, you couldn't help but notice how entirely different his presence felt compared to the one on the balcony.
Aerion’s presence was a suffocating, atmospheric weight that demanded your entire cognitive capacity; it was all sharp edges, dangerous tension, and dark gravity. Art, on the other hand, felt like a sunny afternoon.
He was entirely down-to-earth. As you fell into easy, comfortable small talk, you learned he didn't come from a millionaire tech empire or an ancient political dynasty. He played tennis on a scholarship, had two younger siblings, and his parents actually owned a commercial dairy farm in the Reach district outside the city.
"Though, I have to say," Art added, leaning back against the bench and throwing you a playfully roguish look, "Valarr definitely left out the detail that Kiera had such a stunning best friend."
It was a textbook, slightly cheesy pickup line, and you couldn't help but swat his shoulder teasingly. "Oh, shut up," you grumbled, though a genuine laugh escaped you.
"What? I'm just stating facts!" he defended, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"So, you're a literal farmer?" you asked, leaning in, trying to make sure your voice didn't sound judgmental. It was just so rare to find someone at a KLU party who knew what manual labor felt like.
"What's so funny about that?" he laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I mean, I help out around the property when I go home for the holidays. I get the milk from the cows, mend the fences… why are you laughing so hard?"
"Nothing, nothing…" You shook your head, pressing a hand over your mouth as a breathless wheeze escaped you. "It's just… it's so incredibly Tom Sawyer of you. I didn't think guys like you actually existed at this university."
"Hey, it builds character," he grinned, his face completely open and relaxed.
You had to admit, you were having a surprisingly wonderful time. Art was easy to talk to, kind, and genuinely funny.
Yet, despite the effortless flow of the conversation, a traitorous, intrusive little voice in the very back of your head refused to go quiet.
No matter how much Art made you laugh, a part of your mind was still lingering on the balcony. Your skin still felt hyper-sensitive where Aerion’s smoky Valyrian steel rings had brushed against your jawline. You could still taste the phantom scent of Marlboro Reds and sandalwood in the back of your throat.
More than once, a prickling sensation washed over the back of your neck—that heavy, unmistakable feeling of a pair of eyes drilling into your spine.
But every time you casually glanced around the crowded room, hoping or fearing to catch a glimpse of silver hair, you found nothing but strangers. You're being delusional, you told yourself severely. He's with Alicia. He doesn't care about you.
At one point, Rowan walked past the lounge area, her hand securely laced with Raymun’s. When she caught sight of you chatting and laughing with the handsome, honey-blonde boy, she stopped dead in her tracks and shot you a massive, exaggeratedly knowing wink. You aggressively shook your head at her in return, your cheeks heating up as she giggled and let her host boyfriend pull her toward the bar.
"Anyway," Art said, drawing your attention back to the bench as he shifted the topic. "We were supposed to be discussing our interpretation of the Citadel Chronicles for Ashford's seminar. Did you actually manage to parse through the third volume's syntax? Because I'm convinced the author was having a stroke there.”
"Oh, the syntax is a nightmare," you agreed, glad for the academic distraction. "I had to stay up until three in the morning just trying to translate the regional economic data from the old port city—"
Before you could finish your sentence, a sharp, violent sound tore through the thick atmosphere of the loft. The sound of something crashing.
It was the unmistakable, explosive shattering of glass, heavy and resonant enough to cut right through the booming bass of the speakers. The music didn't stop, but the collective volume of the party’s laughter and chatter dropped instantly, replaced by a sudden, tense silence.
"What the hell…" Art muttered, his friendly expression instantly flattening as he stood up from the leather couch.
You rose immediately to follow his lead, your heart doing a strange, protective drop in your chest. Across the vast penthouse, a frantic murmur was breaking out. A large, dense crowd of students was already shifting, turning their heads and eagerly gathering near the wide archway of the kitchen entrance, voices rising in a sudden flurry of excitement and dread.
The easy, golden warmth of your conversation with Art dissolved like mist. You didn't even think; your boots were already moving, stepping off the leather bench and driving you toward the kitchen archway.
Art’s hand shot out, his warm fingers brushing against your wrist in a frantic attempt to anchor you, to keep you from running straight into the blast radius.
"Y/N, wait—don't get close to that," he warned, his voice low and tight with a regular guy's instinct for self-preservation.
You shooed him off with a sharp jerk of your arm, your eyes locked on the shifting geometry of the crowd ahead. "I’m fine, Art," you muttered, your focus completely consumed by the sudden shift in the room’s temperature.
"I'm not your fucking mate!" another voice roared, high-pitched and vibrating with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
Around the kitchen perimeter, the KLU elite were already adopting their positions. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, holding their gold-rimmed glasses and designer clutches, their faces schooled into expressions of practiced, aristocratic judgment.
They acted horrified, wrinkling their noses as if violence were an urban disease beneath their tax bracket, but their eyes were wide, glittering with a sick, parasitic entertainment. Hypocrites, you thought. Every single one of them.
"What's happening?" you demanded, nudging the shoulder of a girl in a sequined top whose view wasn't blocked by the wall of tall rugby players currently forming a human barricade.
You didn't need her to answer. As if responding to the sheer force of your arrival, the crowd parted just enough to afford you a clear, unobstructed line of sight.
The pristine, grey-veined marble of the kitchen counter was no longer an altar for expensive wine. Aerion Targaryen had a guy pinned by the throat against the high-gloss white subway tile of the wall. His lean, tailored frame looked entirely predatory, his shoulders squared as he leveraged his weight to lift the other student an inch off the floor.
Before your brain could even process the visual, a sickening, wet crack echoed through the space, a sound so brutal it seemed to stop the music altogether. Aerion’s knuckle, adorned with those heavy, coiled Valyrian steel rings, had collided squarely with the guy's nose.
An ugly, violent crimson bloomed instantly across the boy's face, cascading like a ruptured river down the front of his pristine white linen shirt.
You gasped, the sound catching in your throat along with a collective, horrified ripple that shuddered through the entire throng of spectators.
It was a stark, grounding reminder: all the nepotism in Westeros, all the multi-million-dollar trusts, the high-end private nannies, and the legacy admissions didn't make the children of world leaders and corporate dynasties any less savage than regular street thugs when the veneer cracked. Underneath the tailored silk, they were still beasts.
"Oh, you're fucking dead, Targaryen!" the guy barked, his voice choked on his own blood.
With a desperate, adrenaline-fueled surge, he managed to writhe his neck free from Aerion’s bruising grip. He didn't retreat; he lunged forward, sending a wild, heavy punch flying straight toward Aerion's jaw.
Some of the girls near the front shrank back in genuine horror, while a few of the more intoxicated frat guys from the sports faculty were outright beaming, too boozed up on top-shelf liquor to realize they were witnessing a potential lawsuit in real-time.
Through the shifting shoulders of the crowd, you finally spotted Raymun Fossoway trying to force his way to the front of his own kitchen, his face pale with the realization that his security deposit was currently being smeared across the walls. Rowan was trailing tightly behind him, her fiery red topknot slightly disheveled, her eyes wide and worried as she looked for you.
"Aye! What the fuck is happening here?" Raymun yelled, throwing his arms out as he finally breached the inner circle.
He shoved himself physically between the two crashing bodies, his hands pressing against their chests to stop them from completely tearing each other apart. "What the hell has gotten into the two of you? Knuckleheads! This isn't a fucking boxing ring! You've got a problem with each other, take it outside to the gravel!"
The injured student spat a massive, dark dollop of blood straight onto the polished concrete floor, the fluid landing right between Aerion’s polished shoes and Raymun’s sneakers. "Tell this prissy, silver-headed fuck—" the guy choked out, but he never got to finish the insult.
Aerion was already lunging again, his eyes entirely void of reason, his silver-white hair flying wildly around his face like a localized storm.
"Aerion!"
Alicia’s shrill, high-society shriek cut through the chaos like broken glass. She was hovering near the pantry, her perfect makeup ruined by lines of frantic tears, her emerald-green dress looking suddenly crumpled and tragic.
You couldn't tell how long the exchange lasted. You didn't know how many blows had been traded before the room went dark or how much structural damage had been inflicted on the loft.
All you knew was that you stood entirely paralyzed, your boots glued to the floor as the crowd shifted around you like a turbulent sea.
Finally, the sheer mass of Duncan the Tall moved into the frame. The rugby captain utilized his massive, broad frame to physically lock his arms around the bleeding student, pulling him backward with a strength that brooked no argument.
Simultaneously, Valarr materialized from the corridor, his jaw tight and his expression dark with a profound, weary frustration. He grabbed Aerion by the shoulders, using his own formidable leverage to drag his cousin back into the center of the room.
"Don't fucking touch me!" Aerion snarled, his voice a guttural, animalistic hiss as he violently wrenched his shoulders out of Valarr's diplomatic grip.
"Hey—" Valarr stepped into his line of sight, his tone remarkably level, his hands raised in a calming gesture. He didn't look shocked. He looked tired.
This was clearly a regular occurrence in the private annals of the Targaryen family tree— a realization that both baffled and horrified you. "Calm the hell down, yeah? Look at me. Breathe."
Valarr tried to talk some sense into him, but Aerion just let out a cold, mocking scoff, his chest heaving as he turned his back on his cousin. He swept his glacier-like gaze across the circle of onlookers, his eyes burning with a terrifying, unhinged malice.
"What are the lot of you staring at?" he barked, his voice slicing through the residual murmurs until the room went completely dead silent.
Alicia stepped forward, her manicured hand reaching out to touch his arm, her voice trembling as she begged him to stay, to let her clean him up. Aerion didn't even look at her. With a brutal, dismissive jerk of his shoulder, he shrugged her off as if she were nothing more than a nuisance, leaving her standing under the harsh kitchen LEDs.
As he turned toward the main exit, the light caught his face fully for the first time.
A nasty, jagged cut was bleeding freely on his upper lip, and an ugly, dark purple bruise was already beginning to bloom across his aristocratic cheekbone. He stormed out of the kitchen, his heavy boots echoing like thunder against the concrete as he headed straight for the apartment door, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence in his wake.
"What the actual fuck…" you heard Art mutter under his breath from beside you.
You hadn't even realized he had followed you to the front until his shadow fell over your shoulder. He shook his head, staring at the blood splatters on the subway tile with a deep, visceral disgust.
"That guy is a literal lunatic. A straight-up textbook psychotic. Who even does that at a house party?"
Valarr ignored Art entirely. His brunette hair was slightly mussed as he rubbed a heavy hand across his forehead, his eyes locked onto the heavy oak door at the end of the foyer that was still vibrating from being slammed shut.
"Shit," Valarr muttered, his diplomatic composure finally cracking as he looked at Raymun. "He shouldn't be driving like this. He’s furious, he’s bleeding, and he’s probably got half a bottle of gin in his system."
You knew exactly what Valarr was thinking. Aerion was headed straight for the parking garage below the building. He was headed for that ridiculous, midnight black Porsche— the one he drove around campus like an extension of his own volatile ego.
Valarr let out a heavy, stressed sigh, his fingers palming his forehead as he calculated his options. "Shit… I can't leave Kiera, though. She's completely wasted in the bathroom, I can't just drop her—"
"It's fine," you said.The words cut through the air before you could even formulate the conscious thought to speak them.
You surprised yourself, the sudden steel in your voice catching Valarr’s attention immediately.
Your brain, the logical, self-preserving part of you, was screaming at you to stop. What are you doing? You should stay here. You should be in the bathroom with Kiera, holding her hair back while Tanselle or Rowan helped. You should let Valarr handle his own dysfunctional family. They were blood; they shared the same ancient, volatile lineage. It wasn't your job. It wasn't your burden.
But your feet were already shifting.
"I'll go after him," you let out, the declaration sounding final, leaving no room for argument as you turned your back on the kitchen and began walking purposefully toward the front door.
"Y/N, wait!" Valarr barked behind you, his long stride breaking into a forward movement to catch your hand, but you were already too fast.
You slipped past the threshold of the lounge, dodging a group of stunned freshmen who were already slipping back into their idle chatter and high-society gossip, moving as if the violence had been nothing more than a mid-party performance.
"Is this chic fucking insane or what?" Art’s voice drifted over the crowd, his tone laced with absolute bewilderment as he watched your retreating back. "Does she have a literal death wish…"
You didn't look back to see his expression. You had no idea what had just taken control of your body.
You had no idea what kind of silent, stupid, magnetic force was pulling you out of that safe, warm apartment and driving you toward the elevator. All you knew was that the image of the blood on Aerion’s lip and the unhinged, self-destructive look in his violet eyes had burned themselves into your eyelids, and you couldn't stop walking until you hit the cold concrete of the hallway.
On the way down in the elevator, the silence of the steel box was deafening, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos you had just left behind. You were biting your inner lip so hard that the sharp, coppery tang of blood began to bloom on your tongue.
Your breathing was erratic, coming and going in shallow, jagged bursts that rattled your chest.
What the hell were you thinking?
You had seen the way he treated Alicia— a girl who actually belonged in his gilded world—and he had all but discarded her like an afterthought when the adrenaline hit. What could you possibly say to him that she couldn’t have?
You were the babysitter. You were the help. You were probably the absolute last person on this earth Aerion Targaryen wanted to see right now. Why had you stormed off like that? Was it some sick, deeply buried savior complex deciding to kick in, or were you just a massive, incomparable idiot? Probably the latter.
You repeated it like a mantra against the steady descent of the elevator floor: You're an idiot. A big, fucking idiot. Did you have some pathological need to fix every single broken, tragic Targaryen that crossed your path? You weren't hired to heal their generational trauma. You weren't supposed to care.
But all the logic in the world evaporated the moment the elevator doors chimed, sliding open to reveal the subterranean chill of the lower parking level. Your feet moved of their own volition, carrying you forward like a heavy weight on a mechanical track, utterly out of your control.
The moment you stepped out into the open air of the perimeter lot, a violent gust of wind hit you like a physical wall, whipping your hair across your face.
The night was dark, illuminated only by the sickly amber glow of a single, flickering sodium-vapor streetlamp. Your boots clicked a frantic, echoing rhythm against the damp asphalt as you rounded the concrete pillar.
And there he was.
Aerion’s lean frame was practically shaking with a terrifying, kinetic fury, his silhouette dark against the polished, obsidian paint of his Porsche.
"Aerion!" you shouted into the wind, your voice cracking slightly but carrying across the empty lot, rendering your presence entirely unavoidable.
"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, pausing with his hand resting on the driver's side door. He spun around to glare at you, his features twisted into something feral.
"Leave me the fuck alone, Y/N. Get away from here." He barked the order, already pulling the heavy key fob from his pocket, his knuckles raw and scraped, his split lip still oozing a dark line of red.
"No!" you interjected, closing the distance between you, defiance anchoring your heels against the pavement as he cursed under his breath, fumbling with the car door.
"Are you completely deaf or just plain stupid?" he bared his teeth at you, his violet eyes flashing in the dark like a rabid dog backed into a corner. "I don't want you here. Get out of my sight."
"No," you cut him off, your voice rising to match his, your own frame shaking with a sudden, matching fury. "I am not letting you get into that car with fucking alcohol instead of blood in your system. You're going to wrap that expensive piece of metal around a tree, or worse—"
He let out a harsh, mocking snarl, stepping away from the car to face you fully. "And why the fuck would you care, huh? Don't stand there and act like you give a single, flying shit about what happens to me. You said it yourself tonight—I'm the most irritating, insufferable—"
"Shut up for once in your miserable life, Aerion!" you thundered, the sheer volume of your voice surprising even the wind.
"Just shut the hell up, will you? You treat me like absolute garbage for months. You make my life a living hell on campus, you spew your poisonous, elitist shit at me every time I breathe the same air as you—and then all of a sudden, you’re touching my face on a balcony and acting like..."
You swallowed hard, the word catching in your throat. "Acting like a complete lunatic! And then you get yourself into a bloody brawl in a kitchen. You have no right—you have absolutely zero right to do this!"
Aerion seemed violently taken aback by the outburst. The vicious retort died on his tongue, and if you hadn't been so entirely consumed by the white-hot rage vibrating through your veins, you might have noticed the way his pale irises instantly hazed over, darkening with a sudden, predatory intensity that looked like he wanted to devour you alive right there on the concrete.
"Not every single thing on this planet is a game revolving around your ego, okay?" you continued, your chest heaving as you stepped closer, entirely disregarding the danger. "Because if you get in that Porsche and you fucking die tonight, you're not the only one who has to suffer the fallout. It's about your family. It's about Valarr, and your father, and Aegon—"
"Oh, so this is about Egg now?" he mocked, his voice dropping into a bitter, venomous drawl as the alcohol loosened his filter. "What, do you get some sick cosmic thrill out of playing house? Acting like a fucking mother? Let me remind you of something, sweetheart—you will never be his mother. You can never replace her. We had a mother. She's dead. She’s ashes." He spat the words, the raw, unhealed trauma of Dyanna’s passing oozing out of him like poison.
"Are you even hearing yourself, you fucking hypocrite?" You let out an incredulous, bitter laugh, shaking your head. "This has nothing to do with me trying to be a mother or trying to replace Dyanna—"
Aerion physically winced at the sound of her name, his jaw tightening into iron as he raised a warning finger to your face. "Don't you dare say her name—"
"No! This is about you!" you shouted over him, refusing to back down. "This is about the kind of men that poor little boy has to grow up watching! Take this with every single bit of bitter salt that you can, Aerion Targaryen, but your family is a magnificent, catastrophic mess. Your father, Daeron, you—all of you! And instead of protecting Aegon, instead of helping him and loving him like a normal, decent older brother should, you torture him! He is terrified of you, Aerion! He looks at you and sees a monster!"
Aerion shook his head slowly from side to side, a manic, disbelief coloring his features as he tried to block out the truth of your words. "That's a bunch of absolute bullshit... and we both know it..."
"No," you thundered, stepping directly into his space until the scent of his metallic blood, stale gin, and Marlboro Reds completely enveloped you. "No, it is the absolute, undeniable truth, Aerion. It's the truth and you know it. You're just too much of a pathetic coward to look in the mirror and admit it to yourself."
"A coward, huh?" He let out a low, dangerous sound, his head tilting as the blood from his split lip smeared across his chin. "Is that what you're calling your employer's son now? You have some serious fucking nerve."
When you finally managed to catch your breath, your heart stopped. A slightly crooked, dark grin was playing on his bleeding lips. He wasn't furious anymore. He was fascinated. He was thoroughly, intensely enjoying the sight of you screaming at him, loving the fact that you were tearing him down to his very bones.
He leaned his hand forward, his fingers twitching.
“Don't you dare touch me,” you breathed, practically jumping back a step as if his very skin were made of burning coal.
“You'd absolutely hate how much you'd like it… and you know it,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a smooth, resonant register that possessed not a single shred of doubt.
And the worst part—the absolutely terrifying, sickening part—was that unwelcome, coiling heat instantly spreading through the pit of your belly again, betraying every logical thought in your head.
"If you're waiting for me to apologize for what I said, don't hold your breath," you snapped, trying to steel yourself.
"Good. I'd hate for you to pass out from lack of oxygen before I win this argument," he countered smoothly. He was unfuckingbelievable.
"Aerion..." you warned, your voice trembling slightly as you realized the distance between your bodies had vanished again. "You're standing too close."
"Say the word, and I'll stop... but don't lie to me," he whispered, leaning in dangerously, agonizingly close.
You could see the dark, drying blood coating the edges of his Valyrian steel rings. "We're completely alone out here. No one from the Red Keep has to know. No one from the campus. Just this once..."
He dared to raise both hands, his long fingers structuring themselves on either side of your face. His grip was firm, entirely unyielding, but possessed a strange, controlled gentleness that ensured it wouldn't leave a mark. It was an utterly, undeniably possessive hold.
"What is wrong with you?" you spat, a volatile cocktail of frustration, tears, anger, and deep-seated want bubbling to the surface as your hands came up, closing tightly over his wrists to pull him away. "Is this just another one of your sick, depraved games? A bet with your friends?"
He shook his head, the accusation seemingly inflicting a flash of physical pain across his features. He licked his dry, bleeding lips, his eyes locked onto yours.
"Why, Aerion? Why do this?" you demanded, desperate for a shield, refusing to let him win this easily. You needed a reason. You needed to understand how a guy who had made your life a living purgatory suddenly looked at you like this. "You spend months threatening to ruin my fucking life, and then you—"
"Because I don't know how the fuck to get you to pay attention to me, okay, Y/N?" he suddenly growled through gritted teeth, the raw, unfiltered truth ripping out of him with a force that clearly cost his pride everything.
"You are always focusing on someone else. You're always hovering over Aegon, or Daella, or Rhae, or fucking Daeron. You look at my father, you look at Valarr, you look at every single person in that house—except me. You look right through me."
"So you justify bullying me because you were fucking attention-seeking?" You almost barked an ironic, disbelieving laugh against his chest.
"No," he stepped in even closer, his torso pressing against yours. "'M not justifying a single thing." His thumbs began to slowly, deliberately caress the sensitive skin of your cheekbones, the contrast of his cold steel rings against your burning skin making your mind go completely blank.
"You're blushing," he pointed out, a wicked, triumphant grin cutting through the blood on his face. You didn't even think he could see it under the dim, orange wash of the streetlamp, but you felt it—the violent, coiling warmth spreading across your face.
"Shut up," you muttered weakly. "If you wanted me to kiss you," you breathed, refusing to break eye contact, your fingers tightening on his wrists, "you could have just said so from the beginning."
A dark, raw sound escaped the back of his throat at your words, every single ounce of his practiced aristocratic self-restraint shattering into nothingness. "You know exactly what you do to me, don't you? You always have," he accused.
"Careful Targaryen," you bit back, one last desperate defense. "Someone might actually think you want me. We are absolutely not supposed to do this."
He threw his head back, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh as if the concept of rules were an utter joke to his bloodline. "Since when has that ever stopped a dragon?"
And with that, the tension snapped.
He lunged forward, his hands sliding from your face to grip the back of your neck, pulling your body flush against his own as he dragged you into a searing, cataclysmic kiss.
Aerion didn't just kiss you—he devoured you. It was a feral, consuming force, as if he wanted to eat you alive and pull your very soul into his lungs.
A heavy, desperate groan broke against your mouth as your hands finally released his wrists, your fingers threading wildly through his silver-white locks, pulling him impossibly, painfully close. The kiss was all sharp teeth and bruising tongue—a violent, chaotic battle of wills that you had no intention of letting him win easily.
You bit down hard on his lower lip, wanting him to feel at least a fraction of the agonizing mental torment he had inflicted on you for months.
Instead of pulling away, his grip on your waist only tightened, his fingers digging into your hips as he let out a dark, breathless sound, clearly thriving on the depraved, aggressive nature of the embrace.
It was a kiss fueled by alcohol, adrenaline, months of toxic friction, and pure, unadulterated lust. It tasted like gin, Marlboro Reds, and the coppery tang of shared blood—it was filthily disgusting, entirely wrong, and undeniably the greatest kiss of your entire life.
Your entire universe narrowed down to the heat of his skin. Your body was completely intoxicated by his scent, your brain entirely incapable of forming a single coherent thought. The world outside this parking lot didn't exist. Rowan, Kiera, Valarr, Aegon—they were all casualties of a fire that was currently burning you alive.
"Aerion..." you panted against his lips when the sheer lack of oxygen finally forced the two of you to pull back an inch, your foreheads resting together as you gasped for air.
"I can feel your heartbeat..." Aerion muttered, his voice a low, ragged purr. He leaned down, pressing his lips directly against the frantic, hammering pulse point on your neck, tracing the skin with a terrifying reverence. "Is that for me, love?"
"I've wanted this... since the very first moment I met you," he admitted against your skin, his hands never ceasing their frantic caress.
"Could have fooled me," you bit back, though the words lacked any real venom. You looked up at him with a newfound, consuming obsession, every shred of your logic and self-respect scattered on the pavement.
You couldn't bring yourself to care about how messy, dangerous, or ruinous the morning would be. The morning.
"You can go back to hating me in the morning..." Aerion whispered, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a desperate, heavy gravity. "Just let me have you. Just give me tonight."
"Is this really all you wanted from me?" you questioned, your fingers gripping his shoulders.
"No," he shook his head, a dark, dangerous sincerity settling over his features. "I wanted more."
Of course he did. Aerion Targaryen wanted everything. He wanted all of you, his greed an insatiable, genetic trait that was engraved into his very marrow. It was apparent in the way he carried himself, in the way he fought, and in the way his lips moved against yours.
"I always knew there was a fire in you," he murmured, his gaze tracing your features with an obsessive, terrifying devotion.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he muttered something in low, rolling High Valyrian that you couldn't fully translate, though the cadence made your skin prickle. "Ñuhon," he whispered against your skin. Mine.
You swallowed hard, the taste of his tobacco and liquor still heavy on your tongue. "Don't stop," you muttered fiercely into his cheek as his heavy hands slid down to grip your hips, pulling you back into the dark shadow of the Porsche. "Don't you dare stop."
You had no idea what the hell was happening anymore. You had no idea what this would do to your job, to your life, or to the fragile peace you had built.
Because when the sun came up, everything would be undeniably, irreversibly altered.
Or perhaps, that was the thought that terrified you the most. Monsters like Aerion Brightflame didn't change their nature over the course of a single night.
And even if he spent the next few hours worshipping you in the dark, it didn't mean he wouldn't be ready to tear you to pieces when the morning light rose.
BANE OF DUTY ✧ duke!baelor targaryen x bene gesserit!reader
synopsis: when you are sent off to become the concubine of house targaryen, your first exchange with your future duke goes nowhere near expected.
warnings: reader is essentially young lady jessica and baelor is leto, slightly anxious reader, technically legal human trafficking ?? canon bene gesserit and dune philosophy lol
word count: 1.2k (was supposed to be a longer fic but it just ended up being a very short oneshot so whatever)
a/n: my dunerotted brain needed this fic so bad omg, this has been sitting in my draft for ages because i thought it would be more elaborate but here we are !! anyway i’d be very glad to discuss this little au in my inbox if anyone wants to <3
You are husband and wife in everything but title and law.
The first time you meet him, you are trembling to the very marrow of your bones. Your muscles are pulled taut, and your spine is a sharp, rigid, immobile line. The dark veil obscuring your vision had been more than mere silk that day, it had been your armor, your only protection against the piercing gaze of the Duke— your Duke now.
You could feel the stutter in your pulse, the betrayal in the air. Your Bene Gesserit sisters standing in a half-moon formation behind you, communicating in the silent language of their fingers.
"… one of our finest pupils." Those were the last words you registered, spoken by the Reverened Mother in that casual detached manner. She was standing a few paces ahead of you, describing you like cattle, handing you off like some prized broodmare. A vessel trained for obedience and breeding.
You should have been feeling honored. You should have felt grateful for having been chosen as an asset in the Missionaria Protectiva— the Great Weave. For the opportunity to be a part of something far greater than yourself. For helping bring about an enlightened mind, one capable of breeching the very bridge between time and space, the Kwisatzch Haderach.
Instead all you felt was a dull, sharp throb blooming behind your eyes, and a cold dread seeping into your bones.
The air you were inhaling felt more burnt than one would have anticipated; the volcanic core of the planet manifesting into an everpresent smell of char and smog in the oxygen. Tiny droplets of sea sprinkles still clung to your black shroud from when you stepped into the open air of Dragonstone, offering a strange form of saline baptism.
The Reverened Mother’s hawk-like gaze turned to you quietly, awaiting the pleasantries and greetings you were supposed to exchange with the Duke. Her gaze was so burning it should have willed you into obedience without a single word uttered. But in that moment something in you simply refused to yield.
You could feel your amygdala being excessively active, meanwhile you were desperately trying to will your nerves into a false sense of calm. I must not fear. Her neck shifted ever so slightly, a bird like movement, as if silently questioning you on why you were not following protocol. Fear is the mind killer, fear is the litte death that brings—
"Lady Y/N." His words cut off any train of thought you might have had, the litany fading somewhere into the background of your mind. His voice was gentler than you had expected, he sounded much less a commanding leader than a diplomat.
The three headed dragons caught the light from where it was engraved into the cool metal of the sigil ring sitting on his finger. A Targaryen heirloom, passed down all the way from Old Valyria to the Conqueror and now to him. The Red Duke.
You dared to raise your eyes, catching a glimpse of the curiosity in his mismatched gaze. He was assessing you, you could tell that much, mentally peeling away the layers of fabric covering your form, as if by sheer willpower he could dismantle you and bend you to his whim.
You wondered what he wished to find beneath the dark shroud.
A truthsayer? An advisor? A wife?
Your lip had trembled then, falling open but shutting closed just as quickly. You were struck with the harrowing realization that you had no idea what to speak. Foolish. You could practically hear the better half of your Sisters sniggering beneath their veils while the other half gave you pitying looks.
Suddenly one of our finest pupils rang falls in your ears. Bitter. What good was years of relentless prana-bindu training when you turned into a flustered, simpering girl in front of a Duke of the Great House?
"If it pleases the Lady so," he began, clasping his hands behind his dark doublet and inclining his head forward. "would she be so kind as to remove her veil?"
The words lingered in the air for a moment; and once again you were caught off guard by the sheer invitation in them. Not command— but compromise.
Perhaps in all your misfortune, at least you weren't being wed off to some brutish barbarian.
And how could you have refused your future Duke anyway?
You nodded faintly, failing to notice the measured breath of air he inhaled, as if willing himself for whatever lies beneath.
A strange insecurity, violently began to unfurl within your chest, rapidly spreading through your limbs like an ugly beast, to the very tips of your fingers, threatening to paralyze them. But it was all too late. The charred air of the Acceptance Hall was already hitting your face, the veil lifting from your head, fully exposing the tissue of your skin to the outside world.
You had swallowed softly, assesing all the men standing before you: the Duke and his men; mentats, soldiers, swordmasters. All of them piercing you with their eyes. And beside them, what you could only assume was the Duke’s youngest brother, Maekar, a rigid pillar of duty, scowling with that characteristic snow-white Targaryen hair.
Though ever inch of your body— save for your face, had been covered that day, you felt as naked as the day you were born.
"My Duke." Your voice emerged quieter than intended, and you suddenly realized how girlish you must have sounded. The Duke needs a concubine not a protege. You pressed your lips into a thine line before anchoring yourself to the fabric of your skirts.
Before you could register what was happening— he had taken the entire audience by surprise when he stepped forward. Perhaps if your gaze hadn't been so fixated on the crimson and black of his doublet you might have noticed how his men reached towards their weapon-clad belts, his brother making a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat.
You instinctively straightened, freezing into place. Somewhere beside you, the Reverened Mother watched the entirety of your interaction with predatory attentiveness.
His presence was overwhelming, consuming your senses all at once. You noted the unmistakable scent of ozone and old parchment clinging to him. And before your brain could asses the threat of his position— he reached out. His warm, calloused hand, closing over your own. The electricity of the touch had been secondary to the sheer, terrifying heat of him
It radiated from his palm, soaking through your skin, travelling up your arm and settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach.
Blood of the Dragon.
He had offered you the faintest smile, something only the two of you could see. A shared secret, a forbidden union. It had been void of pity or any performative joy expected of political contracts.
It had simply been reassuring. As if he wished to assure you that this unfamiliar new world— his home—would endeavor to do its very best to look after you.
You should have pulled back, retracted your hand and did something… anything else but just stood there… but speech had decided to abandon you entirely.
You could feel the thrum of your sisters' fingertips, silently pulsing against their thighs and signalling to you. Break the bond. Remember the objective.
Yet all you managed to do was tighten your hold around his fingers, anchoring yourself.
He squeezed once.
And from that moment onward, you no longer belonged solely to the Sisterhood, not by law anyway. Somewhere in your heart, you knew, that had been the first step towards the fracturing of your loyalty.
Part Three || Dark!Valarr Targaryen X Blackfyre!Reader | Dark!Baelor Targaryen X Blackfyre!Reader
Summary: Your Good Father finally shows his real intentions
Content Warning: marital rape, sexual assault, rape, coercive sexual relationships, emotional abuse, manipulation, misogyny, threats.
Comments are appreciated❤️
WC: 15K
The sept was empty, as it always was at this hour. Seven walls of cold stone rose around you, each one bearing the image of a god who had never answered a single prayer you'd offered. The Father, stern and judgmental, his stone eyes gazing down with the same disappointment you'd seen in every face since the day you arrived at the Red Keep. The Mother, merciful and kind, who had apparently decided you were unworthy of her mercy. The Warrior, the Smith, the Maid, the Crone. And the Stranger, whose altar stood in shadow, neither male nor female, its face half-hidden beneath a hood of carved stone.
The Stranger was your favorite. You understood the Stranger. The Stranger did not pretend to care.
You knelt before the altar of the Mother, because that was what you were supposed to do. Your hands were clasped, your head bowed, the pose was perfect. Penitent. Pious. The image of a devoted wife offering thanks for her blessings. Anyone who saw you would think you were praying for a child, for your husband's health, for the peace of the realm.
They would be wrong.
Let him die, you prayed. Let him choke on his wine at supper tonight. Let him fall from his horse in the tiltyard. Let him slip on the stairs and crack his skull on the stone. Let a fever take him. Let an assassin find him. Let anything, anything at all, take him from this world so I never have to feel his hands on me again.
The words poured through your mind like poison, bitter and black and strangely soothing. You had never been religious. In Tyrosh, your mother had kept to the old gods of Valyria, and your father had worshipped nothing but his own ambition. The Seven were foreign to you, their rituals strange, their demands incomprehensible. But the sept was quiet. The sept was cold. And most importantly, the sept was the one place Valarr did not follow you.
Let the Stranger take him, you prayed now, your lips moving in silent, fervent supplication. Let the Stranger take them all. Lady Jeyne, with her cold smiles and her crueler whispers. Ser Alan, who watches me with pity and does nothing. Every guard who looks through me like I'm made of glass. Every servant who lets my fire die. Every lord who sat at that table and decided I was worth more as a broodmare than a corpse.
Let them burn. Let them all burn. Let the dragons come back and burn this wretched castle to ash with everyone inside it. I don't care if I burn with them. I don't care if there's nothing left of me but bones and ash and the memory of what they did. Just let it end. Please. Let it end.
The words were not kind. They were not pious. They were not the prayers of a good woman, a dutiful wife, a grateful survivor of a rebellion that could have seen her executed. But they were honest. They were the only honest thing you had left.
You had tried, once, to pray for better things. For your brothers at the Wall, that they might find some measure of peace in their frozen exile. For your sisters in the Silent Sisters, that their silence might not be too heavy a burden to bear. For your mother in Tyrosh, alone now, all her children scattered to the winds. But those prayers had felt hollow, empty, words spoken to stone ears by a woman who no longer believed in anything but suffering.
So now you prayed for death. It was more satisfying. It gave you something to hold onto in the long, cold hours when you were not required to be anywhere else.
Your knees ached against the stone floor. The chill seeped through the thin silk of your gown, raising gooseflesh on your thighs. You had not bothered with a heavy cloak. The walk from Valarr's chambers to the sept was short, and the cold was a familiar companion now. You had grown almost fond of it. The cold was clean. The cold did not touch you with hands you could not refuse.
The silence of the sept wrapped around you like a shroud. The candles flickered in their iron sconces, their flames reflected in the polished stone of the altars. The air smelled of incense and old wax and the faint, dusty scent of disuse. The royal sept was seldom used by anyone but you. The King preferred the Great Sept of Baelor for public worship, and the rest of the court followed his example. The castle's sept was too small, too humble, too easily forgotten.
Which made it perfect.
You heard the footsteps behind you and felt your heart seize in your chest.
No. Not here. Not in the one place that was yours. Your eyes remained closed, your hands clasped, your face a perfect mask of devotional calm. But inside, your thoughts had turned from murderous prayer to desperate, animal fear. If it was Valarr, if he had decided to violate this last sanctuary, you did not know what you would do. Scream, perhaps. Weep. Strike him. Something terrible and irreversible that would shatter the fragile pretense of your existence.
The footsteps drew closer. Measured. Confident. Not the quick, nervous steps of a servant. Not the heavy tread of a guard in armor. This was someone who walked as if they had every right to be here, someone who did not fear interruption or discovery.
You opened your eyes. He stood a few paces away, his head tilted slightly as he regarded you. Baelor Targaryen. The Prince of Dragonstone. The heir to the Iron Throne. Your husband's father.
Your good father. You had spoken to him perhaps a dozen times since your wedding. He had been present at the ceremony, of course, standing beside the King with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable. He had offered you the traditional words of welcome, stiff and formal, the same words he might have offered a visiting dignitary from a foreign land. He had not sought you out since then, and you had not sought him. You had assumed, insofar as you thought of him at all, that he shared his son's assessment of you: a prize to be used, a vessel to be filled, a Blackfyre to be broken.
But the way he looked at you now was not the way Valarr looked at you. There was something in his gaze that you could not quite name. You rose from your knees. The motion was graceful, practiced, the product of years of training in the courts of Tyrosh. You smoothed your skirts and inclined your head with the precise degree of deference owed to a Prince of the realm.
"My prince. Forgive me, I did not hear you enter."
His mouth curved into a small smile. It was a controlled expression, the smile of a man who had learned long ago to reveal nothing he did not wish to reveal. "There is nothing to forgive. I should be the one asking pardon. I did not mean to interrupt your prayers."
"You did not interrupt. I was finished." The lie came easily. You had become skilled at lies over the past moon. Lies of omission, lies of politeness, lies of the body that pretended pleasure while the mind screamed in protest. One more lie, offered to a man you barely knew, was hardly worth noticing.
Baelor nodded, but his eyes lingered on your face. They were too perceptive, those eyes. Too knowing. You had the uncomfortable sensation that he could see through your carefully constructed mask, that he knew exactly what kind of prayers you had been offering to the Mother's stone ears.
"You come here often, I think," he said. It was not quite a question.
"When my duties permit." Another lie. Your duties consisted of being available for Valarr's pleasure and looking beautiful at meals. You had nothing but time, and everyone knew it. "The sept is peaceful. I find it… calming."
"Yes. I have always thought so myself." He moved past you, his footsteps echoing softly in the silence, and stopped before the altar of the Stranger. His back was to you now, and you watched him study the hooded figure with an expression you could not see. "When I was a boy, I used to hide here. From my tutors, from my father, from the endless demands of being the heir. No one ever thought to look for me in the sept. It was the one place I could be alone."
You said nothing. You did not know what to say. This was not the conversation you had expected, the stiff, formal exchange of pleasantries that usually passed between you and the members of the royal family. He turned back to you, and his smile had shifted into something gentler. Almost apologetic.
"But I have not come here to burden you with my childhood memories. I came to see how you were faring." He paused, and his mismatched eyes searched your face with that unsettling perceptiveness. "You have been married for over three moons now. I know that such transitions can be… difficult."
Difficult. The word was so inadequate it was almost laughable. You had been stripped of your name, your family, your freedom, your dignity. You had been turned into a vessel for your husband's pleasure and his heirs. You had been fucked on the council table like a common whore while the lords of the realm had decided your fate on that very spot. And this man, this polite, unassuming man, asked if the transition had been difficult.
But you did not laugh. You did not scream. You simply inclined your head and offered him the same empty words you offered everyone. "You are kind to ask, my prince. I am well. His Grace is a most considerate husband."
Something flickered in Baelor's eyes. Something that might have been amusement. "I am glad to hear it." His voice was dry, carefully neutral. "Valarr has always been… devoted to the things he values."
Devoted. Another inadequate word. Valarr was devoted to you the way a dragon was devoted to its hoard. He would guard you, cherish you, and devour anyone who tried to take you from him. But he would never see you as anything more than a possession. A beautiful, coveted possession that proved his worth as a Targaryen.
You realized, with a start, that Baelor was still watching you. Waiting for a response. "His devotion is an honor," you said. "One I do not take for granted."
"No," Baelor agreed. "I do not imagine you do."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things and then, quite suddenly, his expression shifted. The intensity faded, replaced by something milder, more casual. The change was so seamless that you almost doubted you had seen anything else.
"You and Valarr should join us tonight," he said. "For supper. In my chambers. A small gathering, just family. My wife Jena and myself." He paused, and that small, controlled smile returned. "He used to dine with us often, before the wedding. Now he barely even joins us for meals. You have thoroughly bewitched him, it seems."
The words were pleasant. Complimentary, even. But there was something beneath them, something that made your stomach tighten with unease. You could not tell if he was mocking you, or testing you, or simply making conversation. His face revealed nothing but polite, paternal interest.
"I would be honored to attend," you said carefully. "If it pleases His Grace."
Baelor's smile widened, just slightly. "It will be good to have you at our table. Truly. You are part of this family now, whatever… circumstances brought you here. It is time we treated you as such."
The words were kind. They were the kindest words anyone in the Red Keep had spoken to you since your wedding. And yet, as you met Baelor's mismatched eyes, so like his son's and yet so different, you could not shake the feeling that you were being offered something that would come with a price.
"Thank you, my prince," you said.
He inclined his head, a small, graceful acknowledgment. Then he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the sept. At the threshold, he paused.
"I hope you find what you're praying for," he said, without turning around.
—
The night had settled over the Red Keep like a shroud, heavy and dark and suffocating. Outside the windows of the Prince's chambers, the moon hung low over Blackwater Bay, its silver light painting a shimmering path across the black water. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows that danced across the walls like specters at a feast.
Valarr had taken you from behind. It was the first thing you had noticed when he pulled you into the bed, the first sign that something was different tonight. He usually preferred to see your face. He was obsessed with it, with watching your eyes as he moved inside you, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every flicker of pleasure you could not suppress. He needed to see you. He needed to know that you felt him, that you responded to him, that your body belonged to him even when your mind resisted.
But tonight, he had turned you onto your stomach without a word. His hands had gripped your hips with a roughness that bordered on punishing, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He had entered you without the usual reverent preparation, without the slow, teasing foreplay he normally employed to make your body ready for him. He had simply taken what he wanted, his thrusts deep and hard and almost angry, his breath harsh against the back of your neck.
You had known, then, that something was wrong. Valarr was many things but he was not cruel in his bed. Not truly. The control he exerted over you was always tempered by that devastating gentleness, those whispered endearments, that desperate need to see your pleasure even as he claimed it for himself. Tonight, the gentleness was absent. Tonight, he fucked you like a man trying to exorcise a demon, or perhaps to summon one.
You had lain there, your face pressed into the silk pillows, your fingers gripping the furs, and you had let him take what he needed. Because that was what you did now. That was what you were for. And when he finally spent himself inside you with a low, almost wounded groan, when he collapsed against your back with his heart hammering against your spine, you had waited in silence for the storm to pass.
It did not pass. He withdrew from you and rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest still heaving. The silence stretched between you like a chasm, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below the castle. You turned onto your side, pulling the furs up over your body, and watched him in the dim light.
His jaw was tight. His free hand was clenched into a fist on the mattress, the knuckles white. Even in the darkness, you could see the tension radiating from him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his eyes stared up at the canopy with a fury he was clearly struggling to contain.
Something had happened. Something at court, perhaps. Something that had wounded him in a way he did not want to show you.
You should have let it lie. You should have closed your eyes and pretended to sleep and let him stew in whatever dark mood had taken hold of him. His troubles were not your troubles. His pain was not your pain. You owed him nothing, not comfort, not concern, not even the pretense of wifely devotion.
But the silence was unbearable. And some part of you, some weak, traitorous part that you despised, wanted to know what had put that look on his face. Wanted to understand him, even now. Even after everything.
"The council meeting did not go well."
It was not a question. You had learned to read him well enough to know the signs. The roughness in bed. The silence afterward. The tension in his jaw that looked like it might crack his teeth. Something had happened in the Tower of the Hand, something that had left him feeling powerless, and he had come to you to reclaim his sense of control.
He let out a sharp breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. "No," he said, his voice flat and bitter. "It did not."
He did not elaborate. You had not expected him to. Valarr rarely shared the details of his political struggles with you. You were his wife, his possession, you were not his confidante. And yet, tonight, something was different. Tonight, the silence felt less like a wall and more like a wound.
You shifted closer to him beneath the furs. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but his arm moved in response, lifting from his eyes so he could look at you. His mismatched gaze was tired, the blue eye shadowed, the brown one dark with frustration. His dark hair was disheveled, clinging to his forehead with sweat.
"What happened?" you asked softly. He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether you were genuinely asking or simply performing the role of concerned wife. You were not entirely sure yourself.
"I presented a proposal," he said finally. "Weeks of work. I consulted with the Master of Ships. I reviewed every harbor tariff from the past decade. I drafted a plan that would increase Crown revenues by fifteen percent without raising taxes on the smallfolk." His voice grew sharper with each word, the bitterness bleeding through. "It was thorough. It was sound. It was better than anything those greybeards could have cobbled together in a hundred years of warming their arses on those council chairs."
He turned his gaze back to the canopy, his jaw tightening again. "They listened politely. Lord Butterwell nodded along like a fucking toy soldier. The Grand Maester made notes he'll never read. And then my father said—" He pitched his voice lower, a mocking approximation of Baelor's measured tone. "'A thoughtful proposal, Valarr. We will certainly give it the consideration it deserves.' And then he moved on to the next item. As if I had said nothing at all. As if I were still a boy playing at governance with wooden soldiers."
You watched him in the darkness. His profile was sharp against the pillows, his features carved from shadow and firelight. He looked, in that moment, less like the man who had methodically stripped away every piece of your independence and more like a son who had tried his best and been told it was not good enough by the one man whose approval he craved.
"The proposal sounds like it had merit," you said carefully.
"It did." His voice was bitter. "But merit does not matter. Experience matters. Age matters. Being a man of one and twenty in a room full of men twice my age matters. They look at me and they see my father's son and nothing else. Nothing I have earned. Nothing I have built. Just the son, playing at statecraft while the real men make the decisions."
He fell silent, and the words hung in the air between you. The heir's heir. You had never thought of him that way before. To you, he had always seemed so powerful, so in control, the man who held your entire existence in his hands. But in the broader hierarchy of the realm, he was merely the son of the heir. Important, yes. Privileged, certainly. But not yet a man of real power. Not yet someone whose voice carried weight in the council chamber. It made him seem, for the first time, almost human.
Your hand moved before you could stop it. Your fingers found his arm beneath the furs, tracing the line of muscle from his wrist to his elbow. The touch was light, tentative, a gesture of comfort you had never offered him before. "Your father should have listened," you said quietly. "Truly listened. Not just nodded and moved on."
Valarr turned his head on the pillow to look at you. His mismatched eyes were unreadable, but something in them had shifted. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by something else. Surprise, perhaps. Or gratitude.
"You think so?" His voice was softer than it had been.
"I am not a member of the council," you said. "I do not know the intricacies of harbor tariffs or Crown revenues. But I know what it is to prepare something carefully, to pour your effort into a task, only to be dismissed by those who should have valued your contribution." You paused, holding his gaze. "It is a particular kind of wound. One that festers if left unacknowledged."
He was silent for a long moment. Then his hand found yours beneath the furs, his fingers interlacing with your own. His palm was warm, his grip firm but not demanding. It was the first time he had held your hand without it feeling like an act of possession.
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "you surprise me."
"Is that a good thing?"
His lips curved into a small, tired smile. "I have not decided yet."
He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. It was a gentle gesture, almost chaste, and it made your chest tighten with something you refused to name. You did not want him to be gentle. You did not want him to be vulnerable. You wanted him to be the monster you could hate cleanly, not this complicated, wounded man who held your hand like you were the only solid thing in a world that had stopped making sense.
"I needed this," he murmured against your skin. "I needed you."
You always need me, you thought. But only when it suits you. Only when I can serve a purpose. Only when your pride has been wounded and you need something beautiful to remind you of your power.
But you did not say that. Instead, you said, "I saw your father today. In the sept."
Valarr's head lifted. His eyes sharpened with something that might have been wariness. "Did you?" His voice was carefully neutral, but his fingers tightened around yours. "My father is not a particularly pious man."
"He came to see how I was faring." You paused, choosing your next words with care. "He was… kind. He asked after you. He said that you used to dine with them often, before the wedding. That they miss your presence at their table."
Valarr was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was dry, almost amused, but there was an edge beneath it that you could not quite identify, something that felt almost like satisfaction.
"Did he now."
"He asked us to join them for supper. A small gathering. Just family, he said."
Valarr released your hand and rolled onto his back again, staring up at the canopy. But his arm found your waist, pulling you closer against his side, his thumb tracing idle circles on the curve of your hip.
"Funny," he said. "Since my father was the main opposition to our marriage."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You felt your stomach tighten, a cold thread of unease winding through your chest.
"He opposed the marriage?"
"He did." Valarr's mismatched eyes were fixed on the canopy above, but his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still. "When the council debated what to do with you, there were many voices. Lord Darklyn wanted you sent to the Silent Sisters. Lord Celtigar suggested a strategic marriage to some minor house that could be trusted to keep you quiet and out of sight. And Lord Bracken—well, Lord Bracken wanted your head on a spike. He lost two sons at the Battle of the Redgrass Field. He was not feeling merciful."
His thumb continued its lazy circles on your hip, a strange counterpoint to the gravity of his words. "And my father," he continued, "argued against the marriage. Not against sparing your life—he is not a cruel man, my father. But against bringing you into the heart of the royal family. He said it was unwise to bind a Blackfyre so close to the throne. He said it would be seen as a sign of weakness, that the realm would think we were rewarding rebellion. He said…" Valarr paused, and something dark flickered in his expression. "He said I was letting my desires cloud my judgment. That I wanted you for the wrong reasons. That I was not thinking clearly."
He was right, you thought. He was right about all of it.
But you did not say that. You could not say that. Instead, you studied Valarr's profile in the dying firelight and asked, "Then how did the marriage happen? If the Prince of Dragonstone opposed it?"
"The King overruled him." Valarr's voice was quiet, but there was a fierce pride in it now. "My grandfather saw the wisdom of binding your bloodline to ours. He understood that marriage was a stronger chain than execution. That you would be more valuable as a Targaryen wife than as a Blackfyre corpse." He turned his head to look at you, and his mismatched eyes gleamed in the darkness. "I won. Despite my father's objections. Despite everyone who thought I was making a mistake. I won."
You did not point out that you were the one who had lost. That your family was dead or exiled or imprisoned. That your body was no longer your own. That you prayed every day in the cold stone sept for death to take everyone who had done this to you. You did not point out any of that, because it would not have mattered. He would not have understood. Instead, you said, "Perhaps your father has come to terms with it, then. Perhaps his invitation is an olive branch. A gesture of reconciliation."
Valarr was quiet for a long moment. His hand had moved from your hip to the small of your back, his fingers tracing the bumps of your spine with idle, proprietary tenderness.
"My father is a practical man," he said finally. "He knows when a battle is lost. He accepted his own limitations. He has accepted every disappointment the gods have seen fit to hand him with that same dignity." There was something in his voice now, not quite admiration, not quite resentment, but a complicated mixture of both. "Perhaps he has decided to accept you as well."
"Or perhaps he wants something." The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You remembered Baelor's mismatched eyes watching you in the sept, his patient, assessing gaze, the way he had said I hope you find what you're praying for as if he knew exactly what darkness lived in your heart. "Your father seems like a man who always wants something."
Valarr turned his head to look at you, and his smile was thin and knowing. "Now you are learning," he said. "My father always wants something. The trick is determining what it is before he takes it."
The words lingered in the darkness, heavy with unspoken warning. You thought of Baelor's calm, measured voice in the sept. His careful questions about your wellbeing. His invitation to supper, delivered with the casual ease of a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
"Will we go?" you asked. "To the supper?"
Valarr shifted onto his side, facing you. His hand slid from your back to your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his body. His face was close to yours now, close enough that you could count the flecks of amber in his brown eye, the flecks of storm grey in his blue one. His father's eyes. His father's coloring. The Dornish look that marked him as more Martell than Targaryen, despite the single streak of silver gold that ran through his dark hair like a brand.
"Of course," he murmured. His lips brushed your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "We would not want to disappoint my dear father. And besides…" His voice dropped, low and dark and almost hungry. "Let him see what he tried to prevent. Let him see you on my arm, in my colors, wearing my name. Let him sit across the table from the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and know that I claimed you despite his objections."
His mouth found yours then, soft and searching, and you kissed him back because it was easier than resisting. Because his body was warm against yours, and his hands were gentle now, and some traitorous part of you was grateful that the anger had drained from him. Grateful that the man who held you now was not the same man who had taken you from behind with punishing, wordless fury.
When he pulled back, his mismatched eyes were dark with something that looked almost like tenderness. "Sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we will dine with my father. And you will see what it means to sit at a table where every word is a move in a game you did not agree to play."
—
The next evening, your ladies in waiting descended upon you like vultures to a carcass.
They had been unusually eager when you informed them of the supper with Baelor and Jena. Usually, they performed their duties with the bare minimum of effort, a few quick tugs of your laces, cold water in the basin and colder stares in the mirror. They did their work and left as quickly as propriety allowed, retreating to their own chambers where they could whisper about you without the inconvenience of your presence.
But tonight was different. Tonight, there was an event. A royal supper. A chance to dress you up like a doll and send you out into the world with their fingerprints all over your appearance. A chance to claim credit if you looked beautiful and to whisper about your inadequacies if you did not.
Lady Jeyne was the worst of them. "Hold still, my lady," she said now, her fingers working the laces of your bodice with unnecessary force. "We cannot have you looking disheveled for the Prince of Dragonstone. First impressions are so important—though I suppose it is rather late for that, isn't it?"
You said nothing. You had learned that lesson within your first week in the Red Keep. Silence was safer than words. Words could be twisted, weaponized, turned back upon you with those sweet, poisonous smiles. Silence, at least, was your own.
Lady Alia giggled from her perch on the window seat. She was the youngest of your attendants, and the cruelest in her own careless way. She did not hate you the way Jeyne did, she simply found you amusing, a plaything, a source of entertainment in a court that could be dreadfully dull.
"I hear the Prince could barely keep his hands off you in the gardens last week," Alia said, her voice light and musical. "One of the guards told my maid, who told me—apparently His Grace is quite… enthusiastic in his affections."
Your jaw tightened. The memory of that afternoon in the gardens, the cherry blossoms, the stone bench, the rough press of Valarr's body against yours while the guards pretended not to hear, flashed through your mind like a brand.
"It must be so flattering," Lady Mariene added from her position by the wardrobe, where she was selecting your jewelry with the air of someone choosing funeral ornaments. She was the quietest of your three ladies, but her silences were somehow worse than the others' words. She watched. She remembered. She reported everything to someone, though you had never been able to determine who. "To be so desired. Most wives can barely get their husbands to look at them after the first month, and here you are—the Prince cannot seem to let you out of his sight."
"I heard he took her against the wall in the east corridor," Jeyne said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that was perfectly pitched to carry through the entire chamber. She tugged viciously at your laces, and you felt your breath constrict. "One of the servants saw them. Said Her Grace was making the most indecent sounds. Like a common camp follower."
The mirror showed you your own face, you watched yourself the way you might watch a stranger, noting the almost imperceptible tightening of your jaw. You would not give them the satisfaction of a reaction. You would not.
"Perhaps the Prince will bend her over the dining table tonight," Alia said, clapping her hands together with mock delight. "Right there in front of the Prince and Lady Jena. A bit of entertainment between the fish course and the roast. I'm sure the musicians could provide appropriate accompaniment."
The three of them laughed. The sound was bright and tinkling and utterly venomous, like bells dipped in poison.
"The Blackfyre whore becomes the Targaryen spectacle," Jeyne said, meeting your eyes in the mirror with that cold, triumphant smile. "Your mother must be so proud."
Something hot and sharp rose in your chest rage, pure and undiluted, the same rage that fueled your prayers in the sept. You wanted to turn around and slap the smile from Jeyne's face. You wanted to grab Alia by her perfect honey colored hair and drag her across the floor. You wanted to scream at them until your voice gave out, to tell them that you had not chosen this, that you had not wanted any of this, that you were a prisoner in all but name and they were the jailers' mocking chorus.
But you could not. Speaking back meant punishment. Not directly, Valarr would never raise a hand against you, would never lock you in a dungeon or have you beaten. But Lady Jeyne's cousin was a captain in the City Watch. Lady Alia's father sat on the King's council. Lady Mariene's uncle was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Their families were powerful, respected, loyal. Your family was dead or exiled or imprisoned. You had no allies. You had no power. You had only the thin protection of Valarr's obsession, and even that was a fickle thing, a fire that could warm you or consume you depending on his mood.
So you said nothing. You sat perfectly still as Jeyne finished lacing your bodice with punishing tightness, as Mariene draped a necklace of rubies around your throat, as Alia powdered your cheeks and painted your lips with rose scented salve. You let them transform you into the image of a perfect Targaryen wife, beautiful and silent and utterly hollow.
"There," Jeyne said, stepping back to admire her work with the critical eye of a sculptor examining a statue. "You look almost presentable. Perhaps the Prince will not regret inviting you to his table after all."
"Though I'm sure His Grace Valarr will find some way to muss her before the evening is through," Alia added with a wink. "He does so hate to see her looking tidy."
More laughter. More poison. You rose from the dressing table without a word and walked to the door. Your heart was pounding in your chest, your hands trembling slightly at your sides. But your face remained calm. Your posture remained perfect. You had learned to walk as if you were made of glass and steel, fragile enough to be beautiful, strong enough to survive.
Ser Alan was waiting for you in the corridor, his white armor gleaming in the torchlight, his weathered face as unreadable as ever. He did not comment on your appearance. He did not ask if you were well. He simply fell into step behind you as you walked toward the Prince of Dragonstone's chambers, where your husband was waiting to escort you to supper.
Let them choke on their own venom, you prayed silently. Let the Stranger take them all—Jeyne and Alia and Mariene and every poison tongued snake in this wretched castle.
—
The supper was, against all expectations, perfectly pleasant. You had braced yourself for disaster. For veiled insults wrapped in courtesies. For Jena's cold stares and Baelor's measured silences. For Valarr's possessiveness manifesting in some humiliating display of ownership across the table. You had prepared yourself for every possible horror, every conceivable cruelty, every way the evening might become another weapon in the slow, grinding war of attrition that was your life in the Red Keep.
None of it happened. The private dining chamber was smaller than you had expected, intimate rather than imposing, with tapestries depicting Dornish landscapes on the walls and a fire that crackled warmly in the hearth. The table was set for four, simple but elegant, with silver candlesticks and fresh flowers arranged in a crystal vase. It felt less like a royal audience and more like a family gathering. A real one. The kind you had not experienced since before the war.
Jena Dondarrion rose to greet you with a genuine smile. She was handsome rather than beautiful, her face lined with age and laughter, her hair a deep auburn threaded with grey. Her eyes were kind and she took your hands in hers and squeezed them gently.
"At last," she said. "I have been asking my son to bring you to us for weeks. But he keeps you all to himself, the selfish boy."
Valarr made a sound of protest, but there was no real irritation in it. He kissed his mother's cheek with an ease that surprised you, you had never seen him so relaxed, so unguarded. Here, in his parents' chambers, he seemed almost like a different man.
"He is rather possessive," you said, before you could stop yourself.
Jena laughed, a warm, rolling sound that filled the chamber. "He gets that from his father. Baelor was insufferable when we first married. I could not sneeze without him appearing at my elbow with a handkerchief and a look of grave concern."
"Lies," Baelor said from his seat at the head of the table, but his eyes were warm with amusement. "I was the very model of restraint."
"You were a menace," Jena said fondly. "But a charming one. I suppose that is why I forgave you."
The supper proceeded in much the same manner. Easy. Utterly ordinary. The food was excellent roasted duck with orange glaze, buttered parsnips, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens but the conversation was better. Baelor asked you about Tyrosh, about the architecture and the sea and the dye markets that had made your mother's family wealthy. He listened to your answers with genuine interest, asking follow up questions that proved he was paying attention rather than simply performing politeness.
Jena asked about your childhood, your tutors, the books you had read. When you mentioned a fondness for history her eyes lit up.
"You must speak with Baelor about that," she said, gesturing toward her husband with her wine glass. "He is a dreadful bore when it comes to history. He will talk your ear off about King Jaehearys if given half a chance."
"I prefer Aegon the conqueror," Baelor said, his eyes meeting yours across the table. "But my wife is right. I am a bore on the subject. You must forgive me if I become tedious."
"You could never be tedious, my prince," you said, because it was the polite thing to say.
Valarr's hand found your knee beneath the table. His thumb traced small circles on the silk of your gown, a proprietary touch that was becoming as familiar as your own heartbeat. But it was gentler than usual, less demanding. He was relaxed, you realized. Happy, even.
"You mentioned that your younger son is fostering in the Stormlands," you said to Jena, partly to fill the silence and partly out of genuine curiosity.
Something flickered across Jena's face, pride mixed with the particular melancholy of a mother missing her child.
"Matarys," she said, and her voice softened around the name like velvet wrapping a blade. "He is squiring with my brother, Lord Dondarrion. The boy has always been wild—too much Stormlands blood in him, my husband says. We thought some time in the marches might temper him." She smiled, but there was a wistfulness to it. "I miss him terribly. But he writes often. He has his father's gift for words, if not his father's restraint."
"He has his mother's recklessness," Baelor said dryly. "Which is why he needs the discipline of a proper knight. My good brother will make a warrior of him, or die trying."
"Matarys is a good lad," Valarr said. He had leaned back in his chair, his posture easy, his wine glass dangling from his fingers. "A bit too fond of brawling and drinking and chasing servant girls, but his heart is in the right place. Usually."
"When he can find it," Baelor added, and the table shared a quiet laugh.
You listened to them talk about Matarys and felt something strange settle in your chest. It took you a moment to recognize it. Longing.
This was a family. A real family, with inside jokes and shared memories and the easy affection of people who had known each other for decades and loved each other anyway. They teased and laughed and argued about trivial things and through it all, there was no cruelty and then you remembered: you were not a Targaryen. You were a Blackfyre. This family had destroyed yours. This warmth was not for you. This belonging was an illusion, a pretty lie told over roast duck and Dornish wine.
But it was such a pretty lie. And for one evening, you let yourself believe it.
When the supper ended, Valarr escorted you back to his chambers with his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. He was in good spirits, humming a tune you did not recognize, his earlier frustration with the council seemingly forgotten.
"That was not terrible," he said as he closed the door behind you. "My mother likes you. I can always tell."
"How?"
"She asked about your reading habits. My mother only asks about books when she approves of someone. If she disliked you, she would have spent the entire evening discussing embroidery."
You thought of Jena's warm hands, her genuine smile, the way she had squeezed your fingers and said at last. It had felt real. It had felt like acceptance. And you did not know what to do with that.
"Your parents are… not what I expected," you said carefully.
Valarr turned to look at you, his mismatched eyes glinting in the firelight. "What did you expect?"
Coldness. Cruelty. The same poison that drips from every other soul in this wretched castle. But you could not say that. Not to him. Not when he was looking at you with that soft, almost tender expression.
"I do not know," you said instead. "Something different."
He crossed the room and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with that reverent tenderness that always made your heart ache with confusion. His touch was gentle. It was always gentle, even when it was demanding.
"My father may have opposed the marriage," he said quietly, "but he is not a fool. He can see your worth. Everyone can see your worth." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "You are beautiful and clever and full of grace. How could they not love you?"
They do not love me, you thought. They tolerated me at a supper. That is not the same thing.
But you said nothing. You simply closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried not to think about how much you had wanted that supper to be real.
—
It started three days later. You were in the gardens, enduring another afternoon of Lady Jeyne's poison-sweet company. The cherry blossoms had long since fallen, replaced by the first blooms of summer, roses in shades of crimson and gold, lavender that scented the air with its clean, sharp perfume. It should have been pleasant. It was not.
"I noticed His Grace was rather… attentive during supper last night night," Jeyne was saying, her voice pitched to carry to the guards who flanked the garden path. "One could hardly blame him, of course. You were practically spilling out of that bodice."
"You have such a keen eye for fashion," Alia added with a tinkling laugh. "Perhaps Her Grace can offer you some advice. Tyroshi styles are so… revealing, are they not? One can only imagine what the ladies of the Free Cities consider appropriate dinner attire."
You kept your eyes fixed on the roses. Your hands were clasped in front of you, your posture perfect, your face as blank as polished marble. You had learned to retreat into yourself during these moments, to find a small, quiet place deep inside where their words could not reach you. It was not always effective. But it was better than the alternative.
"You are too kind," you said, your voice flat and distant. "I am certain the ladies of Tyrosh would find Westerosi fashions equally fascinating."
Jeyne opened her mouth to deliver what was surely another perfectly aimed barb, but the words died on her lips. Her eyes fixed on something over your shoulder, and her expression shifted, surprise, then wariness, then the careful, calculated deference of a courtier who had spotted someone more powerful than herself.
"Prince Baelor," she said, dipping into a curtsy.
You turned. He was walking toward you along the garden path, his hands clasped behind his back, his stride unhurried and easy. He looked harmless. That was the first thought that crossed your mind. He looked like a man who had come to the gardens for a quiet stroll and happened upon you by accident.
"Lady Jeyne," he said, inclining his head. "Lady Alia. I trust you are enjoying the gardens?"
"Very much, my prince," Jeyne said. Her voice had lost all its venom, replaced by cloying deference. "Her Grace was just admiring the roses."
"Was she?" Baelor's gaze shifted to you, and his smile was warm and conspiratorial. "Then I must apologize for the interruption. But I find myself in need of Her Grace's company. A matter of some urgency, I am afraid."
Jeyne's eyes flickered between you and the Prince. You could see her mind working, trying to determine whether this was a genuine summons or something else. But Baelor's face revealed nothing but pleasant expectation.
"A matter of urgency?" Alia asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"Books," Baelor said gravely. "I have recently acquired a new history of the Rhoynish migration, and I am told Her Grace has an interest in such things. I was hoping she might offer her opinion on the author's treatment of Nymeria's conquest."
The silence that followed was almost comical. Jeyne and Alia stared at Baelor with the blank incomprehension of women who had never read a book that was not forced upon them by their septas. Mariene, hovering in the background as always, looked equally perplexed.
"I would be honored, my prince," you said, before your ladies could recover their wits. "Please, lead the way."
Baelor offered you his arm with the easy gallantry of a man who had been doing such things for decades. You took it, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric of his doublet, and let him guide you away from your ladies and their poison tongues.
"I hope you will forgive the deception," he said quietly, once you were out of earshot. "There is no new history of the Rhoynish migration. I simply observed that you seemed in need of rescue."
"I am certain I do not know what you mean, my prince."
"Of course you do not." His mismatched eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement. "You were the picture of serene contentment. The roses could learn a thing or two from your composure."
You did not know how to respond to that. You settled for a small, noncommittal sound. Baelor led you along the garden path, past the rose bushes and the lavender beds, past a fountain that burbled cheerfully in the afternoon sun. The guards had fallen back to a respectful distance, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you were not being watched by hostile eyes. You were not being prodded and pinched and picked apart. You were simply walking, the sun warm on your face, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers.
"I meant what I said about the book," Baelor said after a moment. "Not the Rhoynish history—I am afraid that was purely fictional. But I do have a rather extensive library, and I recall you mentioned an interest in reading during our supper. If you would like, I could lend you some volumes."
You hesitated. The library had been denied to you since your arrival. You had asked, once, if you might be permitted to borrow some books. The request had been passed to Valarr, who had said something. You could not remember the exact words. Only that the answer had been no.
"I would not wish to impose," you said carefully.
"It is no imposition. I have more books than I could possibly read in a lifetime. They sit on their shelves gathering dust, waiting for someone to appreciate them." He paused, and his voice softened. "And I think, perhaps, you might appreciate them."
There was something in his tone that made your throat tighten. It was not the possessive hunger you heard in Valarr's voice when he spoke to you. It was not the cold contempt of your ladies. It was something gentler. Something that felt almost like kindness.
"Thank you," you said. "I would like that."
Baelor smiled. It was a quiet smile, controlled and careful, but there was a warmth in it that seemed genuine. "Excellent. I will have some volumes sent to your chambers. Or…" He paused, as if considering something. "Perhaps you would prefer to select them yourself? The library can be overwhelming if you do not know where to look. I would be happy to guide you."
"Valarr said the library was not—" You stopped yourself. You had not meant to say that. The words had slipped out before you could catch them.
Baelor's expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes. Something patient. Something knowing.
"My son can be protective," he said. "It is one of his less endearing qualities. But I am the Prince of Dragonstone, and the library is my domain. If I invite you to borrow some books, there is no one in this castle who would dare object." His arm tightened slightly under your hand. "Not even Valarr."
After that, Baelor Targaryen seemed to be everywhere. He would find you in the gardens when your ladies were being particularly cruel, and offer you his arm and a stroll among the flowers. He would appear in the corridor outside the sept when your prayers were finished, as if he had business nearby and had merely happened to cross your path. He would send a servant with a book and a note in his precise, elegant hand: I thought this might interest you. This chapter is particularly illuminating.
The books were always exactly what you wanted to read. Histories of Old Valyria. Chronicles of the conquest. They were the books you would have chosen for yourself, if you had been permitted to choose. It was as if he had reached into your mind and plucked out your interests one by one.
When Valarr was busy—which was often, now that the council had taken an interest in his harbor tariff proposal after all—Baelor was there. He did not crowd you. He did not demand your attention. He simply… waited. Available. Present. A steady, calming presence in a castle full of enemies.
You began to look forward to his company. It was a small thing at first, a flicker of relief when you saw him walking toward you along a corridor. Then it grew. You found yourself thinking of questions you might ask him, observations you might share, books you might discuss. You found yourself wondering what he would think of this or that, a passage you had read, a thought you had, a story you had heard.
He was so easy to talk to. He listened when you spoke. He remembered things you had told him days or weeks before. He asked after your comfort, your health, your peace of mind. He seemed genuinely interested in your thoughts and opinions. He treated you like a person rather than a possession.
One afternoon, you found yourself in the library with him. It had become a regular occurrence, an hour here, an hour there, whenever Valarr's duties took him away and your ladies could be safely evaded. Baelor had shown you the sections he thought you would enjoy, had pointed out rare volumes and first editions, had even pulled a heavy tome from a locked case and let you hold it in your hands. Septon Bareth's Unnatural History. A book so rare and so controversial that most copies had been burned centuries ago.
You were sitting by the window now, the afternoon light slanting across the pages of a history of the Rhoynish migration. Baelor sat across from you at the reading table, a stack of documents at his elbow that he had been neglecting in favor of a worn volume of Dornish poetry. The silence between you was comfortable, the kind of silence that did not demand to be filled.
"You were right about the chapter on Nymeria's landing," you said, not looking up from your book. "The author is unfairly dismissive of her tactics. He calls them desperate when they were clearly calculated."
"I told you." Baelor's voice was dry with satisfaction. "Mekon has never met a female leader he could not diminish. It is his great failing as a historian. His great failing as a man, perhaps."
"Perhaps I should write a rebuttal. 'A Lady's Defense of the Warrior Queen.' I am certain the Citadel would welcome it with open arms."
"They would burn it in the courtyard."
"Then I shall have to publish anonymously. Some masculine pseudonym. Archmaester… Gwayne."
Baelor chuckled. It was an undignified sound for a Prince of the realm, and it made the corner of your mouth twitch upward despite yourself. "Archmaester Gwayne. A fine choice. Very authoritative. No one would ever suspect a woman."
"Precisely." You turned a page, though you had not finished reading it. "I will dedicate it to my patron, the Prince of Dragonstone, without whom I would never have had access to the texts necessary to prove Mekon wrong."
"Your patron. I like that." He leaned back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement. "Does that make you my protégée?"
"I believe it does. I hope you take your responsibilities seriously. I am told the education of a Blackfyre is a delicate undertaking."
"Exceedingly delicate. One wrong book and you might develop opinions. We cannot have that."
You laughed. It was a small sound, barely more than a breath, but it was real. You could not remember the last time you had laughed in this castle. The last time you had felt light enough to try. Baelor did not remark on it. He simply smiled and returned his attention to his poetry, giving you space to recover yourself without comment or scrutiny. That was something you had come to appreciate about him, he knew when to push and when to withdraw, when to speak and when to let silence do its work. He did not demand your emotions the way Valarr did, dissecting every reaction, claiming every pleasure. He simply let you be.
"You know," he said after a while, "my son is going to notice that you spend more time in my library than his chambers."
"He is busy with the council. His harbor proposal has been approved for further review. Apparently Lord Celtigar was impressed."
"I heard." Baelor's voice was carefully neutral. "I was the one who suggested Celtigar take a second look. He can be stubborn, but he respects thorough work. Valarr's proposal was thorough."
You looked up from your book. "You did that?"
"I mentioned it in passing. Nothing more." He turned a page of his poetry with studied casualness. "My son and I do not always agree. But I have never doubted his intelligence. It seemed a waste for his work to be dismissed without proper consideration."
"Why?" you asked.
"Because he is my son." Baelor met your eyes, and there was something steady in his gaze. "Because I could not give him the Valyrian coloring he prayed for as a boy, or the place at the council table he wants now. But I could do this. So I did."
"You could tell him. He would want to know."
"No." Baelor shook his head. "He would resent it. He wants to succeed on his own merits, not because his father smoothed the path. And he did succeed on his own merits. The proposal was his. I simply… ensured it was seen by the right eyes." He paused, and his mouth quirked into a wry smile. "Parenting is a thankless occupation. You will understand one day, when you have children of your own."
The mention of children made something twist in your stomach. You thought of Valarr's nightly attentions, his insistence on spilling his seed inside you, his muttered hopes for an heir. You thought of what it would mean to carry his child. To be bound to him not just by marriage vows but by blood.
You pushed the thought aside.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
"You assume I have nothing better to do."
"Do you?"
You thought of your ladies and their poison tongues. Of the cold stares in the corridors. Of the suffocating emptiness of Valarr's chambers when he was not there to fill them with his presence.
"Not particularly," you admitted.
"Then I shall see you tomorrow." He opened the door for you with a small, almost paternal gesture. "Bring your rebuttal to Mekon. I expect at least three pages of scathing critique."
"I shall endeavor not to disappoint my patron."
"I have every confidence in you, Archmaester Gwayne."
You were still smiling when you reached Valarr's chambers. It was only later, lying in bed with his arm wrapped around your waist and his breath warm on your neck, that you realized how easy it had become. How natural. How much you looked forward to those hours in the library, those walks in the gardens, those moments of respite from the grinding weight of your existence.
Baelor Targaryen had become your refuge. And you did not stop to wonder why a man who had opposed your marriage so vehemently was now so eager for your company. You did not stop to wonder at all.
—
The sept was empty, as it always was at this hour. You knelt before the Stranger's altar, your knees aching against the cold stone, your hands clasped in a posture of devotion you no longer felt. The hooded figure gazed down at you with its carved, impassive face, offering neither judgment nor comfort. The Stranger did not pretend to care. That was why you preferred it.
Your prayers had grown less bloody in recent weeks. You still wished death upon Lady Jeyne and her poison tongue, upon the guards who looked through you like glass, upon the servants who let your fire die. But the prayers came less frequently now, and with less heat behind them. You had other things to occupy your mind. Books to read. Conversations to anticipate. A quiet library where the afternoon light fell golden across the pages and no one demanded anything of you.
You did not pray for Baelor's death anymore. You had stopped that weeks ago.
The footsteps behind you were familiar now. You did not flinch at the sound. You did not feel your heart seize with the fear that it might be Valarr, come to violate this last sanctuary. You simply remained where you were, your head bowed, your eyes closed, and waited for him to speak.
"I thought I might find you here."
Baelor's voice was quiet, respectful of the space. You heard him settle onto the kneeling bench beside you, his movements slow and careful. The scent of him reached you, parchment and ink and the faint, clean smell of soap. It was a familiar scent now. A comforting one.
"Your ladies are looking for you," he added. "Lady Jeyne seems particularly determined. I believe she has prepared a new gown for you to try on. Something in Targaryen red."
"She can wait." You opened your eyes but did not rise. "Let her search the entire castle. It will give her something to do besides sharpen her tongue."
"That was uncharitable."
"I am not feeling charitable."
"Good." There was a smile in his voice. "Charity is wasted on women like Jeyne. She would not recognize it if it bit her."
You turned your head to look at him. He was close, closer than he usually sat in the sept, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he knelt beside you. His mismatched eyes met yours, and something in his expression made your stomach tighten. You could not name it. It was not the patient warmth you had grown accustomed to.
"Have you been praying?" he asked.
"After a fashion."
"To which god?"
"The Stranger." You nodded toward the hooded figure before you. "The only one who does not pretend to answer."
Baelor followed your gaze, studying the altar with an expression you could not read. "Most people find the Stranger unsettling. They prefer the Mother, or the Maiden. Gods who offer comfort rather than silence."
"I have had enough of false comfort."
"Have you?" He turned back to you, and the sharp thing in his expression had softened into something that looked almost like concern. "I had hoped you might say otherwise. I had hoped you were finding some measure of peace here. In the castle. In your marriage."
The mention of your marriage made you look away. You fixed your eyes on the Stranger's hooded face, on the carved shadows that hid its features from view.
"Peace is not the same as survival," you said quietly. "I am surviving. That will have to be enough."
"It should not have to be enough." His voice was low, almost gentle. "You deserve more than survival. You deserve to be seen. To be valued. To be…"
He trailed off. The silence stretched, heavy with something unspoken.
"To be what?" you asked.
When he did not answer, you turned to look at him again. He was closer than before. Much closer. His mismatched eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. His hand was on the altar rail, inches from your own.
"To be wanted," he said softly. "By someone who understands what you are. What you could be." And then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the reverent, worshipful press of lips that Valarr gave you when he was feeling tender. It was firm and deliberate and utterly assured, the kiss of a man who had been waiting a long time and had decided the wait was over. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers warm against your skin, and for one frozen, terrible moment, you could not move.
Then the shock broke, and you wrenched yourself backward. Your spine hit the edge of the kneeling bench behind you. Your hand flew to your mouth, your fingers pressing against your lips as if you could erase the sensation of his touch. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the tips of your fingers.
"What—" Your voice came out as a croak. You swallowed and tried again. "What are you doing?"
Baelor had not moved. He remained kneeling before the Stranger's altar, his hand still raised where your face had been, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes now, a flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed. As if he had expected a different reaction. As if he had been certain of it.
"I thought you might like it," he said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice of a man discussing the weather. "I thought you might… want to."
"Want to?" You were on your feet now, backing away from him, your hands shaking at your sides. The cold stone of the sept floor bit into your feet, grounding you, reminding you that this was real. This was happening. "You thought I wanted—why would you think that? Why would you ever think that?"
"You have been spending a great deal of time with me." He rose slowly, his movements unhurried, his hands raised slightly as if to calm a spooked horse. "You sought my company. You confided in me. I thought…"
"You thought what?" Your voice was rising, echoing off the stone walls. The Seven looked down at you with their carved, impassive faces—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maid, the Crone, the Stranger. All of them silent. All of them useless. "You thought that meant I wanted you to—that I would—"
"I thought we understood each other." His eyes narrowed slightly, the calm facade cracking just enough to reveal something harder beneath. "You are not happy in your marriage. Anyone can see that. My son does not see you as a person—he sees you as a prize. A possession. I thought you might welcome an alternative."
"An alternative?" The word tasted like bile in your mouth. "You are his father. You are my good father. There is no alternative. There is nothing—" Your voice broke. "There is nothing I want from you. Nothing like that. I never—I never gave you any indication—"
"Didn't you?"
The two words fell into the silence like stones into still water. Baelor's expression had changed now. The pleasant mask was gone. The patient warmth was gone. What remained was something cold and calculating, the face of a man who had been playing a game and had just realized his opponent had not been playing at all.
"I see," he said quietly. "I misjudged the situation."
"Misjudged—" You could not finish the sentence. Your whole body was trembling. You had trusted him. You had laughed with him. You had let him into the small, fragile space you had carved for yourself in this wretched castle, and he had—
"I will take my leave." Baelor straightened his doublet with a calm, unhurried motion. His composure had returned as quickly as it had slipped, the mask settling back into place. "I apologize for any… misunderstanding. It will not happen again."
He turned toward the door. His footsteps echoed on the stone, measured and unhurried, as if nothing had happened. As if he had not just shattered the only sanctuary you had left.
You opened your mouth to speak—to shout, to curse, to say something, anything—
And then you were being pushed. A hand slammed into your shoulder, spinning you around. You caught a glimpse of Baelor's face—his expression no longer calm or calculating but something else entirely, something raw and furious and utterly without restraint—before your back hit the small prayer table with a crack that drove the air from your lungs.
Pain lanced through your spine. The edge of the table bit into your hips. The candles on the Stranger's altar flickered wildly, casting long, twisting shadows across the stone walls. Baelor's hands were on your shoulders, pinning you against the table, his weight bearing down on you.
"You think you can refuse me?" His voice was a low, dangerous whisper, his face inches from yours, his mismatched eyes blazing with a fury you had never seen before. "You think you can spend weeks accepting my gifts, my company, my protection, and then play the scandalized innocent when I ask for something in return?"
"Get off me." The words came out hoarse and trembling. "Get off me now."
"You are a Blackfyre." His grip tightened on your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown. "You are nothing in this castle without my goodwill. Nothing. My son will tire of you eventually—he tires of everything—and when he does, who do you think will protect you? Who do you think will keep you from the Silent Sisters, or a cell beneath the keep?"
"Let go of me." Your voice was steadier now, but your heart was hammering against your ribs, your blood roaring in your ears. "Let go of me, or I will scream."
"You will not scream." His lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. "If you scream, who will come? The guards? They despise you. Your ladies? They would love to see you humiliated. My son?" He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. "My son will believe whatever I tell him. And I will tell him you threw yourself at me. That you begged me to take you from him. That you are exactly what everyone always said you were—a Blackfyre whore, faithless and grasping and always, always reaching for more than you deserve."
Your blood went cold. He was right. He was right, and you both knew it. If you screamed, if you told anyone what had happened, it would be your word against his. The Prince of Dragonstone against the Blackfyre bride. A man renowned for his calm wisdom against a woman everyone already believed was a traitor's daughter and a whore.
No one would believe you. No one had ever believed you.
"There." Baelor's grip loosened slightly. His voice softened, losing its fury and settling back into that calm, reasonable tone you had come to trust. "Now we understand each other."
He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face with a mixture of hunger and absolute contempt. There was no warmth in his gaze, only the cold calculation of a man who knew exactly how much power he held over you. "You will not scream."
Before you could find your voice, Baelor reached down and grabbed the fabric of your skirts, ripping them upward with a violent jerk. The sound of tearing silk echoed through the silent sanctuary of the Seven. You struggled, your hands pushing against his chest, but he was far stronger, pinning your wrists above your head with a single hand, locking them against the stone.
He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't care for your pleasure or your consent. With his free hand, he fumbled with his breeches, freeing his thick, rigid cock. It was heavy and pulsing, smelling of musk and aggression. He didn't use any lubrication; he didn't care if it hurt.
Baelor stepped between your thighs, forcing them wide apart. He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your flesh, and drove himself forward. He slammed into you in one brutal, singular motion, his cock tearing through you and burying itself deep inside your pussy.
You let out a choked gasp, your back arching as the sudden, violent intrusion stretched you to the limit. It wasn't the practiced, rhythmic sex you had with Valarr; this was an invasion. Baelor groaned, a guttural sound of triumph, as he felt the tight heat of your walls clamping around him.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice harsh.
You tried to turn your head away, but he squeezed your wrists tighter, forcing you to stare into those mismatched eyes so much like his sons. He began to fuck you with a savage intensity, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythmic, wet thud. Each thrust was deep and punishing, driving you further back against the wall, the rough stone scraping against your skin.
He wasn't looking for intimacy; he was marking you. He wanted you to feel every inch of him, to know that while you belonged to his son by law, you belonged to him by force. He grunted with every shove, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck.
"My son… is a boy," Baelor growled, his pace increasing, becoming more frantic and violent. "He doesn't know how to break a woman like you. But I do."
You sobbed, the sound muffled against the silence of the sept, your body shaking under the onslaught. You weren't a virgin, but the sheer brutality of his movements made you feel raw and exposed, Valarr never fucked you this way, not even when he was mad. He shifted his grip, hooking one of your legs over his hip to drive even deeper, his cock hitting your cervix with a jarring force that made your vision swim.
The friction grew intense, the heat between your bodies building into a fever pitch. Baelor’s movements became erratic, his thrusts shorter and harder, hammering into you as he neared his peak. He leaned in, his teeth sinking into your flesh as he let out a low, animalistic roar.
With one final, crushing thrust, Baelor stiffened. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his entire body shaking as he erupted inside you. You felt the hot, thick gush of his cum filling your pussy, flooding you with the evidence of his conquest.
He stayed there for a moment, panting, his forehead resting against yours, his mismatched eyes wide and glazed with lust. Then, as quickly as the storm had come, he pulled out. The wet sound of his cock sliding out of you felt like a final insult.
He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a calm, methodical precision, leaving you slumped against the wall, your legs shaking and your ruined clothes clinging to your damp skin. He looked down at you, broken and leaking his seed, and a thin, cruel smile touched his lips.
"Now," he whispered. “Consider this a lesson in your place within this family.”
—
You did not remember walking back to your chamber. The corridors stretched and blurred around you, torchlight smearing into gold streaks against the stone. Your legs moved without your permission, carrying you past guards who did not look at you, past servants who pressed themselves against the walls to let you pass. You must have looked like a ghost. You felt like one. A ghost drifting through the Red Keep, still wearing the body of a woman who had been destroyed in a sept.
The door to Valarr's chambers was heavy beneath your hands. You pushed it open and stepped inside, and the warmth of the room hit you like a blow. The fire was burning high in the hearth. Someone had been tending it. Someone had been waiting for you.
You did not care."Bath," you said.
The word came out wrong. Hoarse. Brittle. The two servants who had been arranging the bed linens turned to look at you, their faces carefully blank, their eyes flickering over your disheveled appearance. Your hair was tangled. Your gown was wrinkled and torn at the hem.
They saw. They had to have seen. But they said nothing. "My lady?" one of them ventured.
"Hot water. Boiling. Now." Your voice cracked on the last word. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. "Fill the tub. All of it. Hurry."
They moved, but not fast enough. Never fast enough. They shuffled toward the door with the unhurried pace of servants who had long ago learned that rushing only earned them more work, and something inside you snapped.
"FASTER!" The word tore from your throat like a blade. Both servants flinched. The younger one actually stumbled backward into the doorframe.
"I said boiling," you heard yourself say, and your voice was not your own. It was high and sharp and trembling with something that felt like hysteria. "If it is not scalding, I will have you both dismissed. I will have you thrown out of the castle. Do you understand me? Do you understand?"
They fled. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and you were alone.
Your hands were shaking. You looked down at them, at the fingers that had gripped Baelor's shoulders, that had pushed against his chest, that had clawed at the stone wall while he—while he— Your fingers found the laces of your gown. They were still tight from Jeyne's attentions, knotted and stubborn, and your trembling hands could not work them free. A sob rose in your throat. You choked it down. You pulled harder, and the laces snapped, and you tore the gown from your body with a violence that made the stitches groan.
The silk pooled at your feet. Your shift followed. Your smallclothes, torn and stained. You gathered them all in your arms, every scrap of fabric that had touched your skin while he was inside you, and you hurled them into the fire.
The flames leapt and crackled. The silk curled and blackened. The smell of burning fabric filled the chamber, acrid and sharp and strangely cleansing. You stood naked before the hearth, your skin prickling with the heat, and watched your clothes turn to ash.
It was not enough. It would never be enough. You could still feel him. Between your legs. On your skin. Inside you. His seed was drying on your thighs, sticky and warm, and you wanted to claw it out of you. You wanted to reach inside your own body and scrape away every place he had touched, every cell he had violated, every trace of his presence.
The servants returned with buckets of steaming water. They did not look at you. They kept their eyes fixed on the floor as they filled the copper tub, bucket after bucket, until the water rose nearly to the brim. Steam curled from the surface, thick and white, fogging the mirrors and softening the edges of the room.
"Get out," you said.
They left without a word. You climbed into the tub. The water was scalding, hot enough to make you gasp. You did not care. You lowered yourself into it inch by inch, letting the heat swallow you, letting it burn away the cold that had settled into your bones. Your legs. Your hips. Your stomach. Your breasts. Your shoulders. You sank until only your head remained above the surface.
And then you began to shake. It started in your hands, a fine tremor that spread up your arms and into your chest. Your teeth chattered despite the heat. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps. You wrapped your arms around yourself, clutching your shoulders, your nails digging into your own flesh, and you rocked forward and back in the scalding water like a child comforting herself in the dark.
He was kind to me.
The thought rose unbidden, and it broke something inside you.
He was kind to me. He gave me books. He walked with me in the gardens. He rescued me from Jeyne and Alia and their poison tongues. He remembered what I said. He listened when I spoke. He made me laugh. He made me feel safe. He was the only person in this wretched castle who treated me like a person, and I trusted him, I trusted him, I trusted him—
A sob tore from your throat, raw and ugly. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but another followed, and another, until you were weeping with your whole body, your shoulders heaving, your chest burning with the force of your grief.
Baelor had been different. Baelor had been kind. Baelor had made you believe that there was one person in this castle who did not want to use you, who did not want to break you, who simply wanted to sit with you in a quiet library and talk about books and history and the absurdities of Archmaester Mekun.
And it had all been a lie.
Every conversation. Every borrowed book. Every stroll through the gardens. Every gentle question and patient smile and carefully timed rescue. It had all been a performance to make you weak and vulnerable and ripe for the taking.
And you had fallen for it. You had fallen for it completely.
"Stupid," you whispered into the steam. Your voice was a wreck, hoarse and broken. "Stupid, stupid, stupid—"
You had thought you were so clever. You had thought you could navigate this court, survive this marriage, endure this life. You had thought you could tell friend from enemy, predator from protector. But you could not. You had let a wolf into your sanctuary dressed in sheep's clothing, and now—now there was nothing left.
Your body was still shaking. The water was growing cooler, the heat leaching away into the evening air. You should get out. You should dress. Valarr would be returning from the council soon, and he would expect to find you composed and waiting. He could not see you like this. He could not know what had happened. If he knew—if anyone knew—
If you scream, who will come? My son will believe whatever I tell him. And I will tell him you threw yourself at me.
Baelor's voice echoed in your mind, calm and reasonable and utterly without mercy. You pressed your hands over your ears, but it did not help. The voice was inside you now. It would always be inside you.
You stayed in the bath until the water went cold and your skin was wrinkled and raw. You stayed until your tears ran dry and your breathing steadied and the shaking subsided into a dull, hollow numbness that felt almost like peace.
And then you rose from the tub, dried yourself with slow, mechanical movements, and began to dress for your husband's return.
Because that was what you did now. That was what you were for.
—
That night, you dined alone.
The servants brought food to the chambers but you could not eat. You moved the food around your plate with your fork, rearranging the slices of meat into patterns that meant nothing, while the candles burned down and the fire crackled in the hearth and the silence pressed in on you from all sides.
Valarr had sent word. A servant had appeared at the door an hour before supper, a nervous boy who had delivered his message in a breathless rush: the council session had run late, there were matters that required his attention, he would not be able to join you for the evening meal. He would return as soon as he was able.
You had nodded and dismissed the boy and said nothing. What was there to say? Your husband was busy. Your husband was important. Your husband had a place at the council table now, thanks to his father's quiet intervention—the same father who had cornered you in the sept and forced himself inside you and threatened to destroy what little remained of your life if you dared to speak of it.
The servants cleared the dishes. The fire was stoked. The candles were replaced. And still Valarr did not come. You changed into your nightgown and you had not looked at yourself in the mirror as you put it on. You did not want to see your own face. You did not want to see the woman who had been so easily deceived.
Then you climbed into the bed and sat against the headboard, your knees drawn up to your chest, and you watched the door.
The hours crept by. The fire burned down to embers. The candles guttered and smoked. Outside the windows, the moon traced its slow path across the sky, and the Blackwater murmured its endless song against the cliffs below, and still you watched the door.
You were afraid. You watched the door and imagined it opening. Imagined him stepping through—not Valarr, but Baelor, with his calm eyes and his quiet smile and his hands that had held you down while he—
You closed your eyes. You opened them again. You kept watching the door.
If he came back, what would you do? Scream? Fight? There was no one to hear you. No one who would believe you. You had learned that lesson in the sept, carved into your body with bruising force. You were a Blackfyre. You were nothing. Your word meant less than the ashes of your burned gown.
So you sat in the darkness and watched the door and waited for something terrible to happen.
When the latch finally clicked, your heart stopped. The door swung open. A figure stepped through, silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A familiar outline that made your stomach clench with equal parts relief and dread.
But it was Valarr. Only Valarr.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He looked tired. His dark hair was disheveled, his doublet unbuttoned at the collar, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The council session had clearly been grueling. His mismatched eyes found you sitting upright in the bed, and his brow furrowed with confusion.
"You are still awake." He crossed to the bed, unfastening his doublet as he walked. "It is late. The hour of the wolf has come and gone."
"I know."
He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression you could not quite read. His gaze flickered over your face, your posture, the way your fingers were gripping your knees. He was perceptive, your husband. More perceptive than you sometimes gave him credit for.
"Why are you still awake?" he asked.
"I was waiting for you."
The words came out before you could stop them. They hung in the air between you, fragile and honest, and you saw something shift in Valarr's expression. Surprise, perhaps. Or something softer.
"Why?" His voice was gentler now. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to pull off his boots. "You did not need to wait. I told you the council would run late."
"I could not sleep."
"You should have sent for a maester," he said. "A sleeping draught, at least."
"I did not want to trouble anyone."
"Trouble them. That is what they are for."
"I had a nightmare," you said. "Earlier. It was… unpleasant. I did not want to go back to sleep."
Valarr set his boots aside and turned to look at you. In the dim light of the dying fire, his mismatched eyes were soft with something that looked almost like concern. He reached out and brushed a strand of silver gold hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
"What kind of nightmare?"
"A bad one." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I do not wish to speak of it."
He studied your face for a long moment. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, gentle and unhurried, and you leaned into the touch without meaning to. His hand was warm. Solid. Familiar. It was the hand of a man who had hurt you in his own ways, yes, but never like that. Never with the brutality that his father had shown you.
"Lie down," he said. "I will join you in a moment."
He finished undressing with the efficient movements of a man who was too tired to stand on ceremony. His doublet was draped over a chair. His breeches followed. He crossed to the washbasin and splashed water on his face, then dried himself with a cloth before climbing into the bed beside you.
The mattress shifted under his weight. The furs rustled as he settled against the pillows. And then his arm found your waist, pulling you against his side with that familiar, possessive grip that had once made you feel trapped and now—now—made you feel something closer to anchored.
You lay there in the darkness, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He was warm. He was solid. He was here. And Baelor was not.
"Valarr?"
"Mm." His voice was drowsy. He was already half-asleep.
"Can you hold me?"
He went still for a moment. Then his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against his body. His other hand came up to stroke your hair, slow and rhythmic, his fingers carding through the silver-gold strands with a tenderness that made your throat ache.
"Of course," he murmured against your hair. "I will always hold you when you ask."
You closed your eyes. The tears came then, silent and hot, sliding down your cheeks to soak into the fabric of his undershirt. You did not make a sound. You had learned long ago to cry without noise, to swallow your grief and your fear and your rage until they became a hard, cold knot in your chest. But you could not stop the tears. They flowed from you like water from a broken dam, and Valarr held you through all of it.
He did not ask why you were crying. He did not demand explanations or details. He simply held you, his arms wrapped around you like iron bands, his lips pressing occasional kisses to the crown of your head.
"Whatever it was," he said quietly, "it was only a dream. You are safe here. You are with me."
You are safe here.
The words were a lie. You knew they were a lie. You had never been safe in this castle, not from the moment you arrived. And the man who held you now was part of the reason why—his obsession, his possession, his slow, methodical erosion of everything you had been before the war.
But he was not his father. He was not his father, and that mattered more than you had ever imagined it could.
"Thank you," you whispered.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Sleep, sweet wife. I will be here when you wake."
You closed your eyes. The tears were still falling, but they were slower now, softer. The knot in your chest was still there, hard and cold and unyielding. But wrapped in Valarr's arms, held against the steady rhythm of his heart, you felt something you had not felt in weeks.
desperate for more lighthouse keeper daeron. i need to know more about him and reader pleeeease
the way you enabled me, anon…
lighthouse keeper!daeron
cw: mdni, 18+, modern au, f!reader, alcoholism, hallucinations, descriptions of wounds, reckless behaviour, bit unhealthy relationship, darkish daeron, reader is really into him btw
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lighthousekeeper!daeron lives a very simple life. there are not many things he needs, besides his house to be warm, his dog to be fed, and his cupboards filled with alcohol. the seaside life has pros and cons. the air is always cool, salty, and damp, the wooden parts of his cottage have a tendency to rot, and the metal parts to rust. the weather is always foggy, so there is barely any sun, and nothing ever dries out properly. his house is rather cozy, though, dark, some wood say. daeron doesn't really care about maintaining it properly, so it is livable, but nothing more. he really starts cleaning and unhoarding, knowing that now you are in this space as well, and he really wants you to feel good there, homey.
lighthousekeeper!daeron is not a pretty sight most of the time. hair dirty, eyes glassy, forehead covered in sweat. his hands are always bandaged because he often cuts himself while working, bandages are no longer white, just grey with caked blood underneath. daeron's appearance or hygiene is not his first priority. his hair is longer, messy. he is rarely fully shaven, with golden stubble reinforcing the unkept look. his 'uniform' is usually thick wool sweaters over henleys, cargo trousers and work boots. colours that you can’t help see him wearing the most are navy, gray, brown, charcoal, beige.
lighthousekeeper!daeron is relieved and troubled at the same time, knowing you have already seen him at his worst and stayed. he is overfilled with gratitude and quiet, confused love. every time you slide into his lap, or stroke his cheek, or kiss him, there is this boyish awe in his eyes.
lighthousekeeper!daeron is not just tortured, depressed, and pathetic. no, he is also playful, sarcastic, and affectionate. he makes you giggle with his witty comments, makes you swat his arm when he whispers something filthy, and makes you smile at his compliments. daeron will wake up earlier and make you coffee just the way you like it, will make sure you are warm and comfortable, even if that means giving you his extra blanket, will attempt his best at looking presentable, and go to the local pub with you because you mentioned it as one of your favourite places.
lighthousekeeper!daeron can be rough. as if something gets into him. it is always visible. you swear sometimes his eyes change, you can see it in the way he is looking at you. you never know if it will be your daeron or... a different one. you always notice him, the other, it slips in the way he talks with you, in a way he touches you, in a way he is watching you, tracking your every movement like a beast ready to pounce. nothing but fogged hunger in his eyes, pupils blown wide in the darkness, you feel all the 'lightness' drained from him the second he looks up at you with the sweetest smile of a predator.
it is especially showing in how he fucks you. it is a wide range with him. in the morning he will worship your body, licking and kissing you all over, making out with your pussy for hours. and in the evening he will bend you over the kitchen table, biting your neck till there is blood, pounding into you and making you whine from pleasure. daeron loves that, no one can hear you there anyway.
lighthousekeeper!daeron is undeniably nice to you, but that doesn’t mean he is necessarily… good. years of torments he was forced to endure, mixed with isolation and loneliness, made him desperate, starved, insatiable. he becomes fixated on one thing - you. is it unhealthy? perhaps. but at this point, there is nothing healthy about him anyway. he never hurts you, of course, no, it is something else. maybe the silent understanding that if you try to leave him, he will stop you. gently. or...
lighthousekeeper!daeron dreamed of you for months before you appeared in his life. saw tons of dreams when you were calling his name, luring him on the cliffs and into the sea. many nights, he watched your silhouette wandering the coast, eyes fixated on you, as you beckoned him closer, slowly shedding your clothes and stepping into the dark water. but everytime he thought he reached you, you vanished and he woke up soaking wet, shivering, and alone. in daeron’s eyes, you are ethereal, to the point that he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of you being real in an outside world and existing for other people too. in his world, you just come to him and then you leave, so deep down, he wouldn’t be surprised if one day he sobers up and realises he imagined you.
lighthousekeeper!daeron's visions are not pretty. you know it by the pained winces with which he wakes up in the middle of the night, by the way his hands shake as he reaches for a bottle. he mumbles your name mixed with the names you never heard of, grips you painfully tight in his sleep, refusing to let go. even when his eyes are closed, you can sense the fear that is coursing through his body.
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a/n: i don’t think anyone needs all that, but i just can’t stop thinking about him...
cw: modern au, mdni, 18+, f!reader, substance abuse (alcohol), hallucinations, mental health problems, obsession, darkish daeron
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๑ he is certainly mad, the town folk liked to say, utterly insane. they called him the dreamer and told their kids haunting stories about the lighthouse keeper, who moved to the coast, trying to run away from the visions
๑ some say he is from a wealthy family sent here as punishment, some say he is a fisherman's son, dutifully doing his job, some say he is a hopeless alcoholic, some say he is a real seer, connected to the old spirits
๑ no one knows enough, so every statement is just a speculation. the town sits around a harbor. a few miles away, on a rocky cliff that juts into the sea, stands the lighthouse. the lightkeeper lives in a cottage beside it. that was everything people had, which only fed the whispers of the supernatural
๑ what was certain is that he is a recluse. everyone in town knows that daeron doesn't need or want any sort of company besides his black newfoundland that barked and snarled at the mere sight of another human approaching
๑ the visions, the voices, the dreams have never left him, even here in this godforsaken place, they were torturing him, stealing any hope of peace. many mornings, he found himself lying in the sand, wet and shivering, even though he was sure to close his eyes in his bed before falling asleep
๑ though sleep was a generous word for the scraps of unconsciousness he was able to get. his days were cold, draped in a thick fog of agonising dread, while nights were hot, full of distant fire and pain, he never fully witnessed but felt deeply
๑ sometimes it was more than just dreams, sometimes nightmares leaked into daylight as voices calling his name somewhere far away, sometimes they came as visions, twisting his sanity into something barely recognisable
๑ daeron drank more at such days. much more. alcohol never fully helped, only dulling the gnawing never ending terror that lived in his mind, poisoning everything that was unfortunate enough to appear in his pathetic life. he could go days without showering, barely eating a thing, drowning all his feelings in brandy
๑ his days were repetitive and simple, barely differing at all. sometimes he felt like he was living one never ending day. not that it really matter. daeron treated his job seriously, because it was the only thing in his life he could keep under some sort of control. so he checked the weather, repaired railings, walked the cliffs with his dog, lighted the beacon and drank
๑ still it was better than in the city. it made sense, for him being here. even though, mostly because here he had you. his salvation. his ethereal curse. his safe place. his siren. the first time daeron saw you he was convinced you are one of his hallucinations, soaked wet from the rain, banging on his door
๑ once you appeared in his life, many things started to make sense. the only thing that didn’t make sense was how you found him and why you stayed. daeron didn’t dare to ask. he was simply grateful, no, more than that. he was in utter disbelief, praying to whatever gods he believed in for you not to vanish, not to be a trick of his ill mind
๑ you were always leaving in the morning and coming back in the evening, and it was the first time in his life that he had caught himself eagerly waiting for the day to end, just to see you again. no liquid could ever sedate him like your scent could. nothing ever could bring him the peace he felt when you were holding him close
๑ sometimes he woke you up in the middle of the night, babbling nonsense and drenched in sweat, calling your name and begging you to stay, not calming down until you pressed your lips against his, shushing his feverish mumbling with your tongue
๑ on good days, when the dread somewhat feels bearable, he is completely different: attentive, sweet, happy. daeron is so touch starved. ideally, he would keep you in his bed forever, spending hours between your thighs, listening to your moans and whimpers
๑ daeron is deeply affectionate. holds your hand constantly, lays his head in your lap, and nuzzles your neck, feeding you breakfast, pulling you into his lap whenever he can. boring days suddenly evolved into your personal version of heaven. he smells of sweat, salt, and the lingering sweetness of liquor, mixed with something uniquely him. something that you associate with happiness
๑ daeron is all raw emotions and insatiable desire. he is a deeply obsessive man, and he is starved. derranged and filthy, gross and perverted. in his eyes, you are still unreal, something ethereal, overworldly that he has a chance to put his greedy hands on.
๑ daeron doesn't just adore you, doesn't just worship you, he devours. devours the same way he empties the endless bottles of alcohol he drinks you in, fucking, kissing, sucking, licking until you physically can't take it anymore
๑ you are his magic pill to everything. his treat, his painkiller, his favourite meal that he can never get enough of. the more you spend time with him, the more daeron hates it when you leave, fueled by the fear of you never returning, vanishing, dissolving in the sand like another dream
๑ to him it's not just sex. it's a ritual. an overworldly way of showing his devotion, of letting go of his ache, at least for a few hours. it is a soul merging bonding that makes the horrors feel survivable and the life worth living
๑ sometimes he fucks you slow and tender, guiding your hips down on his throbbing length as hard rain drums against the windows. sometimes he is fucking you hard and fast, pressing you against the slick stone wall of the lighthouse, biting your lips until your saliva is filled with the coppery taste of blood. sometimes he is making you sit in his lap near the fireplace, toying with you, his fingers teasing the dampness between your thighs with agonizing slowness, pretending not to hear your pleading and begging. sometimes he is eating you out with your back against the hard shore cliff, hiking your leg up his shoulder, taking his time, savouring the moment of complete power he has over your pleasure
๑ he is certainly mad, the town folk liked to say. and perhaps he was. but it doesn't really matter when you are the one driving him mad, does it?
□ summary: A hangover, a pair of gloves, and an unfortunate encounter in the corridors of Winterfell. Somewhere between awkward apologies and shared laughter, titles are forgotten.
□ word count: 3.1k
□ tropes: slow burn, he fell first and harder, hurt-comfort, No use of y/n, no physical description of reader, reader is a badass and can fight, reader and valarr are adults.
□ warnings: afab reader, slight misogny, mentions of death, cursing, reader has a direwolf, no beta read.
□ a/n: i hope you enjoy the chapter. Thank you for reading. We might have an early chapter update on tuesday because i have already written it and it only needs polishing. :)
Chapter 5
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The first thing you felt as you tried to open your eyes was the pounding in your head. The second was someone knocking on your door.
You groaned and pulled the furs over your head, burying your face deeper into the pillow. One hand came up to press against your temple, as if that might somehow stop the throbbing.
"My lady, please open the door. It's-" Meera's voice drifted through the wood.
"Begone. I need sleep," you called back miserably, burying your face in the pillow as the knocking only intensified.
You let out a groan. But before you could muster another complaint, a familiar voice boomed through the door.
"If you do not open this door this instant, not only will you be grounded for a moon, but I shall forbid you from leaving this castle for a week."
You were out of bed before she finished speaking. The room spun slightly as your feet hit the floor. The ale had been a mistake, the throbbing in your head intensying with each passing moment.
You practically lunged for the door and yanked it open.
"Mother. Good morrow." You said attempting a smile. Though it felt more like a grimace.
From the corner of your eye, you noticed Meera and Layla standing behind your mother. Both women looked as though they wished to be anywhere else.
Your mother pushed past you without a word, and the door shut firmly behind her.
You swallowed as her gaze settled on you. If looks could kill, Winterfell would be preparing your funeral.
"I was about to wake up, I swea-"
"Where were you last night?"
The question cut straight through your excuse, and you straightened slightly.
"I was here. In my chambers. Where else would I be?"
Your mother's eyebrow arched as she let out a huff of breath. "So you went to sleep in commoner's clothes and a ragged cloak?"
Your eyes widened as looked down, and found yourself still dressed in yesterday's clothes. Probably too tired and drunk to change out of them last night. You mentally cursed yourself.
"Mother, I can expla-"
"DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL?"
You physically winced. The volume alone nearly split your skull. And outside the door, the entire corridor could probably hear every word.
"Sneaking out in the middle of the night," your mother continued, "and to a tavern of all places!"
"I didn't go to a tav-"
"I can smell the ale from where I stand." She said as her glare sharpened, and you wished the floor would swallow you whole.
"Have you lost your mind?" she demanded. "Did you truly think I would not know?"
"Mother, please just listen-"
"No." The single word struck harder than any shout. Ever could. Her voice sharp, practically dripping anger. "Not today."
She stepped closer.
"A Stark lady sneaking out in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea what the consequences would have been if someone saw you? The damage it would bring not only to your honour, but to the honour of this family?"
You remained where you stood. Your jaw clenched and eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.
"The Old Gods help me." Your mother's hand dragged across her face. "Did you even stop to think what the royals would make of this?"
"I do not care for their opinions."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
"What?"
"I said I do not care for their opinions."
Your mother's laugh held no amusement as a bitter smile touched her lips.
"Of course you don't. You have never cared much for anyone's opinion apart from your own."
The words stung more than they should. Not because they were true, but because part of you feared they might be.
"But have you considered Berena?" your mother continued. "Or Alyssane?"
You opened your mouth, but immediately snapped it shut as your mother raised a hand in warning.
"You do not wish to marry. Fine,' her voice trembled slightly. "So be it."
You hated hearing that disappointment, hated it more because you knew she tried so hard to hide it.
"But do not ruin your sisters' chances because of your actions. The talks with the Targaryens are going well," your mother said. "And if the Old Gods are willing, Berena may soon be betrothed to the heir to the heir."
And then her eyes met yours.
"Do you understand what your actions could cost us? What they could cost Berena?"
You wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her that your actions does not matter, that Berena deserved better than being bartered away for politics.
But the words died before they reached your tongue. Because tears had begun gathering in your mother's eyes, and suddenly the argument no longer felt worth having.
"I have bent to your wishes your entire life," she said, her voice softening. "Not because I wished to. Because your father asked me to."
Your chest tightened at that, your hands formed a fist as you dig your nails in your palms.
"I am your mother." A shaky breath escaped her. "I could never wish harm upon you."
For the first time since entering the room, her anger seemed to crack.
"I know you wish for the freedoms William enjoys." Her words were a whisper now, as she looked away briefly, "But I cannot give them to you. Not because I do not wish to."
And when she looked back, there was nothing but fear in her eyes.
"But because I am afraid. You may be a warrior."
Her voice broke.
"But you are not immortal."
Your throat tightened, and then she spoke the words you dreaded most.
"I have already lost one child... I do not wish to lose another."
You closed your eyes, and for a moment, you were no longer standing in your chambers. You were staring at snow stained red and lifeless grey eyes of Donner.
"If I discover you sneaking out again," your mother said quietly, "it will not end as easily as it is ending today."
You could only nod. Your mother stood there for another moment, before her expression hardened once more.
"Get dressed." She said as she moved toward the door. "I expect you at breakfast."
She left, leaving you standing in the middle of the room. The headache still lingered and the smell of ale still clung to your clothes.
But neither felt nearly as unbearable as the ache now sitting in your chest. An emotion clawed its way up your throat that you could not name, as your hands started shaking beside you.
You sat at the breakfast table and rubbed your temple for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. After your mother had left your chambers, you had decided not to test her patience any further. You had dressed as quickly as possible, endured Meera's knowing looks, and made your way toward the Great Hall before your mother could send someone to drag you there herself.
The hall was already bustling with life. Servants moved between tables carrying platters piled high with bread and eggs.
Normally, you would have found comfort in the familiar chaos. Today it only made your head hurt worse.
You and William occupied the far end of the Stark table, tucked away from most of the guests. Your mother had suggested it after one look at your face.
So you would not make a fool of yourself before the royal family. You had accepted almost immediately.
Now you sat staring at your breakfast, the lemon cake on your plate remained untouched as you pushed it around with your fork.
"If you do not wish to eat it," William said beside you, "pass me your lemon cake."
You turned your head slowly toward him. Your brother was happily devouring his third helping of eggs as if he had not spent half the previous night drinking enough ale to drown a horse. You narrowed your eyes.
"You are insufferable."
"Yet handsome."
You sighed and shoved the plate toward him.
"Here. Take it."
William accepted the offering immediately and added it beside his own untouched slice, though you doubt it would remain untouched for long.
The headache lingering behind your eyes had thoroughly ruined your appetite.
"Is it because your prince is not here?" William asked casually.
Your brows furrowed, "What?"
"I said," William repeated, far too innocently, "is it because the handsome Prince Valarr is not here?"
Your eyes widened, and you immediately looked toward the royal table.
The prince's chair sat empty. Not that you had noticed.
William's grin widened. Gods curse him.
"Hold your tongue, brother."
"Well," William continued, completely ignoring you, "I was not the one who spent nearly the entire night talking to him."
You glared.
"And I am certainly not the one who glanced at his empty chair the moment i entered the Hall."
"I did not do that."
"You did."
"No."
"Yes."
"I never thought I would see that expression on your face."
The back of your neck began to burn. You did not know what expression he meant, nor did you particularly wish to.
"He was merely the only company available," you muttered, leaning closer so nobody else could hear.
To which William only hummed. The sort of hum that meant he believed absolutely none of what you had just said.
"Uh-huh."
You resisted the urge to throw your fork at him.
"Is that why you gave him your gloves?"
"What?"
William froze and then a slow grin spread across his face. The kind of grin that usually preceded disaster.
"Oh."
Your stomach dropped.
"Oh, this is wonderful."
"William."
"You do not remember."
A horrible realization settled in your chest. You remembered drinking, music and laughter. After that? You do not remember a thing.
"William."
His grin somehow widened further.
"When we were sneaking back into the castle," he said, barely containing his amusement, "you noticed his hands were freezing. And you practically shoved your gloves into the poor prince's chest and told him he would lose his fingers if he kept standing around like an idiot."
You stared at him as horror slowly crept across your face, burning the tups of ears red. And William burst into laughter.
The moment breakfast ended, you were out of your chair and moving through the castle.
Where?
You did not know. You simply needed to get away before William found another opportunity to torment you. The corridors of Winterfell blurred around you as you walked. Servants passed carrying baskets of laundry while guards exchanged greetings near the staircases. Usually, you would have paid attention to your surroundings.
Today your thoughts were elsewhere. You had given Prince Valarr your gloves while drunk. Though it might not be a big deal, but the way William had suggested it, you had practically forced the prince to take it.
You could only hope he had forgotten about it. Or better yet, that he had been too drunk himself to remember.
The Old Gods, however, seemed determined to mock you, because the moment you rounded the corner, your shoulder collided with something solid.
Strong hands immediately settled on your shoulders, steadying you before you could stumble backwards.
"I apologize. Are you-"
You recognized the voice before you even looked up, and your stomach dropped. Slowly, your gaze lifted, and Prince Valarr's mismatched eyes stared back at you.
One blue eye. One brown.
Both slightly widened as if he had not expected to run into you either.
Prince Valarr stood before you, looking far more put together than any man had the right to this early in the morning. His brown hair had been neatly combed back, the pale streak running through it shining beneath the sunlight, as some its unruly strands falling on his forehead. He was dressed in a dark doublet embroidered with silver, he looked every bit the prince Alyssane liked to sing about.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Then you both took a step back at the exact same time.
"Oh."
"Oh."
The words left your mouths together, and heat immediately crawled up your neck. Valarr cleared his throat first, his own ears were beginning to turn red.
"My lady," he greeted.
"My prince."
A painful silence followed right after as you tried to even your breathing. Hands cluchting the pommel of your sword out of habit.
Valarr looked away first, his gaze dropping toward something in his hands.
When you looked down to see for yourself, your stomach lurched, it was your gloves. The familiar leather pair rested neatly folded between his fingers.
"I wished to return these."
He held them out towards you as you stared at them. Then at him, and then back at the gloves. The embarrassment returned with twice the force and you accepted them immediately. Your fingers slightly brushed his, and you felt your breath hitching.
"Thank you."
Valarr nodded, the silence somehow became worse. And you swallowed a nervous lump in your throat before opening your mouth.
"My prince, about last night-"
"There is no need."
Valarr offered you a small smile, though you can clearly see it was a nervous one. he sort of smile that looked as though he had rehearsed it several times before finding the courage to use it.
"You were only trying to help me." His fingers tightened briefly around the fur lining of his cloak. "And i was rather cold."
A huff of laughter escaped you despite yourself, "I was talking about dragging you with me."
You looked at him, and Valarr looked away immediately afterwards, a faint flush creeping across his pale skin, "Oh, its alright. I did not mind. I think it was a nice distraction. I appreciated it."
Something in your chest loosened. The awkward knot that had been there all morning easing slightly.
"Then I suppose I shall not apologize."
"I suppose not."
The corner of his lips twitched upward. And before you could stop yourself, the question escaped your mouth.
"Why were you not at breakfast?"
The words hung between you, and you wished for the old gods to take your life right there.
Why had you asked that?
Heat flooded your face immediately, and Valarr looked just as surprised as you felt. His eyes blinking at a rapid pace.
Then a reluctant smile pulled at his lips.
"I had a hangover."
You stared at him. The young prince looked almost offended by his own confession. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it and Valarr laughed alongside you.
Valarr laughed alongside you.
It was a quiet sound, warm enough to chase away the chill lingering in the corridor. His mismatched eyes brightened, crinkling at the corners, and a small dimple appeared on his right cheek.
You had never noticed it before, and you found yourself staring before the realization struck.
Heat crawled up your neck and you quickly looked away, your gaze dropping to the stone floor before the prince could catch you looking.
"Makes sense," you said immediately.
The smile on his face widened slightly as he nodded in return. Then Valarr tilted his head slightly.
"And where were you rushing off to in such a hurry?"
Your brows furrowed when you answered.
"I was merely walking."
"Hmmm"
"What?"
You narrowed your eyes, when you see the prince trying not to laugh.
"My prince."
Valarr's lips twitched, "You are not planning to sneak out of the castle again in the middle of the day, are you?"
A startled laugh escaped you. The sound echoed softly through the corridor as you shook your head and scratched the back of your neck.
"Only on special occasions."
Valarr let out a quiet laugh.
"A relief."
"Why?"
"Because if you were sneaking off again, I fear I might become an accomplice." Valarr's lips twitched upward. "And this time, I cannot even claim it was accidental."
That earned another laugh from you. And for the first time since you had collided with him, the tension between you finally began to disappear.
At least a little.
Though the way Valarr's gaze lingered on your smile suggested he might have forgotten where he was for a moment.
And the sudden flush that returned to his face suggested he had realized it too. You smiled and took a small step backwards.
"I should take my leave now, my prince."
Valarr nodded almost immediately. "Of course."
You turned to leave but stopped in your tracks.
"Valarr." He said from behind you.
Your brows furrowed as you looked back over your shoulder. The prince looked almost surprised by his own interruption.
He stood there, one hand still resting awkwardly against the folds of his cloak.
"You can call me Valarr."
The words came out more hesitant than you expected. A faint flush crept across his face almost immediately.
"If you are comfortable with it, of course," he added quickly. "I only thought that...well..." He cleared his throat befkre continuing.
And you couldnt help but admire how adorable he looked.
"Since we have shared ale, we are friends. And friends generally do not address one another by titles...but of course, im not forcing you or anything, it was merely a suggestio-"
"Only if you call me by my name, my prince."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You did not know why you had said them. Perhaps it was because calling him Valarr felt unfair if he continued calling you "my lady."
Oe perhaps it was because something inside you wanted to hear your name on his lips. Whatever the reason, it was too late to take it back now.
A flicker of surprise crossed Valarr's face. Then he quickly recovered and gave a small nod.
"Very well."
The silence stretched between you two. Both of you waiting for the other to speak. But then he said your name. So softly as if he was murmuring a prayer.
As though testing it, turning it over carefully and seeing how it sounded.
Your name had never sounded particularly special before. Yet hearing it spoken in his voice made something strange twist in your chest.
Valarr seemed equally affected, and a faint smile pulled at the corner of his lips. As if he had decided he liked the sound of it.
You had been called by your name your entire life. So why did it suddenly feel different? You quickly looked away before he could notice the warmth spreading across your face.
"Well," you cleared your throat, "if you will excuse me..."
You offered him a small bow.
"Valarr."
The smile that appeared on his face then was small, entirely too pleased. And that only made the heat in your cheeks worsen.
You turned on your heel immediately and retreated down the corridor before he could notice the tips of your ears turning red.
Behind you, Valarr remained standing exactly where you had left him as watched you disappear around the corner.
And if he repeated your name quietly to himself once you were gone-
brother!daeron being completely oblivious to you wanting him
cw : pervy brother, dry humping (question can it be called dry humping when you're so wet. incest, smut, both just absolute messes. 18+ MDNI
a/n: this was written very rushed yesterday after writing so much dark content, sometimes i need my own escape from it. i am deeply obsessed with this man though.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
I could so imagine modern Daeron being pathetically clueless to sister!reader actually wanting him…
Like he’s totally infatuated with you but really is oblivious to all the signs.
He gives in almost instantly when you beg him to attend a movie night, with Aerion and your older cousins. He hates being near your cruel younger brother. But one look at your soft pout and the way you flutter your eyelashes up at him and he’s putty in your hands.
You’re not even watching the movie though. You’re perched over his lap, head nestled against his chest and hand sitting dangerously close to his crotch. You press it underneath his t-shirt, fingers rubbing circles into his lower stomach, sometimes slipping into the waistband of his slacks. Your eyes peer up at him for most of it, wriggling around, talking about how you “need to get comfortable” until you’re partially straddling him.
Your hand moves again sliding up towards his chest and he literally has to catch your wrist to stop it from moving any further.
Fuck, he knows he shouldn’t feel like this. It’s only twenty minutes into the movie and he’s already hard underneath you and he really doesn’t want you to notice. What sick pervert you’d think he is. He’s trying to tell you in a hushed voice to be still as he tries to focus on the movie, anything to push the way he’s probably leaking precum through his joggers right now.
Then you’re moving again, hips sliding over his and he literally has to grab your hips and force them to be still. It catches the attention of the others, most of them complaining about the noise coming from the pair of you. Only for you to roll your eyes, telling them all the movie is boring anyway and dragging Daeron out to watch a movie privately with you.
He really thought he could have enjoyed that movie.
He knows he can’t be alone with you right now, too scared of what he might do. So he makes up an excuse, saying he’s tired and just wants to crawl into bed. When really he’s going to have a long cold shower. It’s needed.
Oh but you’re not finished yet. Of course not.
Knocking on his door, catching him sprawled out on his bed in only a pair of boxers. You’re wearing a sheer slip, his favourite, the pink one that hugs your figure, and he knows he’s doomed. The only thing he can be glad for is not being able to see through it in the dark room.
He knows he can’t let you crawl under the covers with him, knows that he’ll lose any ounce of composure if you try and cuddle up with him right now but he doesn’t know what excuse to say. Not when you are already saying how annoyed you are that he lied about going straight to bed without watching a movie.
He doesn’t understand why you want to be so close all of a sudden, doesn’t quite get the sudden need you to be literally on top of him.
Daeron would literally have to order you to stay still, holding your hips in place with one hand while the other holds your face that sits in the crook of his neck. Not realising how him snapping at you like that went straight to your lower stomach.
He’s desperately trying to watch the movie on the screen but he can’t ignore how incredibly hard he is against your inner thigh, how he knows he’s probably leaking out of his boxers and onto your skin. It wouldn’t hurt if he just slid your hips over slightly, placing you perfectly against his crotch. You don’t seem to mind, don’t bat an eye at how his hands grip your thighs a little, how they brush up underneath your slip to guide your hips against his a little.
He needs more but then you’re lifting your head from his neck, resting it against his chest and running your hands along his chest.
You’re literally purring in his lap, dripping over his boxers and he’s still too clueless to see it. He thinks the wetness is all him, that he’s pre-ejaculated or something.
It’s not till you move again, this time purposely rubbing your wet crotch over his hard cock and practically slipping down his boxers in the process. He hisses involuntarily, going to grab your hips only to realise as his hands move up your bare legs, you’re not wearing anything at all down there.
He’s fucked. You’re fucked.
It might have taken him a torturously slow amount of time to realise how badly you wanted him but now he realises, there isn’t any stopping him. He's waited too long for this.
You may be on top of him but he doesn’t let you have an inch of control. Nuh uh. He’s rutting up into you, slow and mean, torturous circles that have you whimpering into his mouth.
He’s not any better, biting down on his own moans as he slides you over his bare cock. His breath is erratic, trying to control his last bit of composure, only for it to crack when he accidentally catches your clit with the tip of his cock. Then he’s humping you faster, making sure to drag your clit over the tip of him again, and again, and again until you’re both dizzy.
Having you grind down on his dick feels so good, he’s practically mewling into your mouth, trying to wrap his lip around yours to keep himself quiet. It doesn’t work though, you're both a wrecked mess, moans falling into each other's mouths.
Then you feel it as you orgasm, hot liquid spreading across your folds, sticky and making more of a mess of the pool you’ve already created. He’s honestly embarrassed by it, cheeks flushed at the sight, head falling back in a groan. Yet you couldn’t care less though, already kissing his lips again, slipping the top part of your slip down so he can see your breasts.
Oh, he’s doomed and hungry for more, flipping you over onto your back, just in the perfect position to fuck you.
synopsis: after hearing your father is unwell, you travel to your family home to tend to him and your family. only to find there is a sickness that runs in your brother as well, one you've denied for too long.
warnings : noncon, dubcon, incest, smut, gothic horror vibes, mental illusions, coercion, manipulation, sort of ghost fucking / incubus fucking / im not certain, possessed daeron, smut, obsessive daeron. character death, blood written letters, 18+ MDNI
a/n: well i didn't expect this to be so long or have to write two parts. but hey the long awaited daeron fic i teased on my blog is finally here. not fully proofread.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
You’ve been in this room for days, knees becoming one with the cold slabs of the floor as you rest your head at the foot of his bed. Yet after days you’re still crying, tears leaking from your eyes like a faucet, muttering the same word repeatedly.
Please.
Please.
Please.
The word seems to have lost meaning at this point and you still hold onto it like it’s your life line.
Because it is. Because he is.
You’ve been praying for a week straight, unable to sleep unless resting in the bed beside him and barely eating except from the soup and bread your mother forces down your throat. It’s gotten to the point where your father has threatened to intervene, demanding for you to bathe at times or drag you out of the room but you pay him no mind, knowing you’ll find your way back to him.
To him.
Your Daeron who lies unconscious in the bed you lay your head on. Your older brother who’s seemingly taken a turn for the worse with his fever, body restless as it throws itself around the bed.
Please.
Your hand reaches out to touch him, swallowing before your skin touches his damp skin. He’s cold to the bone and you can't help stop the sob that breaks through your body.
No one seems to be certain what’s wrong with him. Your father had sent for the finest doctors and each one had told him that Daeron probably would not make it another night. You couldn’t let that happen.
Your head turns, twisting away from him as you try to calm your trembling body. You can’t wake your parents again. They seem to have lost all hope themselves, turning to God in their deep hours of need. As you had and yet God hasn’t been listening.
But maybe something else would.
Your hands clasp together one final time, pleas falling from your cracked lips as you reach out to something. Anything. You’re not sure what but in the darkness of the room and obsessive need that curdles in your stomach, you’re certain it can’t be good.
But it listens. Oh it listens.
Please, let him live. Please, please, please.
…
Silk sheets stick to your skin, damp against your legs, wrapping around you and binding you to the bed. You’re feverish, mind barely settling all night so you’ve found yourself tossing and turning relentlessly for half of it, mind still crazed from the letters that he sent you. His voice was clear in your mind when you read them, ringing as you retraced the word with your fingers again, and again and again.
You’d sought out your bed early last night desperate to find some peace.
But it’s not peace that finds you.
You don’t really sleep, you sit in that point between sleep and the waking world, unable to pry your eyes open, but still able to hear the winter wind howling against your window. You feel paralysed, a hand sliding against your sweat slicked skin, slow in its movements, almost like it's searching for something. Another hand— its counterpart, cups the side of your face, thumb resting against your bottom lip. You swear you hear a sigh as the thumb drags itself across your lip, deep guttural like the person behind it is holding back.
Fingers loosen the ties at the front of your gown and you can’t help but tense, unable to stop familiar fingers running over your breast, your nipple hardening under the cool metal of a ring.
You want your body to move, to fight against this, even for your mouth to open to let out a scream but all you can feel is a whimper clawing at the back of your throat. You’re completely at the will of another and you can only let it happen, let the familiar hands grope you, reminiscing over a body it hasn’t touched in years.
Almost like reliving that night, the feel of his breath against your lips, one hand wrapped around the column of your throat like a heavy threat that keeps you down, while the other—
You feel your hips buck up as his fingers graze over your clothed cunt, reacting in the way you know would make him chuckle and would leave you with a sour taste in the back of your throat. It’s damp down there, the cotton sticking to you and you know he’d like it, enjoy the way your body betrays you. Yet you don’t hear the sound of his laughter, or feel his smirk against your skin.
Instead you hear the sea, waves crashing against each other, the wind picking up in the night, the winter chill finally hitting your skin. You feel yourself clawing out to wake rather than sink further into this dream, but he doesn’t let you.
The hand around your throat tightens, a threat looming over your head and the other hand makes itself comfortable at the edge of your night gown, slowly hiking the material up your leg. It feels too real, his hands so heavy on your skin that you think when you wake, he might really be there looming over you.
You clench around nothing when you feel his finger tips slip over your inner thigh, dancing all the way to the subtle skin of your lower stomach, as if he’s teasing you, letting you sit in anticipation of his next move. His breath picks up against your lips at this— or is that your own, you can’t tell. All you can do is wait, feeling him slowly slide his hand down further and further until—
Your eyes open to a figure standing over you, shading you away from the morning sun. You blink harshly, adjusting to the brightness and sitting up in a rush.
“You were thrashing around in your sleep again,” your husband’s voice says, a worried expression sitting on his face. He presses the back of his hand to the damp skin of your head. “Are you well?”
You shake your head, pulling the covers from you as you simply say, “Night terrors.”
Your throat swells as you think of it, the feel of such a distinctive touch against your skin. It felt too real. The very thought of it, a violation.
“The letters,” your words catch, tears brimming in your eyelids as you turn back to your husband. The horror of it. You clutch your hand over your mouth, tears spilling out.
Robert hadn’t even seen the worst of it, you couldn’t let him. The letters written in such an erratic way, words almost jumbling together and the ink— bile crawls up your throat as you think— the very colour of it. A dark red, thick and wet, sticking to your fingers after touching the parchment.
You’d recognised the writing immediately, the swirl of certain letters.
You’d thrown it in the fire before he’d even come home from work, not letting him or anyone lay their eyes upon it.
“Rhaegar,” your voice comes out panicked, twisting around to Robert. “Where’s my son?”
“Our son,” he replies, kneeling by the bed. He reaches out towards you, cold hand cupping the side of your face, the contrast against your clammy skin feels somewhat nice. “He’s in bed, my love.”
You tense at the soft affection, it doesn’t reach your ears right, it never does. “I don’t know what came over me.” But you do, you still feel it there. “I-“
“Honestly you thrash about in that bed so much it almost looks like another lies in there with you,” Robert smiles, tone seemingly amused. But no smile reaches your lips and his own begins to falter. “You screamed it’s why I came.”
“I haven’t had such vivid nightmares since-“ you dare not think of it but like a worm in your ear it slips in, eating at your rotten flesh. Since before your Rhaegar was born.
The letters, the only explanation. Thoughts of home and the past driving you mad with grief.
“My father, Robert.” You look up at him, placing your hand over his. “He’s not well. I have to see him. I have to see my siblings.” Your voice cracks under the weight of it all. “I have to know they’re okay.”
…
Travel never set well with you, the stuffy carriage and the constant jolts from the wheels turning over the uneven surface of your path, it made your stomach knot. You lean against the window for most of the ride, hand clutching at your stomach desperate for some fresh air.
If only your husband would have let you ride horseback.
Unladylike, he said. And of course you’d never dream of shaming your husband. A husband who seems more interested with the papers in his hands than his dear wife that looks like she might hurl in her seat.
Your eyes fall from Robert as small hands cling to your side, stealing your attention away.
Your Rhaegar, only four years old with sandy blonde locks that frame his chubby face. You can’t help but force a smile as you look at him, brushing his hair behind his ears so you may look upon him properly.
“Travelling doesn’t sit well with mummy,” your voice is soft as you speak to him, finger brushing over his cheek. “But this will all soon be over and you can meet your Uncles and Aunts, you’ve never met them before have you.”
He shakes his head, head falling against your skirts.
“Tired, my love.” You play with his hair as you hum softly, both for his comfort and your own. You turn to your husband again. “We will have to stay on the West Wing of the castle and if the fever begins to show any signs of spreading we must find other boarding close by. I cannot risk little Rhae’s life.”
He lifts his eyes from above the paper, momentarily. “Of course, my love.”
You nod, wanting to say something more, to fill the silence with something but there’s simply nothing there.
Very well.
Your eyes flicker to the window, a fond smile gracing your face as you notice through the lines of trees, Summerhall.
Summerhall has always been beautiful to gaze on in the summer months, but here in the dreary winter it seems to have fallen into ruin. You swallow, eyes narrowing at the sight before you as you step out of the carriage. The bushes that surround the house are outgrown, long branches covered in thorns wind around the front of the house, caging it in. The grass of the gardens is dry and unkempt, a foot long with weeds spouting out all over the place.
“Your father has been sick a mere few weeks and the groundskeeper lets this place turn into a muck,” Robert says, stepping out from behind you, lips curled in disgust at the sight before him.
“He must have been sick well long before he realised,” you respond, trying to justify the state before you. But the state of it couldn’t have happened in weeks, this would have taken months to grow into a state like this.
“Your brother should have put the workers in their place,” Robert practically grunts in response.
“The sudden change can be challenging.” You’re quick to defend but don’t bother to turn to your husband for a response. You turn away from him, hand reaching out for Rhaegar to help him step out the carriage. “I’ll speak to him about the matters once we have settled.”
“Your family has come to greet us,” he huffs out, a sour look on his face as he eyes the door.
You meet his gaze, eyes following on four children, huddled together staring at the floor before them. Most were babes when you had left them and yet you feel you know them just by the sight, your mother’s and father’s faces in each of them.
“Why do they sulk by the door like that?” He waits for you to move forward, standing behind you cautiously. “It is unbecoming of them.”
“I don’t imagine they bite, Robert.” Your jaw tightens, stopping yourself from snapping at him. You lift Rhaegar into your arms before passing him to Robert. “Take Rhaegar while I greet my family.”
Robert pulls Rhaegar into his side and follows two feet behind you as you make your way to the door.
“Who goes there?” You question with a playful tone, standing before them. “Do my eyes deceive me or are these beautiful creatures before me my very own siblings?”
Aemon is the first to move, stepping back and then the others follow. They look at you wide eyed, cowering closer to the door frame, almost ready to run back inside in an instance.
“Do you not remember me?” You ask, trying to offer them a small smile.
Your eyes flicker over each of them before catching Aegon’s gaze which seems to slightly soften at the question. You bend down, offering your hand out to him but he recoils almost instantly, bearing his teeth and growling some feral beast before running back in. The others follow quickly behind, leaving you bewildered.
You turn to your husband, his lips opening almost to say something only to be cut off.
“I didn’t know when you’d get here.”
You feel your body freeze if only for a second and you can’t help but swallow as his voice registers in your mind. You can’t show the effect it has on you, turning back to the door frame slowly.
He looks the same. His dirty blonde locks fall over his face, almost covering his pale grey skin and those wet eyes. Sweat clings to his skin, a droplet of it slipping down from his forehead and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s caught a sickness like your father but you know better.
He’s drunk, you’re sure of it and if you were to get any closer, you sure to smell the liquor seeping from his pores. Yet you draw nearer, trying to muster a smile as you greet him, hoping he won’t read right through your forced expression.
Your hands reach out for his, holding them between your own before looking up to meet his gaze.
“Brother-”
“I wish you had come sooner,” he tells you, fingers tracing the skin of your palm. His eyes meet yours for a second before dropping to where your hands meet. He sniffs, tears falling down his cheeks and you can’t help but seek to comfort him, lifting one hand to cup his soaked cheek. His head lifts then and he laughs for a moment before crying again, shaking his head at you.
“Its father,” you say, realisation dawning on you as your heart begins to clench. Your fingers begin to tremble against his skin, tears pooling at your eyes. You didn’t get here soon enough.
“And-” he bites down on his bottom lip, eyes falling to your hands again. His words seem caught in his throat.
You can’t help but cup his face with both hands, feeling the need to comfort him so badly as you ask him, “And?”
Your eyes look dart around, thoughts racing in your mind.
The overgrown weeds, your family home spoiled by it. The children. Daeron right here in front of you.
“And?” You repeat only your voice isn’t as soft, fighting against the tears as your eyes grow wider.
You're missing something.
“Look at me,” you demand, only to regret it when he does.
His cheeks are soaked with tears, snot dribbles out from his nose and his lips are trembling. You should feel sympathy for him, the saddened look in his eyes and the way he’s trying to swallow down the sobs. Yet your stomach twists and a wave of sick realisation falls over you, leaving you angry as you stare back at him.
“Where is Aerion?” You question, hands falling down from his cheek to his chest. “Where is my brother?
Daeron shakes his head, breathing ragged as his hands fall over yours.
“Aerion,” the name catches in your throat like you’ve been completely winded by it and you struggle to breathe. “You said nothing-” You gasp, tears clawing at your throat, pain clawing at your very being.
You pull away from Daeron, stumbling backwards before you begin to claw at your skin. You can’t breathe, you feel like you’re suffocating, every gasp has you choking on your own tears and you can’t help but scratch at your the skin of your for it to stop.
“Please,” you plead with him, sinking in on yourself. Your body shakes, gasps turning into sobs that wretch from your chest. “Please.” You repeat over and over again, almost praying for it not to be true, for all of this to be some cruel lie.
You cave in on yourself, falling to your knees on to the stoned path way. The word please falls from your mouth until it loses all meaning, until you become sick of it, until it's imprinted into the stones underneath you covered in your tears and snot.
Until you feel his arms wrapping around yours, cradling your shaking frame and you're able to focus on his own breathing to settle you down, to give you some sort of comfort.
…
Two new headstones sit next to your mother’s one, wet flakes landing on them and melting into the stone.
Your father and your brother both taken from this world. Aerion was six and ten when you left him, a boy still. You’d yet to see him as a man.
You should be focused on the sight before you and while the weight of their deaths sit on you, you feel something heavier from behind.
Daeron was always beside you growing up, and when he couldn’t be conjoined at your hip, he’d find him one step away, eyes intently watching you and waiting for the moment to close the distance. It’s funny how things don’t change.
You shouldn’t twist your neck to look over your shoulder, shouldn’t peer into those glazed sad eyes, shouldn’t stare back with the same intensity he stares at you with. And yet you do.
It’s like a pull you can’t deny, something drawing you back to him even when you try to resist it.
You wonder what you look like right now. Is there a dark ring under your eyes like his? Is there a redness to your cheeks? Has loose strands fallen from the confines of your braids?
You try to see in the deep hues of his eyes but all you can see is him. Your brother. Your Daeron.
And you can’t help but think that you are glad that it isn’t him lying six feet in the ground next to your cold mother.
His hand slowly rises, reaching out just inches from your face before slowly brushing a curl behind your ear.
You step away from him, turning to look out into the distance instead. Your carriage sits at the entrance, one that will eventually take you back to your husband and your child. You need to remind yourself of that.
“Will you stay?”
You nod, not sure you can trust your voice just yet. Not when it’s just you two together, not when you’re completely alone.
“Good.”
Your eyes widen, feeling his breath on your very neck as he whispers the word to you. When had he managed to get so close? And why can’t you will your body to step away from him?
Daeron’s lips press against the shell of your ear, the heat of his body so nice against your cold skin as he stands behind you. You’re completely frozen to the core, eyes still staring out at the carriage, fingers barely able to wiggle from your sides.
“It’ll be good to have you near,” his voice is barely a whisper, and yet you hear the slick drip in his tone, feel the words run through you just as he intends them to. His nose presses up against your hair, inhaling deeply and you should be disgusted by him, and yet you feel your thighs dampening, ruining your undergarments as he hums in delight.
You feel a weight lift off of you as he steps from around you, finally able to move again. Only you wait for a few moments, letting him create some space between you both until you follow behind.
…
Days seem to bleed into one another the longer you stay at the house, filled with putting the estate back into order. The staff return, the accounts are put into order and there is a warmness that returns to the house that had been missing in the long winter months.
But those days are still separated by colder nights, ones that have you locking each door between you and him. Ones that have you burning more wood then you knew was reasonable, not understanding how even with a fire burning through the night you could still feel a chill right down to your bones.
You lay in your husband's bed some nights, hoping to feel the comfort and warmth of another body but finding nothing but an empty space that leaves you colder than before.
There’s no real reason for it, no cracks in the walls, no wind slipping through cracks in the windows and yet you feel cold to the touch when the sun leaves the sky.
Your complaints fall on deaf ears, your husband telling you that you feel warm to him and pushing you away to your own room when night falls again.
But one person seems to believe you.
You find Daeron in your father’s study, sitting behind his desk as he gulps down what you assume must be his third or fourth glass of wine.
The room doesn’t suit him, neither does the chair as he slouches in it, hanging his legs off the arm rest. It’s dull and dark here, filled to the brim with books and paper, the accounts to estate and the other affairs your father kept track of. Daeron is a summer child, he thrives in the glow of the sun. It doesn’t matter though, first born Daeron was always made to inherit the contents of this room.
“Trouble sleeping?”
He doesn’t turn to look at you as he speaks, he doesn’t need to see you know you’re there. It’s always worked that way for both of you.
You open your mouth to speak, to answer him and it’s only then you realise you don’t remember walking to this room, don’t remember placing yourself here. You turn back for a moment, looking down the dimly lit corridor and can’t deny the unsettling feeling that sits in your stomach.
“Cold.”
You turn back to him, gaze catching his own as you repeat the word for him. “Cold.”
Wine dribbles down his chin and the sight of it snaps you from your strange daze.
“There’s something wrong with my room,” you tell him, stepping into the room even though you know you shouldn’t. “Maybe the quarters itself I just feel so-”
“Cold,” you say the word in unison, yet you only hear his voice as it drowns out your own.
“I can help with that,” he tells you and you know you won’t like what he has to offer.
Yet you prod him to explain anyway, “How?”
He licks his lips, catching the pool of wine around the edges before his lips twist into a grin. “You’ve felt me before, haven’t you?”
You furrow your brows, not fully understanding and go to shake your head—
“At night.”
You swallow, eyes closing as you realise what he means.
He steps out from behind the desk and walks around it, positioning himself in front of you. The back of his hand lifts to and rests over your chest, and it’s then you notice you’re only in your nightgown. He doesn’t touch you, there’s a small space between his hand and your bare skin but you feel the heat of it just the same.
“You feel me here.”
You shake your head, slowly… uncertain.
He leans in then and you can smell him, the sweet wine on his lips, the woody scent of his perfume that lingers on his throat. But he doesn’t completely close the distance, nose almost brushing yours, eyes so close you count each of his lashes.
Even with the heat of his body against yours, you feel your nipples pebble against the material of your gown begging to be touched.
“There’s only so much I can do in the shadows of your rooms.” His voice seems so alluring, the sound of it filling your head. “Only so much I can feel—” You feel his hand, the palm against your nipple “—and I long to feel more.”
“You are not well.”
Your eyes catch something out the corner of your eyes, an open door and your son’s small frame.
You look back at Daeron, and notice the room around you both is not the same.
“You’re in my head,” you say, reality finally soaking in.
The room around you is your own, you were never in your father’s study and you never sought Daeron out, it had just been him.
“Always.”
You shake your head with certainty you didn’t have before. “I have a husband to keep me warm,” you say, and as your eyes catch sight of your son’s blonde locks again, you add, “and a child.”
“Yes.” Daeron inclines his head back, peering over his shoulder. “He looks so much like his father.”
A chill runs through you at that and you have to bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from screaming at him. “Get out,” you whisper to him, closing your eyes desperately willing him away. “Please, leave me alone.”
He’s still there, you feel him. “Let me comfort you, sister.”
“Get out,” you cry out through gritted teeth, tears soaking your cheeks.
“Just let me in, leave the door open and I’ll come to you.”
“Get out,” you scream, only to find Daeron gone and your son running out of the room away from you.
You chase him, wiping the tears off your cheeks before you call for him.
“I did not mean you, my sweet child,” you call after him, catching him in the corner of his room. You hold him by his arms, slightly frantic as you softly tell him, “I did not mean you Rhaegar. Please forgive mummy, she did not mean to frighten you.”
Rhaegar stares back at you and you can’t help but realise how much he does look like his father with his sandy blonde hair and wet blue eyes.
…
You fall asleep in Rhaegar’s bed that night, only to wake a few hours into the night to a voice whispering your name.
You stir at the sound of it and noticing your son behind you, you lift yourself to move.
You smell him everywhere once you leave the comforts of your son's room, the rich scent filling your nose as you get closer to your own room. It gets stronger as you step closer and you fear you might actually find him there.
You don’t though. Not in the closet, nor under the bed and you let out a deep sigh before turning to close the door again. Only it won’t close.
You push it into the place, only for it to push right back out again. When you do it again, reaching for the key to lock it, you can’t find the key in its place. You slam it, push it shut again and again, fight with it but it always seems to push itself back out of place.
Then you hear it again, your name being called out from down the hall and you know not to answer.
You step back, fingers trembling as they fall from the handle. You shake your head, the sound of your name ringing once again but this time in your head.
You’re quick to crawl under the covers, hiding yourself and praying for this nightmare to end as tears roll down your face. For you to fall back asleep and for a new day to begin again.
Your name again and the door creeks open, slowly. You try to quieten your own breaths to listen out for something more and you hear it, his heavy footsteps against the wooden floor. You peer up and out of the covers, eyes daring to look at him but finding nothing in return.
He’s not there but the edge of your covers by your feet move all the same before a figure slips underneath. It crawls towards you and you go to scream as you throw them off you but something covers your mouth, muffling the sound.
Shhhhh. You hear him hush you, know the voice so well as it rings like silk in your mind.
It doesn’t bring you comfort though and your body is still trembling on top of the bed.
You feel a hand wrap around your ankle before a strong force yanks you down the bed.
You know it's him, you feel the weight of him pinning you down the bed, feel the hardness of his cock pressing against your stomach. Yet you can’t see him on top of you and you wonder if he’s not fully there would it be so bad to give in.
He doesn’t waste any time, lips messily connecting with yours, and you didn’t even realise he’d lifted his hand, that you might have had a moment to escape this.
You gasp when you feel your nightgown being torn from your body, the chill of night against your skin quickly masked with the heat that seems to radiate from on top of you. He takes advantage of your open mouth, sinking his tongue inside.
You squirm against him, your body fighting to be free from him, only to hear his cruel laughter against your lips, noticing the pathetic way the heels of your feet dig into your bed, desperately trying to lift yourself from the bed but only permitting him to sink further between your hips.
You felt it again then, his hardened member pressed up against you and to make sure you felt it, he pressed himself harder against you, angling himself right against your bare cunt, nothing separating you.
“Feel how warm I am against you,” you hear him like he’s whispering into your ear, only his lips seem to be pressed against your chest, lapping at your skin. “Feel how good I can make you feel.”
“Daeron,” you say, breathless and heaving to air to speak.
“Yes, sister.”
“You can’t do this,” you tell him and yet you whimper when his cock slides against your soaked folds, body betraying you in ways you can’t control. “Daeron, please.”
He ignores your pleads, lips landing on yours once more again to drown out the noise as he sinks into your walls.
Any words of yours become lost on his tongue as he fights to steal your very breath from your body. You know he can’t help himself, teeth nipping at your lips, going between biting at you to clashing your teeth with his.
His kisses were hungry, full of years of longing and yearning for you. They were also full of anger that burned in his veins, one that came from the tortured soul you had moulded him into, the darkness you forced upon him to save his life all those years ago.
It felt like Daeron didn’t need to breathe, kissing you senselessly and stealing every breath from your lips like it was feeding him. But you did and you can’t help but gasp for air as his lips finally descend down the column of your neck.
“Daeron.” It seems like it's the only thing you are able to say.
“I like it when you say my name.”
You feel him growl into your skin, teeth nipping at the bare skin of your chest as he thrusts into you slowly. His hands bruise your skin as he grips onto your hips, like he’s trying to control himself from going further.
“Mine.”
His lips suck at the subtle skin of your breasts before finally he wraps his mouth around one of your hardening buds.
“Mine.”
You can’t help the sound that leaves your throat at that guttural deep moan breaking free as he sucks at your sensitive nipple. He continues the assault, fingers finding the other bud and pinching it.
“I wish I could see you right now. Properly.” He confesses and something in you agrees as he pushes himself deep inside you. “But my body knows you, without sight it knows you very well.”
You call out his name again at that, feeling the way your walls ooze wetness onto the sheets underneath you, how even with his thick cock in your walls, there’s too much for even him to contain.
“I’m going to fuck you like this, have you wrything in this bed for the last few hours of night. Leave you so weakened that you’ll be unable to move from this bed, a puddle of your own making underneath you and once daylight comes, your husband will find you and this mess we’ve created will show him how he’ll never be able to pleasure you like I do.”
dividers by @ chrisssiren
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Maekar Targaryen X F Reader, F Reader X Daeron Targaryen (crumbs)
Tags: Oral M receiving, brief edging (if your squint), fingering F receiving, swallowing cum, spanking, age gap, mentioned of PnV, squirting, use of “girl” 🤤, Dom Maekar, mentions of unenthusiastic (but consensual) marital sex, The little girls love her, Maternal energy radiates from reader, Maekar completely disregards her until he starts to notice that maybe she isn’t a utter nuisance and could actually help him with his kids!
Word Count: 6.1k
Summary: Your unenthusiastic marriage to Maekar Targaryen goes unchanged for moons as you settle into your roll at Summerhall. He just does not see the value you might add to his life, he had plenty of heir he felt there was no need for a second wife. That is until he sees his most challenging son settle under your attention and it has him looking at you with a newfound care. (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5)
Maekar did not attempt to make it a secret that he wanted no part in having a second wife. He told those at court just that, gods even told you! Making his distaste clear from the start.
There was no use in arguing the matter because the King had insisted on the match, despite Maekar ensuring it was abundantly clear that he dis not long for the companionship of a wife nor needed more children. He still mourned his wife. But the Kings mind was unchanged. The moment you were brought to court along with your father during a small council meeting and he saw you interacting briefly, but kindly, with his young grandchildren the king had been decided. A lady in the home to look after the children would help. From the glimpse of life Maekar shared about how things were going back at Summerhall it was obvious that the family struggled without a women's influence.
Neither of you were to type to fuss at whatever duty was being laid in your lap so the courtship was swift and your wedding had come and gone.
Now Maekar stood by the heart, watching the fire as he heard the sound of cloth being shifted about. The maester would be covering you back up now.
The old man took his leave without needing to be asked by Maekar. After all there was nothing to report to the prince. There were no signs of the you being with child.
It bothered him none.
“Do not trouble yourself regarding it.” He told you when the door shut. it was a kind thing to say but his tone did not have any gentleness to it. He somehow always sounded cross. You wondered if it was just due to habit or if his voice simply did not have the capability to rise up into a higher more kind sounding tone?
“There will be speculation.” You told him sitting up and moving from the bed towards where he stood before the fireplace in your chambers.
“And it will not be true.” He told you. “We have done and continue to fufill our duty.” He laid with you once a week, it was scheduled. He did not want you to be trouble by walking in the hall so he came to your personal rooms, bed you unenthusiastically under the heavy furs and shade of night and then left. He sent a maid in every time to draw you a bath and see to it that you were clean up and not uncomfortable.
It could be worse, you’d heard women who were stuck with men that were far less decent than Prince Maekar was. It lacked any passion but it also lacked cruelty. Neither of you had chosen this, he was well are of that.
“I’ve too many children as it is.” He huffed eyes not diverting from the flames despite you coming up to stand beside him. You attempted connection often despite his coldness, he was your husband after all and this was your life now. You had every intention to find contentment in it! Maekar was not a young man but he had survived war and was still healthy and alert, you doubted he would be struck down anytime soon so You’d likely not be widowed early on.
You fidgeted with your braid some, it was messy, from being laid back for the maesters examination, but it was in the Targaryen style nonetheless.
“Your girls did my hair last night after supper, I quite like it styled like this.”
“You were suppose to see them to sleep.” He responded dryly.
“I am suppose to see to your children husband, they were not sleepy yet.” You sighed. If his daughters wished to play with your hair you would gladly let them. They were children, they wanted to play, get attention and be praised when doing well at something. You could do those things. Gods know he didn’t.
“You need not mother them-“ he began, voice sharp and deep but the sudden thump against the door cut him off. You looked to it and then your eyes focused close to you and saw that Maekar had moved his hand to rest on the hilt of his sword before he moved to the door to investigate what caused the disruption.
“Worthless-fucking-gods damn boy!” That was all you could make out of Maekar hissed remarks. As soon as the door came open his eldest son’s upper body feel limply back against the wood floor.
“Should I call for the maester to return?” You asked, hand covering your mouth from the shock of how hard Prince Daeron’s head had rattled against the ground.
“It does not matter, He can’t feel the pain when he is this bloody drunk-“ he groaned slightly as he grabbed his son by the collar and dragged him up to his feet.
Seeing the appalling look all across your face made the father even more humiliated by his son’s behavior. It was an offense. One that was becoming worse with every passing week. Daeron did not see reason, he did not have concern for his safety and he never seemed impacted by whatever punishment that was delivered to him. It was infuriating…and utterly terrifying for Maekar.
“Perhaps I should.” You reiterate as Maekar lets go of him and Daeron wobbles about, this time laughing. Somehow even his chuckle was slurred.
“He should feel the consequences of his choices.”
“I feel plenty father-more than you know.” Daeron breathed out, hand gripping to the post of the bed eyes heavy as he looked up at his father’s rage filled face.
Maekar almost slapped his boys hand, he should not of wandered here to this room and now he was sauntering all around it.
“Sit.” You urged the troubled prince, without giving him much of an option to disobey.
Your hands gripped the back of a chair and waited for him to sulk over to it.
“There we go.” You hummed and touched his shoulders to pull him back against the backing so he wouldn’t slump completely forward.
“Don’t coddle him.” Maekar warned you, jaw set tighter than you’d yet witness since being his wife.
You breathed steadily looking down at the sad young man. You’d saw him rarely, he made his presence sparse. Now you wondered if it was not merely that he busied himself in places other than where you were around the hall or if it was more a matter of him all together not being present within its walls.
“He is unwell.” You swallowed and moved to get the prince some tea and a bread roll, something to hopefully calm the clammy pale appearance he had.
You turned back when both father and son laughed. They were chuckling at you concern-or at what you said.
“I’m drunk.” Daeron assured you.
“Yes…and unwell,” you turned back to gather the cup and food. “Clearly.” You muttered under your breath before turning back to where he sat and brining the cup up to his wine stained lips.
Maekar groaned a bit. His son was well beyond babying!
You raised your brow knelt before him as you held the cup up to his mouth when he did not pick it up himself. “Clearly you’ve no trouble drinking…now do so.” You pressed, nodded encouragingly when he finally parted his lips and began to sip down the black tea.
Maekar wouldn’t stand and watch this unnecessary production you were making for his mopey child!
So he didn’t, he left and sent maids to the room to take over the hopeless task from you.
Daeron wouldn’t cooperate with the other women though, he only ate for you, only let the maester examine the back of his head and the goose egg that formed there if you stayed and stood next to where he sat.
You pittied him, you must because otherwise you would not of wasted your entire day seeing to it that Daeron Targaryen made it safety to his own chambers and that he remained there. You sat by his bedside asking him where he had gone, telling him that it wasn’t safe for a prince to be in those settings, telling him that his future wife would not enjoy knowing he entertained whores in brothers and taverns.
That night at supper Daeron attended for the first time in a fortnight, he arrived just a pace behind you, Maekars face staying mostly stable but somebody who knew him better, somebody like a brother or a observant child would of seen the slight shock in how his forhead furrowed. He did not address Daeron though, actually you could tell he was actively ignoring his oldest.
You ate slowly, stopping occasionally to cut up the roast duck for Rhae.
“Pass the wine.” Daeron finally spoke looking at where it rested on the table infront of his brother. Aerion did not truly hand it over, he just nudged it slightly closer to his sad sap of a brother and sighed. Aerion was the only child Maekar had offered you any warning about. While you two had still been in kings landing, and courting, he had just confessed suddenly that his son could be violet. Pressing to you that he did not want you getting close with Aerion and finding out yourself that he could be cruel once he returned with you to Summerhall. Part of him worried that Aerion may resent him remarrying, resent having a women in their home in the spot his mother had once stood. You were relieved that thus far there had only been a few snide remarks leveled your way for Aerion. Egg stood up on his chair and grabbed the handle of the vase to actually pass it to his older brother.
“I thought your lesson were suppose to teach you manners.” His father questioned.
You stood and grabbed the vase out of little Eggs hands and sat back down with it. You looked at Daeron and poured the rest into your own cup.
“Let’s not trouble the maids with filling another. I believe this is the last bit from the current open barrel” your voice left no room for argument and so Daeron did not make one.
When Maekar called for the table to be cleared you stood and reached for Rhae and Daella’s hands. You planned to have your braid redone and make sure they settled into bed alright. Maekars hand reached your shoulder before you parted from the room with them and you paused glancing up to him the questioning look obvious In your eyes.
“See them to their rooms and then come to mine.”
You paused.
His chambers? You’d already laid together this week and he had made it very clear that he did not really seek more children out of this marriage
“Of course my prince.” You nodded and did just as he said. Saw his daughters to their beds, tonight, to their dismay, you did not linger and read or have one of them brush and the other braid your hair in whatever style they wished.
You had understood he did not want for you to linger about. That had been clear.
You knocked at his door after hesitating for a moment. You’d not really been beyond his solar and it felt bold to just step inside his personal chambers even though he had told you to find him there.
You were surprised to see he was dressed down when he opened the door and stepped aside for you to enter. He was in simple breeches and a tunic. The jacket and vest he wore during the day already gone.
Stepping through the entryway you scanned the room for a moment before turning to face him again.
“If I overstepped today forgive me it is just that I-“
“How did you get him to come to supper?” He asked quickly.
Your frown lifted some. “That is why you’ve called me here?” Relief washing over you and it made you outright chuckled. “I told him it was best for him to join us all. That he would feel better if he ate something proper and at least heard conversation.”
“And he just…listened?”
You nodded a bit eyebrows raised. Had he never attempted that?
“Yes husband, it was a simple request.”
That’s what it was, a request.
Not a demand.
Not a disparaging remark.
“He’s in his chambers right now, made no attempts and slipping the guards that I placed there.” He informed you and smiled sweetly.
“I should hope he is already asleep in bed!” You exclaimed. “I’ve not seen anybody other than a freshly born babe need rest more than your son.”
Maekar stopped his pacing and leveled his eyes at that remark. That stern gaze made your feet shift within your slippers.
“I just mean, he was exhausted this morning, I think a full nights rest might do him well-and keeping away from the cities” you sighed. You had a tendency to fill the silence of a a room. Maekar had not spent enough time with you yet to know of that habit.
“there’s nothing to be done of his drinking and whoring.” Maekar settled going to the cup of wine he had at the desk in his room. You watched him take a steadying sip.
“He is still young your grace, I am sure it is something he will mature out of.”
Maekar shook his head a bit and you squinted because for a moment you were sure you saw an uptick of his lips. Almost like a smirk. He could not believe your kindness, the innocence that you still had. Daeron was beyond grown, these natures were embedded into who he was.
“Regardless,” Maekar put his cup down and stepped a bit closer to you. “Thank you for brining him to the table tonight.”
You blinked, chin turning up to look at him as he stepped closer to you.
“Of course My Prince.” You quickly say once you’ve processed that Maekar Targaryen had just earnestly thanked you.
“Perhaps we have been too formal.” You almost flinched when his hand rose up and touched the end of your braid. His daughters had clearly taken time on this the day prior, it was quite detailed and still rather intact despite sleep and a day of you wrangling Daeron. They had grown attached to you, Egg respected your word and Daeron seemed influence by your presence. Perhaps he had been too quick to close himself off to you.
“perhaps.” You chirped softly eyes not leaving his as he felt up the plats of your hair and touched swallowed stiffly and his hand reached your cheek.
“Can I remain here tonight?” You requested quietly seeing how his eyes traced over your lips and soft jaw how he had clearly caught on to your quickened pulse. You imagined he might be too proud of a man to suggest it himself. He’d been the one who was much to formal, the one who kept you at a distance, who came to fufill his duties like you were a task for him to mark off of his list. He’d even arranged duties to your schedules that had to do with nothing of importance, flowers need not be decided on for the garden by you-the king had wanted you here to help with the children and so you had made yourself present to them on your own, not waiting for Maekars help!
“you truly wish for that wife?” He asked stepping against you some. Enough that his chest was pressing to yours and your feet slipped from your slippers as you stepped back a bit to remain balanced.
“Do you?” You pressed but his hand that was not cupping your cheek had looped behind your back and press you forward towards him. That was his answer.
The kiss was harsh. So different from what you’d received before those gathered for your marriage. He did not kiss you during the weekly visits to your chambers for his duty. You supposed a kiss did not produce a child and so he found it unnecessary.
Your lips stumbling against his not sure what pace he sought after in this moment because it felt more like he was consuming you than meeting your plush slightly open mouthed pecks. It took you a moment to realize that he did not wish to find some calming matched rhythm with you, he was conquering you.
Finally you had to push at his chest some because you felt faint from all the breath he stole from your lungs.
“None of that-you are my girl.” He warned you grabing your thin wrist easily. It was so small in his hand you panted while he seemed to expediently squeeze at it. Getting a feel for how fragile you might be.
You did not whinge at the pressure, actually your eyes nodded and sucked in your now absurd bottom lip. Rubbing the tip of your tongue over the marks Maekars teeth had left there.
“Yes m’lord.” You response finally and let your arm go limp in his hold to show you had not want to fuss again. You considered it monetary originally because feeling him snatch up your arm had sent a rush of adrenaline through you and you found it warmed the spot between your thighs. The spot where normally Maekar cupped oils to before pushing himself into you and completing his duty quickly.
“Good,” he hummed lowering down to your ear and kissing behind it. “Gods know I do not need another problem in my life.”
You nod softly pushing into him wanting more contact, craving it. His words have given your goose flesh and now you were in need of the warmth he radiated. “I’ll not be a problem i swear it. I wish to help you as a wife should.”
You barely finished your assurance to him before the air was pushed from your lungs. He had suddenly pushed you back into the bed you’d both been stood lingering in front of. You wasted no time and began to eagerly start to unlace your gown. You did not want to take to long and see him lose interest. It was not as if you’d been with any men other than him, you did not know that once a man held favor for you that they rarely lost it…especially one their cock was hard. He was very hard-you could tell by the tall tent at his crotch.
“did you beg my father for my hand?” He asked you suddenly as he stood at the end of the bed and slowly unbuttoned his tunic. He was in no rush. Quite enjoying to it frenzied stripping.
Tits half out of your chemise when you paused because of his words. “No my prince, he made the match himself.” You weren’t going to lie. His ego needed no stroking you could tell he did not care for that aspect of being a prince much. The constant attempts at flattery people made. You’d not waste your breath.
“I assumed you did…given this preformance.” He grabed the hem of your slip and tugged a bit. “So eager to lay bare for me, unashamed by the bright light,” the fire was high and none of the candles had been blown out. Nothing would be shadowed like it normally was when he visited your rooms. “I just assumed you had sought this arrangement out based on how your little cunny milks at me each time I spend within you.”
He’d noticed. Gods, now you weren’t flushed.
“is it not my duty to please you?” You attempted as Maekar grabed the bottom of your shift again and kept pulling this time until you were dragged down the bed a bit and slid from the fabric entirely. The only thing relaxing was the darkened cloth of your small clothes.
“and you did…without the desperate clenching…that bit was for your own enjoyment?” He tisked. The first time he felt it he’d pulled out of your instantly, there was on reason to indulge. With each following encounter though he stayed within you a tad longer, soaking in the familiar now but long deprived sensation of being physical desired. It had reminded him of his love, his wife, and so he had not allowed himself to indulge it. Thought that restraint had crumbled, clearly.
“I wished to know what it felt like.” You were being honest. You could tell he would appreciate that. “What a climax felt like.” You clarified still looking up at him not diverting your eyes at all.
Your husband pulled at the last strap on his shirt and he was able to tug it up over his head, briefly russling his hair before it settled naturally back down in the neat blunt cut. You not seen him this undressed. Perhaps that said all that was needed about how your couplings had gone in the past? They were purely duty. Your ladies would put you into pretty silk robes and help you settle into bed and then Maekar would come in after the fire died down and he would blow every candle out. You’d not know he was at the bed until his weight dipped the mattress and his knees nudged yours open. You knew he still wore his pants because you could feel the rough fabric against the inside of your delicate thighs and he wore a tunic, vest and jacket on top. The first few times you’d grabbed to his shoulder as he pushed in. Even with the oils it was a strange and somewhat invasive feeling so gripping his arm eased you.
You made an effort to pull your eyes from his chest and stomach to his face once again. He had quite a few scars. You should have expected that, he had some on his face, and he had fought in a war. He’d fought quite well in that war from what you’d been told by your own father. It made sense that he would have markings from that time in his life. He was very pale, and the scars seemed to have faded into a pink shade so they stood out prominently against his skin and the white hair that spread up towards the middle of his belly. He had little chest hair-or perhaps it was just so white it appeared translucent, but there seemed to be a great deal of hair leading down towards his breeches.
“did you not trust I’d ensure you experienced a moment of pleasure when you had earned it girl?”
You swallowed and squeezed your legs together. Honestly you had not thought he had one thought to your comfort let alone your actual enjoyment.
“Have I earned it?” You settled on saying. Your perky breasts lay against your chest nipples budding giving away how thrilling this all was for you. That made him quite pleased. He’d hoped you’d enjoy being treated in this manner.
Maekar ran a hand over his mustache and beard settling it all down straight and then he used the same hand to waved you down to the foot of the bed while his other unlaced his trousers. He fell right out of his breeches, heavy and throbbing.
You rushed to make your way down to the edge of the large plush bed, crawling there on your hands and knees pushing your small clothes down as you did. Not enjoying how the fabric stuck to you damp folds.
“Lick it now with your tongue. wet it all before you take the tip within your mouth. You’ll do well to avoid grazing your teeth there”. He warned as his hand found your hair when you arrived just infront of him level with his hips. He clenched the soft locks between his fingers and tugged you down so your lips pressed to his bobbing manhood. You whimpered when he pulled at your hair brining you right to his pelvis, your eyes closed so the hairs there did not irritate your eyes. Your hands had gripped at the end of the bed as you tried to process his instructions.
Lick at him. Suck upon the tip. Don’t bite.
“is this to complicated for you wife?” He questioned brow raised. Half of why he had felt drawn to you so suddenly was because of your competency. Because of your sureness in your movements and actions within this home, with his family.
“No!” You quickly defended yourself and followed up with a small timid kitten lick. You’d not don’t anything but lay on your back and close your eyes for moons! This switch had your mind spinning as you attempted to catch up. “I don’t want to do it wrong…I’m thinking.” You admitted finally looking up at him because his hold on your hair had lightened softly.
“you need not think about these things.” Maekar explained, tone briefly softer and he let go of you entirely walking around the bed and sitting by the headboard where all his plush red pillows were. “Come here.”
You nodded and moved there quickly, knelt against his blankets beside him eyes drifting from where his cock stood tall against his stomach to his face. His light eyes were a bit soft and his hand settled on your hip, his large hand caressing the curve of you there and rubbing comfortingly. “You’ve taken me within a much smaller place.” He eased your mind glancing down at the apex of your thighs and the dark curled hair there that kept you a bit hidden from him. “I’ve no wish to lead you wrong sweet thing.” His hand climbed from your hip following the side of your figure all the way up to your jaw and cheek.
“lean over right here.” You did. One arm laid over his lap and the other touching his stomach as your knees supported most of your weight. “Good.” He could feel your shakey breath and Maekars large rough hand opted to pet your hair back so he could still see at least half of your face. “Now press a kiss just there.” He breathed chest puffing out with each breath he took. It was a great effort for him to not stop stroking our hair back and instead grab it again. You’d seemed eager-arouses by the sudden change in treatment but you were sorely lacking in the knowledge needed to enjoy that sort of demanding sex. He could be gentle-he could help you learn this one time.
“yes, good.” He leaned his head back as you kept peppering kissed against his mushroom tip. They slowly became more open mouthed and his hand eased down over the curve of your back when he felt your tongue dart out suddenly and lick up the length of him. Following the pulsing vein that led from his base to his tip.
You moaned some at how he tasted, earthy and salty. You savored it and the more his grunts slipped out the more eager and bold you got. His hand slopped down off your back and onto your bottom first groping at your arse and then pulling back before landing his hand right back down against it. You gasped and instinctively pushed yourself back against his rubbing hand as the buzz subsided.
“Open your mouth now.” He demanded and you looked up at him nodding as you did just what he told you and your eyes fluttered as his hand not on your bottom gripped the base of his length and positioned himself right between your lips and against your soft enticingly warm tongue.
Your lips sealed as soon as his hand delivered another spank. You’d not been paddled before-you had been far too good of a child for that but you found that you enjoyed how it felt-enjoyed that Maekar was giving you attention in this manner. Your ladies would be appalled, the septa would probably faint if she knew you were leaned here now suckling as his cock as Prince Maekar paddled you. But you enjoyed it. So much that you’d begun to clench around nothing. A action that your husband had noticed and was watching closely. His hand dipped a bit lower this time one of his fingers landing right over your dripping slit. The contact made you struggle a bit and ruined the rhythm of your gentle head bobbing. You’d taken almost his entire length in your throat but now your wet and raw lips were back to his cockhead licking at it and pressing tender kisses as you regained your breath.
Maekar leaned over just a bit and he grabed your ass with both of his hands spreading you open quote concerns for his view. “You wish to feel pleasure?” He asked you eyes burrowing into your pretty little cunt. You could not see him but he was very much enjoying what he saw, it was written all over his expression. Parted lips, fastened breath, intense eyes. Fingers flexing against the curve of you and he swallowed seeing your little pearl hard and reddened. Glistening because of how aroused he had made you.
“yes, please your grace.” It sounded much more pathetic in tone than you had intended but at least he would know how deeply you had longed for this.
Maekar shifted his arm so it came up under your leaned over for, forearm pressed up against your stomach and mound and his palm pressed against over your clit fingers circling your tight core. He grunted when you almost sucked him into to the first knuckle because of how eagerly you clenched.
“you shall cum for me wife, but only if you can draw my own release as well.” He had to swallow down the moan that suddenly appeared in his mouth because you had leaned your mouth back down around him before his little deal had even been fully spoken. “Easy girl.” He warmed feeling how eager you were. He was glad he was no green boy because your thirst felt delicious against him. But he had feel you might pout if he finished quickly and had not ensured your release already. He could make this last.
And he did. Slowly dipping into your with his middle finger, feeling the fluttering of your around him as he worked the single finger fully into you. Pulling out shortly after and circling that one around your hard pearl. He grinned earnestly at how your body shuttered. Sweet girl, he’d assumed you’d at least touched yourself. Clearly not.
“H-husband!” you gasped mouth pressed to his stone licking at them when he plunged two of his fingers into you. They curled in a manner that had your body squirming, and your belly knotting up. He could feel you tense against him.
“Shhh-you’ll not get anything if you waste my seed!” He directed you back up to his tip. He red at his tip, actually he was red almost all over, cheeks flushes chest warm and pink, the scars scattered all over him burning an almost purple shade the closer he got to finishing. You focused back at his cockhead hand grabbing his shaft and jerking up and down it as you suckled hardly at his tip. Eyes shutting when he twitched and you rather quickly after feel him rut up against your throat making you breath rapidly through your nose while he pulse a few times and painted the back of your throat with his cum. It was a unfamiliar sensation and taste to you but you had no time to really consider if you had any feelings about it because Maekar seemed to have been holding out on your in the few minutes before his own release. His fingers curled within you no longer pumping just coaxing at something within you that you were extraordinarily unfamiliar with, and the moaned his palm lifted the pressure over your pearl and instead began to circle it with his thumb you began to grip at his leg. Face pressing at the space between his softening cock and his stomach panting and collapsing against him your shaky knees only keeping your bottom up because of the strength of Maekars hold you you.
“oh-Oh!” You found your fingers grabing to his side, squeezing for support. He was grunting from the effort of his fingers and hand, focused deeply on brining you to your peak. It was an overwhelming sensation for you.
“Maekar!” You shuttered suddenly pushing your face fully against his stomach as your core made a vice around him and you started to curl up, but his hand did not stop, he spun his thumb harder against your sensitive clit and tormented the spongy spot within your cunt that was making your vision see blurry thoughts.
“You’re alright-easy now. Breathe for me sweet girl.” He saw your cheeks going red and your throat as well and he knew you were holding your breath, you needed to exhale to relax and let the feeling overtake you. He had you, there was no reason to grip to any control.
“Maekar, seven hells-I-I” you were stuttering, crying against him because the feeling felt so overwhelming. Abdoneing any bit of strangeness that was between you before because you needed him in this moment. You felt your husbands hand slide up your back and his large thumb stroke up and down the crown of your head holding you into his chest as he shifted you into his lap to finish you off. He kissed against your neck, your eee suddenly swearing and stuck to him as he rumbled encouragement into your ear as his one hand still worked at you until suddenly you were reaching out to grab his arm because the pleasurable feeling had consumed you entirely and you needed it to stop before it tore you in half.
He was much stronger than you and so the pushing at his bicep and elbow did nothing and he kept up his motion until your pupils grew wide and his the shade of your eyes entirely. You soaked his hand…his arm…you’d realize in a bit that even some of his blankets were covered in your climax. The coil snapped in your stomach and you let out quite the loud groan burying your face into his chest. He did have hair there, it was just so translucent it blended into his skin tone completely. Your body twitched as he slowly removed his fingers from you and gently rubbed at your sore lower belly. He held you like that for a while. Until your chest was not rising and falling every other second.
You felt outside of your body for a long while, unsure what to say-or even if you could recall how to say words that were desperate moans and groans. You were sure your legs did not work at all and so you were thankful when Maekar stood up taking you with him and he brought you to his bathing chambers and placed you on the dark stone counter. It was a shock against your swollen folds but it also did provide a bit of relief to you. You leaned back silently as the prince dipped a cloth into the basin of warm water and then gently spread your legs open so he could clean your mess from you. You blinded sleepily while watching him. He was still bare naked, completely unashamed.
“Husband…” you ventured to speak finally and he raised a new fresh rag to your face wiping your lips and chin. It was far more caring than you imagined he would be. Thought you would not complain-never-it was nice.
“You’ll sleep here tonight.” He cut you off voice back to its normal exhausted but deep tone and his brows were back to creating deep lines between them due to his scowl.
“Thank you, I’d like that.” You whispered and he scoops you up again brining you back to his bed and laying you down after he pulls some of the blankets and pillows off that had gotten damp during your gush of a climax.
He did not hold to you, or really seem like he wishes for you to cuddle into him once you both were laid under the fur but he did gently run his calloused finger down your back.
“Tomorrow you’ll see to Daeron.” You turned your head against the pillows to see him. Confusion spread on your face at the commented.
“I’ve promised Rhea I’d attend her maths lessons in the morning.” You explained and he nodded closing his eyes but keeping the motion of his hand going down over your spine.
“You’ll have time for that, I wish for you to see to him after the sun falls. He listened to you wife, if anybody can keep him settled in the hall it is you.”
Part six
Synopsys: In which you have dinner with his family
WC: 16k
reader info / note: yn is a targaryen dragonseed, but her parentage is completely unknown on purpose so you can project however you want the only fixed thing is that you have at least one valyrian feature so silver hair and/or purple eyes, because it needs to be obvious you’ve got targaryen blood everything else is up to you, if the reader blushes it's because she biologically blushes not because the other characters see her blushing
PLEASE READ; I AM REMAKING THE TAGLIST SO IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED YOU HAVE TO RE-COMMENT IT EVEN IF YOU'RE ALREADY IN IT
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Daeron Targaryen, was not yet awake when the maester knocked upon his chamber door. He was, in fact, deeply and contentedly asleep, his face half buried in a feather pillow, his silver gold hair more silver than gold now, he noted with quiet resignation every time he glanced into a looking glass spread across the linen in disarray.
Beside him, Myriah stirred. She had always been a lighter sleeper than he was, a trait she attributed to her Dornish upbringing, where the heat of the midday sun made afternoon siestas necessary and nighttime slumber shallower as a result. Or perhaps it was simply that she had spent thirty years sleeping beside a king, and kings, as a general rule, did not get to sleep peacefully through the night. Messengers arrived at all hours. Ravens came and went. The realm did not pause its endless demands simply because the hour was inconvenient.
"Someone's at the door," Myriah murmured, her voice still thick with sleep, her dark hair spilling across her pillow like a river of ink.
Daeron made a sound that was not quite a word and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. He was sixty three years old. His joints ached when it rained. His eyes tired easily after long hours bent over correspondence and petitions and the endless, grinding machinery of governance. He had been ruling for nearly three decades, and while he liked to think he had done a decent job of it, certainly better than his father, though the gods knew that was not a high bar to clear, there were moments, and this was one of them when he wished he could simply roll over and go back to sleep and let the realm manage itself for a few hours.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Three sharp raps, deliberate and apologetic at once, the kind of knock that said I am sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I would not be doing so if it were not important.
"Enter," Daeron called, his voice emerging as a croak. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the protest in his lower back, and ran a hand through his tangled hair.
The door opened to admit Maester Gerold, he carried a rolled parchment in one hand, sealed with the dark wax of Dragonstone, and his expression was difficult to read in the dim light of the chamber. "A raven from Dragonstone, Your Grace," the maester said, his voice carefully neutral. "From Prince Baelor. Marked as urgent."
Daeron's heart gave a single, uncomfortable lurch. Urgent. That word always carried weight, especially when it came from Dragonstone, especially when it concerned Baelor. His eldest son was not prone to exaggeration. If he said something was urgent, he meant it, and a dozen unpleasant possibilities flickered through Daeron's mind before he could stop them. An accident. An illness. An attack. Something had happened to Valarr, or to Matarys, or to Baelor himself, and here he was, an old man in his nightshirt, receiving the news in his bedchamber while the sun was still dragging itself over the horizon.
"Leave it on the table," Daeron said, gesturing toward the small writing desk near the window. "And have someone bring tea. Strong tea. And something to eat, if the kitchens are awake."
"Yes, Your Grace." Maester Gerold set the letter down with careful precision, his chain rattling softly, and withdrew with a bow.
Myriah pushed herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes following the maester's retreating form before shifting to the letter on the desk. Even half asleep, with her hair tangled and her face creased from the pillow, she was beautiful. She had been beautiful for years, and Daeron had never grown tired of looking at her. It was one of the few things in his life that had never grown complicated or disappointing or fraught with political consequence.
"Urgent from Baelor," she said, her voice still carrying the warm, rough edges of sleep. "That cannot be good."
"Perhaps it is good news," Daeron said, though he did not quite believe it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his bare feet cold against the stone floor, his nightshirt hanging loose around his thinning frame. "Perhaps Valarr has decided to come home at last."
"If that were the case, Baelor would not call it urgent." Myriah sat up fully, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. "He would call it a relief."
Daeron could not argue with that. He crossed to the desk, his movements slow and careful, the way an old man moved when his joints had not yet warmed to the day. The letter sat where Maester Gerold had left it and Daeron broke it with his thumb and unrolled the parchment.
The handwriting was unmistakably Baelor's. Neat, controlled, the letters formed with the careful precision of a man who had been taught to write by the finest tutors in the realm and had practiced until his penmanship was beyond reproach. But there was something else beneath the neatness, Daeron thought. A slight tremor, perhaps. An unevenness in the spacing that suggested the hand holding the quill had been less steady than usual. Baelor had written this letter in a state of some emotion. Excitement, or fear.
Daeron began to read. Myriah watched him from the bed, her expression shifting from drowsy curiosity to something more alert as she watched his face.
"Well?" she asked, when he had been silent for a long moment. "What does he say?"
Daeron did not answer immediately. He was still reading, his eyes moving down the parchment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Then, quite suddenly, he let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and he lowered the letter to his lap.
"It appears," he said, his voice flat with disbelief, "that there is a dragon on Dragonstone."
Myriah stared at him. "What?"
"A dragon. A living dragon. Pale as sea foam, apparently, with purple shades. Discovered in the eastern caves of the Dragonmont by a village girl." Daeron's voice remained studiously even, the voice he used when he was reading aloud from some particularly dubious petition. "The girl healed its injured wing. The dragon bonded with her. Valarr has fallen in love with her. Baelor has given his consent for them to marry. He wishes to break the betrothal to Kiera of Tyrosh and offer Matarys as a substitute. And he writes all of this in a letter marked urgent."
A long silence filled the royal bedchamber. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside the window, a gull cried, its voice carrying across the rooftops of King's Landing.
Then Myriah laughed. It was not a cruel laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who had just heard something so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that she could not help but find it funny. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her dark eyes bright with amusement, and shook her head slowly.
"Matarys," she said. "It has to be Matarys."
Matarys. Of course. His younger grandson, the six and ten year old with his mother's hair and his father's sharp eyes and a sense of humor that had caused no end of trouble over the years. Matarys, who had once convinced half the servants that the Red Keep was haunted by the ghost of a princess. Matarys, who had sent a letter to his uncle Maekar claiming that the King had decided to abdicate and become a septon. Matarys, who loved jokes and pranks and mischief with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a boy who had never quite grown out of being a child.
"That little wretch," Daeron said, but there was no real anger in his voice. In truth, he was almost relieved. A dragon. A village girl. A broken betrothal. If Baelor had genuinely written such a letter, it would have meant his eldest son had lost his mind entirely. But Matarys—Matarys writing an absurd letter in his father's hand, using his father's seal, sending it to King's Landing in the middle of the night—that made a great deal more sense. It was exactly the sort of thing Matarys would find hilarious.
"Read it to me," Myriah said, settling back against her pillows, her dark eyes still sparkling with amusement. "I want to hear every word."
Daeron read about the girl approaching Baelor at the petitions, about Baelor's disbelief, about the shame he claimed to feel. He read about the dragon's name—Moonfyre, a name that sounded suspiciously like something Matarys would invent, poetic and slightly overwrought—and about the bond between the girl and the creature. He read about Valarr falling in love, about Baelor offering the girl silver to disappear, about Valarr abdicating his claim to the throne.
"Abdicated," Myriah repeated, when he reached that part. "Valarr abdicated. For a village girl with goats."
"Apparently so."
"That is quite romantic."
"It is quite absurd."
Daeron read on. The letter grew more elaborate as it went, weaving in details about Tyrosh and Kiera, about Matarys being offered as a substitute husband, about the political implications of a dragon returning to House Targaryen after seventy years. The final paragraphs were almost poetic, speaking of hope and fire and the blood of Old Valyria, of children who would be trueborn Targaryens, of eggs that might hatch and dragons that might fill the skies once more.
When he finished, he set the letter down on the desk and looked at his wife. She was smiling, a small, knowing smile that he had seen a thousand times before and still could not entirely interpret.
"Well," she said. "That was quite the tale."
"It was quite something," Daeron agreed. "Though I am not certain Matarys wrote it."
"No?"
"The handwriting is too good. You know Matarys's penmanship—it looks like a spider fell in an inkpot and crawled across the page. This is Baelor's hand, or a very convincing forgery."
"Then perhaps Baelor wrote it as a joke."
Daeron considered this. Baelor was not known for his sense of humor. He was a serious man, a dutiful man, a man who had spent his entire life doing what was expected of him without complaint or deviation. But perhaps that was precisely what made the joke effective. Perhaps Baelor, exhausted by months on Dragonstone and desperate to return to King's Landing, had decided to write the most ridiculous letter he could conceive of as a way of expressing his frustration. A dragon. A village girl. A love story. A broken betrothal. It was all so patently absurd that it had to be intentional.
"Perhaps," Daeron said slowly, "this is Baelor's way of telling me he needs to come home. He has been on Dragonstone too long. The petitions could have been handled in a fortnight, but he has been there for months. He is bored. He is tired. He wants me to summon him back, and this is his way of asking."
"That is a very elaborate way of asking."
"Baelor has always been thorough."
Myriah laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the cup of water on her bedside table. "What are you going to tell him?"
Daeron looked at the letter again. "I am going to write him back," Daeron said, rising from the desk and crossing to the door to call for a servant. "I am going to tell him that I have read his letter, that I found it very amusing, and that he is to return to King's Landing at once."
"That is all?"
"That is all. If he wants to tell me more about this dragon and this village girl, he can do so in person. I am not going to conduct a serious diplomatic conversation about imaginary creatures through raven post."
Myriah smiled, settling back against her pillows. "You do not think you are being too dismissive?"
"I think I am being appropriately dismissive." Daeron returned to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his hand finding Myriah's beneath the blankets. "There is no dragon, Myriah. There is no village girl. There is only my son, who has been on a dreary island for too long and has lost his patience, and my grandson, who has fallen in with some local girl and convinced his father to let him out of his betrothal. The rest is embellishment."
"And if you are wrong?"
"I am not wrong."
"But if you are?"
Daeron looked at her. Her dark eyes were steady, her expression unreadable. She had always been the one to see possibilities he overlooked, to consider angles he dismissed, to remind him that the world was stranger and more complicated than his logical mind wanted it to be.
"If I am wrong," he said slowly, "then there is a dragon on Dragonstone, and my son has written me a letter that will be studied by maesters for centuries, and I have just dismissed it as a prank. In which case, I will owe him an apology. A very large apology."
"A very large apology indeed."
"But I am not wrong."
Myriah smiled and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. "Of course you are not, my love. You are the King. Kings are never wrong."
Daeron snorted. "Now you are mocking me."
"I have been mocking you for years. You have only just noticed?"
He laughed, a warm sound that filled the quiet chamber, he rose from the bed, crossed to the writing desk, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. The reply did not need to be long. A few lines, perhaps. Enough to acknowledge the letter without taking it seriously, to summon Baelor home without indulging the fantasy. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
To my son Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone,
Your letter reached me this morning. I read it with great interest and no small amount of amusement. The attention to detail is commendable, and I must congratulate whoever composed it—whether that was you, which would surprise me, or Matarys, which would not.
I am pleased to hear that Dragonstone has been treating you so well that you have found time to invent elaborate fictions. However, your presence is required in King's Landing. The small council has been managing without you, but there are matters that require your attention, and I am too old to handle all of them myself.
Bring Valarr with you. Bring Matarys as well, if he wishes to come. If the village girl exists—and I remain skeptical on that point—you may bring her too, though I cannot promise I will believe a word of this story until I see proof with my own eyes.
As for the betrothal, we will discuss it when you return. I am not inclined to break an alliance with Tyrosh on the basis of a letter that reads like a bard's tale, but I am willing to hear you out. If Valarr has genuinely fallen in love, there may be other ways to address the situation that do not involve inventing dragons.
Come home, Baelor. You have been on that island long enough.
With affection and considerable skepticism,
Your father,
Daeron
—
The morning light through the narrow windows of Dragonstone's eastern corridor turned the stone to smoke and honey, and you were still not entirely certain how Valarr had managed to get you here.
No—that was untrue. You knew exactly how he had managed it. He had woken you at dawn with a kiss pressed to the hinge of your jaw, and then another to the corner of your mouth, and then another to your forehead when you had tried to bury your face in the pillow and pretend you were still asleep. Marta had grumbled from her corner of the cottage that if the two of you did not stop whispering and giggling like children she would throw her medicine pot at your heads, and Valarr had muffled his laughter against your shoulder and held you tighter, his arm a warm weight across your stomach.
He had whispered that the tailor was waiting, that your grey wool dress had a tear in the sleeve that Marta had mended three times already, that if you were going to keep flying Moonfyre you needed proper clothes and not garments held together by hope and old thread. You had grumbled that you liked your grey dress. He had kissed you again, this time on the tip of your nose, and said he liked it too, but he would like it even more if it did not disintegrate the next time you climbed onto a dragon's back.
You had told him he was being ridiculous. He had agreed amiably and continued kissing you, your cheek, your temple, the corner of your jaw, until Marta had actually thrown a slipper at him and told him to get out of her house if he was going to behave like a lovesick boy instead of a prince. He had apologized with exaggerated formality, but his eyes had been laughing, and when he turned back to you he had whispered, "The tailor. Please. For my sanity," and you had finally agreed, if only to make him stop looking at you with those mismatched eyes that made you feel as though your bones were turning to warm milk.
So here you were, walking the corridors of the castle that had loomed over your village your entire life, your hand tucked into the crook of Valarr's elbow. The tailor had been efficient and terrifying an old man with pins in his mouth and spectacles perched on his nose, who had clucked over you like a hen with one chick and complained that you had the posture of someone who spent too much time hunched over goats. He had measured everything. Every span of your arms, every width of your shoulders, every length from hip to ankle and elbow to wrist. He had draped fabric over you in shades of deep purple and storm blue and a particular dark red that Valarr had picked out himself, holding it up to your cheek and nodding as though he had just solved some important political crisis.
Now the measuring was done, and Valarr was leading you through the castle instead of back toward the village gates.
"I received another letter from Matarys this morning," he said, his voice carrying that particular mixture of exasperation and fondness that only his younger brother seemed able to provoke. "The third one this week. He has taken to sending them by raven, which is absurd—he could simply walk send a servant, but he claims a raven carries more dramatic weight."
You smiled. "What does he want?"
"The same thing he has wanted since you came back. To meet you. To meet Moonfyre." Valarr sighed, his free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "He writes that he is perishing of neglected curiosity, and that if I do not introduce him within the fortnight he will be forced to take drastic measures. What those measures are, he does not specify, which I find deeply unsettling."
"He sounds very dramatic."
"He is insufferable," Valarr said, but his voice was warm. "Father has forbidden it, of course. He does not want you overwhelmed, and he knows Matarys has all the subtlety of a battering ram. When you meet him, and you will meet him eventually, he wants it to be on your terms, not because my brother has ambushed you in some corridor."
"I appreciate that," you said, and meant it. The thought of meeting more of Valarr's family made your stomach tighten, but the thought of meeting them when you were prepared, when you had warning and time to steady yourself, was easier to bear.
"He will adore you," Valarr said quietly and his hand tightened over yours where it rested in the crook of his arm.
They turned a corner, and the corridor changed. The stone here was older, rougher hewn, the torches fewer and farther between. You slowed, glancing up at Valarr in confusion, but he only tightened his arm against his side, pressing your hand more firmly into the crook of his elbow.
"There is something I want to show you," he said.
"More tailors?"
"Nothing so dire, I promise."
He led you down a narrow flight of stairs, then another, the air growing cooler and damper with each step. The walls dripped in places, dark with moisture, and the torches were spaced so far apart that you walked through pools of shadow between each one. The steps were worn smooth in the center, grooved by centuries of feet, and you found yourself wondering how many Targaryens had walked this same path, and what they had been going to see, and whether any of them had been village girls with no name and no family and a dragon who purred when scratched behind the eye ridge.
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy door of iron-banded oak stood slightly ajar. Valarr pushed it open with his shoulder and ushered you through. The chamber beyond was not large, but it was full. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with objects draped in oilcloth and dust. The air smelled of old leather and metal and something sharper beneath—the faint, acrid tang of dragon, though you did not recognize it at first. It was only when Valarr crossed to the center of the room and pulled away a heavy canvas sheet that you understood.
They were saddles. Dragon saddles. They rested on great wooden stands, three of them arranged in a loose semicircle like ancient thrones awaiting occupants who would never return. The leather was cracked and dark with age, the metal fittings dulled by time, but the shapes were unmistakable. Not the light, simple saddles that horses wore, these were massive, built like siege weapons, all deep seats and high backs and heavy straps that looked more suited to anchoring a ship than securing a rider. The buckles were iron, some rusted, some wrapped in remnants of what might once have been decorative tooling. One saddle still bore faint traces of gilding along its pommel, the gold flaking away like autumn leaves.
"This one was Sunfyre's," Valarr said, touching the edge of a saddle that gleamed dully in the torchlight, its leather the color of old coins. "Or so the records claim. It is difficult to be certain—so much was lost during the Dance. Saddles burned with their riders, or were broken apart for leather and metal when the dragons died and no one thought to preserve anything." He moved to the next, and his voice softened. "This one belonged to Syrax."
You stepped closer before you meant to. Syrax's saddle was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Even beneath the dust and the cracks and the slow decay of years, you could see it, the intricate patterns worked into the leather, the fittings that looked almost like gold, the delicate filigree along the backrest that must have taken someone months to complete. It was opulent and feminine and utterly unlike the heavy, warlike saddles beside it. It looked like something a queen would ride.
"Rhaenyra's dragon," you said quietly.
"Yes." Valarr's hand hovered over the pommel without touching it. "She rode Syrax when she took King's Landing. And later—well. You know the histories."
You did. You had read them in the book he gave you, sounding out the words while his shoulder pressed warm against yours. Syrax had died in the Dragonpit, torn apart by the smallfolk who rose against Rhaenyra. The saddle had outlived the dragon. That seemed wrong, somehow. That leather and metal could endure when fire and wings could not.
"There is more," Valarr said, turning to face you. The torchlight caught the silver streak in his hair, made his pale eye gleam like a coin. "That is not why I brought you here. I brought you here because—" He stopped, and for a moment he looked almost uncertain, which was such an unusual expression on his face that you felt your heart clench. "Because I want to commission a saddle for you. For Moonfyre."
You opened your mouth, but he was already speaking again, the words tumbling out faster now.
"I cannot watch you fly anymore without one. Every time you climb onto her back with nothing but your hands and your legs and your stubbornness, I feel as though my heart is going to stop. You hold on with strength alone, and you are strong—stronger than anyone I have ever met—but strength fails. A saddle would not. A saddle would keep you secure through dives and climbs and whatever else Moonfyre decides to do. A saddle would—"
"Valarr—"
"—mean that I could watch you fly without feeling as though I am going to be sick from terror. A saddle would mean that if something happened, if she banked too sharply or you lost your grip, you would not—"
"Valarr."
He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into loose fists, and his chest was rising and falling too quickly. He looked at you with those eyes and you could see the guilt there, the fear, the thing he still carried from the weeks when he had not believed you. It had not gone away. You were not certain it ever would.
"You are frightened for me," you said.
"Of course I am frightened for you." His voice was raw at the edges, scraped clean of princely composure. "I am frightened for you every moment you are in the air. I am frightened for you when you are on the ground and Moonfyre is not with you and I think about all the things that could happen, all the people who might want to hurt her or take her or use you to get to her. I am frightened for you when you are asleep and I am watching you breathe and I think about how close I came to losing you before I ever truly had you." He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through your new grey dress. "So yes. I am frightened for you. And I am asking you—asking, not commanding, I would never command you—to let me do this one thing that might make you a little safer. Please."
The word hung in the dusty air between you. A prince, begging. For you. You looked at the saddles again and tried to imagine yourself sitting in something like that, strapped into leather and steel, secured against the sky. Moonfyre was warm beneath you when you flew. Moonfyre was solid and alive and always, always careful with you, even when she dove or climbed or twisted through the air like a ribbon in the wind. The thought of putting something between you, something hard and unyielding, made your stomach clench.
"It might hurt her," you said quietly. "The straps. The weight. She has never carried anything but me. What if she hates it? What if it rubs her scales raw or catches on her spines or—"
"Moonfyre," Valarr said, and his voice was gentler now, some of the urgency draining out of it, "is a dragon. She carried you across the sea and back. She fought off infection and crooked bones and months of pain. A saddle will not hurt her. A properly fitted saddle, made by craftsmen who know what they are doing—she will barely feel it."
"You do not know that."
"I do not know that," he agreed. "But I know that the old riders saddled their dragons, and the dragons did not suffer for it. I know that Sunfyre carried Aegon through battle after battle with a saddle on his back, and it did not slow him down. I know that Syrax bore Rhaenyra for years, and the saddle was part of them, part of the bond, not a barrier between them."
You traced your fingers along the edge of Syrax's saddle. The leather was cold and brittle, flaking slightly beneath your touch. You thought of the craftsmen who had made it, the hours of careful work, the pride they must have felt when they saw it strapped to a dragon's back. You thought of Valarr, standing beside you in this dusty chamber, pleading with you to let him keep you safe.
"Moonfyre might like it," Valarr said softly. "If it means you can fly longer. Fly farther. Go places you have never been without your arms giving out halfway across the bay."
That was unfair. He knew it was unfair. You could see it in the slight quirk of his mouth, the way his pale eye caught the torchlight. He was appealing to the part of you that wanted to see the world from dragonback, that had tasted freedom on that unknown island and wanted more of it, that dreamed sometimes of flying west until you reached the edge of the map and saw what lay beyond.
"You are manipulating me," you said.
"I am reasoning with you."
"You are manipulating me with reasoning."
"Is it working?"
You wanted to stay cross with him. You wanted to hold onto your uncertainty, your fear for Moonfyre's comfort, your stubborn village-girl conviction that you did not need fine things or special treatment or princes who commissioned saddles for you. But he was looking at you with those eyes and you could feel your resolve crumbling like the gilding on Syrax's pommel.
"If Moonfyre hates it," you said slowly, "I will not make her wear it. Not even if it is the finest saddle ever made. Not even if you beg."
"Agreed."
"And if it hurts her—if there is even a single scale rubbed raw, a single moment where she seems uncomfortable—it comes off and I do not put it back on."
"Agreed."
"And you stop hovering every time I fly. You let me go without looking as though you are about to be sick."
He hesitated at that, his jaw tightening, and you knew you had found the limit of his willingness to negotiate. But after a moment he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head that was more concession than agreement.
"I will try," he said. "I cannot promise I will succeed."
"That is all I ask."
He reached for you then, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently toward him. You went willingly, letting yourself be drawn into the circle of his arms, letting your forehead rest against his collarbone. He smelled of salt and leather and something else, something warm and clean that you had come to associate with him alone. His chin came to rest on the top of your head.
"Thank you," he said, and the words vibrated through his chest into your bones.
"You are very difficult to refuse," you mumbled into his tunic.
"I know. I have been practicing."
You laughed despite yourself, a small huff of air against the fabric of his shirt. His arms tightened around you.
"The leatherworker will want to meet Moonfyre," he said, already planning, already thinking ahead to measurements and fittings and all the practical details that would make this real. "To take her dimensions. I will send word to him today."
"He will have to approach her slowly. She does not like strangers."
"I will tell him."
"And he cannot stare at her. She thinks staring is a challenge."
"I will tell him that too."
"And he should bring her something to eat. A goat, or a sheep. She likes people better when they come bearing food."
Valarr stopped in the doorway and turned to look at you, and there was something in his expression wonder, perhaps, or gratitude, or simply the overwhelming relief of a man who had been forgiven for something he could not forgive himself.
"I love you," he said. "You know that, don't you?"
You did. You had known it for longer than you had believed it, had felt it in every kiss and every gentle word and every moment when he looked at you as though you were the only real thing in a world made of shadows. But hearing him say it still made your heart stutter in your chest, still made you feel as though you were standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful.
"I know," you said. "I love you too."
He kissed you once more, soft and brief and full of promise, and then he led you back up the stairs and into the light.
At the top of the stairs, instead of turning back toward the main corridor and the way you had come, he steered you left. Then right. Then through a narrow archway you had not noticed before, into a hallway lined with old tapestries whose threads had gone dull and grey with age.
"What is this?" you asked.
"The east gallery. It connects the residential wing to the great hall without going through the main courtyard. Useful when it rains."
"It is not raining."
"No," he agreed. "But you have never seen it, and I thought you might like to."
You walked a little further. He showed you the small sept tucked into an alcove off the gallery a quiet, shadowed space with carved dragons twining up the pillars and a septa's crystal catching the light from a single high window. He showed you the library, which was not grand like you imagined the one in King's Landing must be, but still held more books than you had ever seen in one place, their spines cracked and faded and smelling of dust and old paper. He showed you a narrow window that looked out over the eastern meadows where you and Moonfyre had first learned to fly, and he pointed to the distant smudge of the village and said, "Marta's roof needs new thatching. I noticed it yesterday. I'll send someone."
You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the window's light, his mismatched eyes fixed on the village below, and there was something deliberate in the way he spoke, something careful and measured that you could not quite name.
"Why are you being so thorough?" you asked.
He turned from the window. "Thorough?"
"All of this." You gestured at the corridor behind you, the library, the sept, the gallery with its faded tapestries. "You are showing me every corner of this castle as though you expect me to be tested on it later."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was a softer smile than before, less teasing and more tentative. "Perhaps I am."
"Valarr."
He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry some weight you could not see, and reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before lowering them again.
"I am showing you your future home," he said. "Or one of them, at least. The Red Keep will be yours as well, when the time comes. I thought you ought to know your way around before—" He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your hand. "Before everything changes."
The word echoed in the quiet corridor. Home. You had a home. A small cottage with a sagging roof and a hearth that smoked when the wind blew from the east and a narrow pallet where Marta had tucked you in every night since you were small enough to be carried. That was home. That had always been home.
"Home," you repeated, and the word felt strange in your mouth, too large and too small at the same time.
"Yes. When you marry me, Dragonstone will be yours. Not just the caves and the village and the meadows, but all of it. The castle. The library. The sept and the gallery and every dusty corner you have not seen yet. And King's Landing, too, when—" He stopped, his jaw tightening briefly. "When the time comes."
Your heart was beating very fast. You could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the place where his thumb was still tracing circles over your skin.
"I do not recall accepting any proposal," you said.
It came out steadier than you felt. His eyes met yours, and there was no teasing in them now. Just him. Just Valarr, looking at you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"You will," he said. "One day."
"That is very confident of you."
"Not confident. Hopeful." He lifted your hand again and pressed it flat against his chest, over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm, quick and strong and slightly uneven. "I told you I would spend the rest of my life making up for the weeks I did not believe you. That was not a promise I made lightly. I do not expect you to forgive me tomorrow, or next moon, or even next year. I will wait. I will keep showing you libraries and septs and the best windows for watching the sunrise, and I will wait, and one day—when you are ready, when you have forgiven me as much as you are able—I will ask you properly. And you will say yes, or you will say no, and either way I will still be here. Still waiting. Still yours."
You stared at him. His heart was still hammering beneath your palm, belying the calm of his voice, and the silver streak in his hair caught the light from the window, and his eyes were full of something so raw and tender that it made your chest ache.
"You are a fool," you whispered.
"Probably."
"A complete and utter fool."
"I have been told."
You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss, or a careful one. His words had been too earnest, too tender, too full of that quiet certainty that made your chest feel too small for everything inside it, and kissing him seemed the only way to make him stop before he said something else that made you want to weep in the middle of a dusty corridor. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he made a sound low in his throat and kissed you back.
The corridor was silent except for the soft sound of your mouths meeting and parting and meeting again, and for a long, suspended moment there was nothing in the world but his hand in your hair and his heart still hammering beneath your palm and the warmth of him pressed against you in the narrow space between the tapestries and the wall.
A throat cleared behind you. Not loudly. Politely, even. The kind of throat clearing that was meant to announce a presence without making a scene, the kind that belonged to someone who had walked in on something he ought not to have seen and was determined to pretend otherwise.
You pulled back from Valarr so quickly you nearly stumbled, your face flooding with heat. Valarr's hand fell from your jaw, but his other arm remained around your waist, steadying you, and when you looked up at him his expression was caught somewhere between mortification and the particular irritation of a man who had been interrupted at a crucial moment.
Prince Baelor stood at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his expression impeccably neutral but he carried himself with the easy authority of a man who did not need a crown to be recognized. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his jaw strong, and his eyes were fixed on a point just above your heads, as though the ceiling had suddenly become fascinating.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was warm, warmer than you expected, as if he had not just witnessed his eldest son kissing a girl in a secluded corridor. "I did not expect to find you in the castle today. How fortunate."
Your face was still burning. You dropped into a curtsy—a little clumsily, your legs still unsteady from the kiss—and kept your eyes on the floor. "My prince. The fortune is mine."
Valarr's arm tightened around your waist, a small, reassuring pressure. "Father," he said, and his voice was even, though you could hear the strain beneath it. "I was just showing Y/N the castle. She has not seen much of it beyond the great hall and the tailor's chambers."
"So I observed," Baelor said, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, though his face remained carefully composed. He looked at you then, directly, and his expression softened. "Valarr tells me you agreed to riding clothes. I am glad. The dresses are charming, but I suspect they were not designed with dragonflight in mind."
You did not know what to say to that. Your hand found Valarr's sleeve and held on. "The tailor was very thorough, my prince."
"He is a tyrant in human form, but his work is excellent." Baelor smiled, and it transformed his face, made him look less like a prince and more like a man who told jokes and laughed at them. "Since you are here, you must stay for supper. I will not hear any argument—it is late, the sun will set soon, and there is no sense in walking all the way back to the village on an empty stomach. My wife has been asking to meet you properly. She will have my head if I let you slip away without an introduction."
Your stomach dropped. Supper. With the prince and princess of Dragonstone. In the great hall, or some private dining chamber, with servants and candles and more forks than you knew what to do with. You looked down at your dress, the dress of a village girl who spent her mornings mucking out goat pens and her afternoons scrubbing dragon scale from beneath her fingernails.
"My prince, I am not—" You stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I have nothing suitable to wear to a royal supper. And I would not wish to impose on your household without any warning, I am sure the kitchens have not prepared for an extra guest, and Marta will be expecting me back before dark, she worries when I am gone too long, and I should really—"
"Nonsense." Baelor waved his hand as though shooing away a fly. "Valarr, see that a bath is drawn for her in the guest quarters. Your mother has many gowns she will not mind if Y/N borrows one until the tailor finishes her commission. Send a servant to the village to inform Marta that Y/N will be dining at the castle tonight and will return in the morning."
"Father—" Valarr began, but Baelor was already turning, already walking back down the corridor with the unhurried stride of a man who was accustomed to having his instructions followed.
"This will be good," Baelor said over his shoulder, and his voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "A proper family supper. It has been too long since we had one of those. I will inform the kitchens. Bring her to the dining chamber when she is ready."
He disappeared around the corner, his boots clicking against the stone, and then there was silence. You stood frozen, your hand still clutching Valarr's sleeve, your heart beating somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. A bath. A borrowed gown. Supper with the heir to the Iron Throne and his wife and his sons and—gods, how many forks were there going to be? You had eaten at Marta's table your whole life. You owned one spoon.
Valarr turned to you, and his expression was a complicated mixture of apology and barely suppressed amusement. "I am going to kill him," he said.
"Your father?"
"My father. Yes. That is the one I meant."
"He did not seem to notice the—" You gestured vaguely at the space between you, where moments ago there had been no space at all.
"Oh, he noticed." Valarr's mouth twitched. "He was looking at the ceiling. My father only looks at the ceiling when he is pretending he has not seen something. He did it when Matarys pushed me into the fountain during his nameday feast. He did it when my mother asked him if her new gown made her look fat. And he did it just now."
You closed your eyes. "I am going to die."
"You are not going to die."
"I am going to embarrass myself so thoroughly that I will wish I were dead. I do not know which fork to use. I do not know how to address a princess. I do not know—"
Valarr took your face in both his hands, gentle and steady, and pressed his lips to your forehead. "You will use whichever fork feels right. You will address my mother as 'my princess' and she will tell you to call her Jena, and you will not call her Jena because you are too polite, and she will like you all the more for it. My father already likes you. Matarys will talk so much that no one will notice if you use the wrong fork." He pulled back and looked at you, his pale eye catching the light. "And I will be beside you the entire time. You will not face any of it alone."
You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that he was a prince and you were a bastard and that no amount of borrowed gowns would change the fact that you did not belong in a castle dining chamber with people who had been raised to rule. But he was looking at you with those eyes, and his hands were still warm on your face, and you could feel your protests crumbling before they reached your tongue.
"If I faint," you said, "you will have to carry me out."
"If you faint, I will carry you out and tell everyone you were overcome by the excellence of the roast lamb."
"That is not funny."
"It is a little funny."
You pushed his chest, but you were almost smiling, and he caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.
"The guest quarters are this way," he said. "The bath will take a little while to fill. In the meantime, I can show you the north tower—it has the best view of the Dragonmont, and there is a particular window where the light hits the stone in a way that makes it look like fire. If you want."
You took a breath. Let it out. Squeezed his hand.
"Show me," you said.
He led you through corridors you had never seen before, the guest quarters, when you reached them, were not as grand as you had feared. The chamber was small but warm, a fire already crackling in the hearth, a canopied bed pushed against one wall with hangings the color of heather. Servants were already moving in and out, carrying copper tubs of steaming water, laying out cloths and jars and things you did not recognize.
Valarr spoke to them in low tones, giving instructions you could not quite hear, and then turned back to you. His hand found yours and squeezed once, briefly.
"The bath will be ready soon," he said. "I will leave you to it."
"You are not staying?" The words came out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended, edged with something that sounded uncomfortably like panic.
Valarr paused. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not the polite smile he wore in public, but the smaller, more private one that meant he was trying not to laugh at you.
"It would be somewhat improper," he said, "for me to stay while you bathe. Unless you are insisting. In which case I suppose I could be persuaded."
Your face went hot. You could feel the blush spreading from your cheeks to your ears to the base of your throat, and you were suddenly very interested in the pattern of the rug beneath your feet. "I did not mean it like that."
"I know." He stepped closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I was teasing you. The servants know what they are doing—all you have to do is stand there and let yourself be treated like a doll for an hour or so. Can you manage that?"
"I have never been treated like a doll in my life."
"Then it is long overdue." He pulled back and looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft. "Trust them. I will be back before you know it."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were alone with the servants and the steam and the copper tubs and the frightening array of jars and bottles and strange instruments laid out on a side table.
What followed was one of the most mortifying hours of your life.
The servants were efficient and utterly unbothered by your nakedness in a way that only made your nakedness feel more acute. You had bathed yourself your whole life this was nothing like that. This was hands in your hair and warm water poured over your shoulders and something that smelled of lavender massaged into your scalp. This was a rough stone, a pumice stone, one of the women called it, though you had never heard the word, dragged carefully over your elbows and knees and the soles of your feet, scraping away calluses you had earned over years of climbing and kneeling and walking barefoot through the village. This was oil rubbed into your skin until you gleamed like polished wood, and then more oil, a different kind, something that smelled of jasmine and made your skin feel impossibly soft.
They cut your hair. Not much—just the ends, just enough to make it fall evenly down your back instead of straggling in uneven lengths the way it always had. You watched the pale strands drift to the floor and felt a strange pang in your chest, as though they were cutting away some essential part of who you were.
Then came the dress. You had expected something simple. Something modest, in a muted color, appropriate for a village girl who had been invited to supper out of politeness rather than any real desire for her company. What the servants lifted from the wardrobe was not simple.
The gown was lilac a pale, shimmering shade that seemed to shift between purple and silver as it caught the light. The neckline dipped low across the chest, lower than anything you had ever worn, and when you looked down at yourself after it was laced you saw your own body as though for the first time. The cut of the bodice lifted and shaped in ways you had not known were possible. The waist was tight, the sleeves long and fitted, and silver embroidery traced delicate patterns across the whole of it, flowers, you thought, or perhaps vines. The skirts fell in soft folds to the floor, and when you moved they whispered against the stone like a secret.
The girl in the mirror was a stranger. She was beautiful. You could admit that, even if it felt like admitting something shameful. Her skin glowed, soft and luminous from the oils and the pumice and the careful attention of hands that knew how to transform a body into something ornamental. Her collarbones were visible above the neckline, her waist impossibly narrow, her hands usually chapped and reddened from work resting soft and pale against the lilac silk. She looked like a princess. She looked like she belonged in this castle, in this chamber, in this gown. She looked like someone who had never mucked out a goat pen or scrubbed dragon scale from beneath her fingernails or woken before dawn to haul water from the well.
She looked nothing like you. This was what they did, you thought. This was what nobles did every day of their lives. They stood in warm chambers while servants oiled and polished and dressed them, while hands they did not have to thank transformed them into something beautiful enough to be looked at. They wore silk while you had worn patched wool. They ate from silver plates while you had eaten from wooden bowls. They had never once wondered if they belonged at the table because they had never once sat anywhere else.
And here you were, dressed like one of them, looking like one of them, as though a lilac gown and some jasmine oil could erase everything you were and everything you came from.
The door opened behind you. You did not turn. You were still staring at the stranger in the mirror, your hands clenched at your sides, your heart beating too hard against the boning of the borrowed bodice. Footsteps. Then silence. Then Valarr's voice, low and rough and stripped of all composure.
"Gods be good."
You turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand still on the latch, his cloak gone and his dark hair slightly damp as though he had bathed and dressed in haste. He was wearing a deep blue tunic you had not seen before, silver thread at the collar and cuffs, and his mismatched eyes were wide. His lips were parted. He looked at you the way you had seen villagers look at moonfyre as though something impossible and beautiful was happening in front of him and he did not know whether to speak or kneel or simply stand there and let it burn itself into his memory.
"You look," he said, and stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "You look like the Maiden herself. Reborn. Walking the earth. In my father's guest quarters."
"That is blasphemy," you said, because you did not know what else to say.
"Then I will do penance tomorrow." He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching you, his hands hovering at your elbows as though he was afraid the gown might dissolve if he made contact. Up close, you could see the faint flush rising along his jaw, the way his throat moved as he swallowed again. "I mean it. You are—I do not have the words. I have read poetry. I have read a great deal of poetry. None of it is adequate."
Your cheeks were warming again, but the resentment was still there, coiled beneath the fluster. "It is the dress. And the oils, and the—the stones, and my hair, and—"
"It is you." His hands found your elbows at last, gentle and steady. "It is you in the dress. It is you with your hair like moonlight and your eyes doing that thing where you are not certain whether to be pleased or to run. It is you, Y/N. The rest is just trimming."
"I do not look like myself," you said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "You look like the person you have always been, only now the outside matches the inside. That is what fine clothes are supposed to do, I think. I have never understood it until now."
You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything to say. So you stood there, in your borrowed lilac gown, with his hands warm on your elbows and his eyes full of something that looked a great deal like worship, and you let yourself be looked at.
He was still holding your elbows, his thumbs tracing small arcs over the silk, when his expression shifted. The wonder in his face dimmed slightly, replaced by something more careful, more searching.
"You are uncomfortable," he said. "If the dress bothers you, I will find you another. There are a dozen gowns in the wardrobes here—my mother's, my cousins', ones that have been left behind by visiting ladies over the years. Something with a higher neckline, or heavier fabric, or—"
"No." The word came out faster than you intended. You shook your head, your hands smoothing over the lilac skirts almost without your permission. "No, it is not the dress. The dress is…" You struggled for the right word, and failed, and settled for the truth instead. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever worn. I have never worn anything like it. When I was small, I used to dream about dresses like this."
You had not meant to say that. The confession slipped out before you could catch it, and once it was free you could not pull it back. You remembered those dreams now, sharp and sudden, lying on your pallet in Marta's cottage while the fire burned low, imagining yourself in gowns of silver and gold and deep Targaryen red, imagining a life where you walked into a room and people looked at you not with pity or curiosity but with respect. You had always woken from those dreams feeling foolish. A bastard girl with patched wool and callused hands, dreaming of silk. It was like a goat dreaming of flying.
Valarr's hands tightened on your elbows. "And now you are wearing one."
"Now I am wearing one," you agreed. "And I feel like I have stolen something. Like I walked into a room I was not supposed to enter and put on a gown that belongs to someone else and at any moment someone is going to realize the mistake and send me back where I came from." Your voice was steady, but only just. "I feel like I do not deserve this."
"Y/N—"
"I know what you are going to say."
"You do not," he said quietly, "because what I am going to say is that you deserve this more than anyone I have ever met."
You looked at him. His face was earnest and open and so desperately sincere that it made your chest hurt. And beneath that sincerity, beneath the warmth and the love and the way he was looking at you as though you were the answer to some question he had been asking his whole life, something else stirred. A thought. A question. A splinter of doubt that you could not quite dislodge.
Why?
Why did you deserve it more than anyone? Why did any of this, the dress, the oils, the servants, the castle, the prince who looked at you like you were the Maiden reborn, why did any of it have to be deserved at all? Marta had worked her whole life, her hands gnarled and aching, her back bent over poultices and potions and the bodies of the sick and the dying, and she had never once worn silk. The fishermen who went out before dawn in their leaking boats, the baker's wife who rose at an hour that ought not to exist to knead dough for bread she would never have time to eat warm, the village children who ran barefoot through the mud because shoes cost coin and coin was for food—why did none of them deserve pretty dresses? Why did decency have to be earned? Why was beauty a reward for the few instead of a gift for everyone?
You did not say any of this. You were not certain you knew how to shape the words, or whether Valarr would understand them if you did. He had been raised in a world where some people deserved things and others did not, and he was kind but kindness and understanding were not the same thing.
"Y/N." His voice pulled you back. He was watching you carefully, his head tilted slightly, his pale eye narrowed. "You went somewhere just now. Where did you go?"
"Nowhere." You shook your head and forced a smile. "I am here."
"You are lying. But I will not press you." He lifted one hand from your elbow and offered it to you, palm up. "Come. I told you I would show you how the soup is supposed to go, and I meant it. Father will have told the kitchens to prepare something elaborate—he always does when there are guests—but I can at least warn you which course comes with which implement and when you are supposed to nod politely instead of speaking."
You stared at his outstretched hand. A prince's hand, clean and uncallused, offered to a girl whose palms still bore the faint roughness of work despite the pumice stone's best efforts.
"I am a little scared," you admitted. The words came out small, smaller than you wanted them to.
"I know." His hand did not waver. "You do not have to pretend you are not. I will be beside you the entire time. And if anyone makes you feel unwelcome, I will—"
"What? Challenge them to a duel?"
"I was going to say I would glare at them meaningfully. But a duel is also an option."
Despite everythin you laughed. It was a small laugh, barely more than a breath, but it was real. Valarr smiled, and his hand was still there, waiting.
"Alright," you said, and placed your palm in his. "Show me."
He led you not to the dining chamber to a small room just off the corridor, one you had not seen during his earlier tour. It was not grand. A modest table, two chairs, a sideboard bearing a modest collection of plates and bowls and an array of cutlery that seemed excessive for a room this size. A single window looked out over the darkening sea, the sky going violet at the edges where the sun had begun its slow descent.
"A practice round," Valarr said, pulling out one of the chairs and gesturing for you to sit. "Before the real battle. Every knight drills before a tourney."
You sat. The lilac skirts pooled around you on the chair, and you spent a moment arranging them so you would not trip if you had to stand suddenly. "Is supper a tourney now?"
"Supper with my family can be a trial by combat if you are not prepared. Fortunately, the rules of etiquette are simpler than swordplay. There are only six forks to worry about instead of seven, for instance, and no one is trying to unhorse you."
"Six forks," you repeated, your voice flat.
"Only five, actually. I was exaggerating for dramatic effect. There are three." He pulled the other chair close to yours—close enough that your knees nearly touched—and sat down, reaching for a spoon from the sideboard. "This is the soup spoon. You will know the soup course has arrived because someone will place a bowl of soup in front of you. At that point, you may use this spoon. You dip it away from yourself—so—and you sip from the side, not the front. Like this."
He demonstrated with an imaginary bowl, his movements exaggerated and faintly ridiculous, and you felt some of the tension in your shoulders ease.
"Away from myself," you said. "Side of the spoon. Not the front."
"Exactly. You are already better than Matarys, who once drank his soup directly from the bowl during a formal banquet because he was thirteen and wanted to see what would happen. What happened was that our mother did not speak to him for two days."
You laughed despite yourself. Valarr's eyes crinkled at the corners, pleased.
"The fish fork," he continued, picking up a smaller implement with slightly curved tines, "is for fish. The meat fork is for meat. If you are ever uncertain which to use, watch me. I will use the correct one, and you can follow half a heartbeat behind. No one will notice."
"They will notice."
"They will be looking at Moonfyre's rider. They will be looking at the girl who brought dragons back to House Targaryen. They will not be looking at which fork you are holding. And if they do, they are boors, and their opinion is not worth your concern."
You picked up the fish fork and turned it over in your fingers. It was heavier than it looked, the silver cool against your skin. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. You are the one making it complicated."
"I am not—" You stopped, because he was looking at you with that particular expression he wore when he knew he was right and was waiting for you to admit it. "Perhaps I am making it a little complicated."
"Only a little." He reached over and gently extracted the fork from your fingers, setting it back on the sideboard. His hand lingered on yours. "You are also gripping that fork as though you expect it to attempt an escape. Try to hold it more like a writing quill and less like a weapon."
"I have never held a writing quill."
"Then hold it like you hold my hand. Gently. As though you trust it."
Your eyes met his. The room was quiet except for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, the soft crackle of the torch in its sconce. His thumb traced a slow line across your knuckles.
"You are flirting with me," you said.
"I am always flirting with you. It is one of my defining characteristics." He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "Is it working?"
"A little."
"Only a little. I shall have to try harder." He released your hand and reached for a small plate, holding it up between you like a shield. "Bread. You will tear it with your fingers, not cut it with a knife. Tearing bread with a knife is considered uncouth, though I have never understood why. Bread does not care how it is divided."
"Bread does not care about anything. It is bread."
"Precisely my point. And yet the rules persist." He set the plate down and leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. "You are still nervous."
"I am always nervous."
"I know. But this is a different kind of nervous. You are thinking about forks and soup spoons and whether my mother will like you, and you are forgetting that you have already done something braver than any of them have ever done."
You looked down at your hands, at the faint calluses the pumice stone had not quite managed to erase. "I do not feel brave."
"Bravery is not a feeling. It is an action. You saved a dragon. You flew across the sea. You came back." He tilted his head, catching your gaze and holding it. "What is a soup spoon compared to that?"
"A soup spoon is smaller."
"Much smaller. And less likely to bite you."
"Moonfyre tried biting me once."
"And you survived. You will survive the soup course as well." He smiled, and it was the private smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his mismatched eyes and made him look less like a prince and more like the boy who had sat beside you in a meadow and taught you to read. "If you become overwhelmed during supper, I have a plan."
"What plan?"
"I will feed you."
You stared at him. "You will what?"
"Feed you. Lift morsels to your lips with my own fork. It will be very romantic and deeply inappropriate for a formal dinner, and my father will stare at the ceiling again and you will be so distracted by your embarrassment that you will forget to be nervous about the cutlery."
Your face was hot. "That is the worst plan I have ever heard."
"It is an excellent plan. I have been refining it for hours."
"You have not."
"You are correct, I invented it just now. But I am committed to it. Say the word and I will feed you every course from soup to sweetcake."
"Please do not feed me at your father's table."
He sighed with theatrical regret. "Very well. But the offer remains open. If you find yourself paralyzed by the weight of silverware, simply look at me. I will know what it means."
"You will know what what means? I do not even know what it means."
"I will know." He stood and offered you his hand, the same gesture he had made in the guest quarters, patient and steady and sure. "Are you ready? The soup is waiting, and I have it on good authority that it is leek and potato. My father is very fond of leek and potato. He will talk about it at length. You need only nod and make appreciative sounds."
You took his hand and rose, the lilac skirts settling around you with a whisper. "Appreciative sounds I can manage."
"I never doubted you for a moment." He tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow and led you toward the door. Just before you reached it, he paused and leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are the rider of the first dragon in seventy years. You are stronger than anyone in that dining chamber, and kinder, and braver. The forks are irrelevant. The soup is irrelevant. You could eat with your hands and my mother would still adore you."
"She would not."
"She would. She told me so."
You did not trust yourself to speak. So you tightened your hand on his arm and let him lead you into the corridor, toward the dining chamber and the soup and whatever lay beyond.
The small dining chamber was not what you had expected. You had imagined something vast and echoing but this room was intimate, almost cozy, its walls hung with tapestries in warm shades of gold and russet, its hearth fire casting dancing shadows across a table set for five. Candles flickered in iron holders. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread drifted from somewhere nearby. It was, you realized with a jolt, a room meant for family.
The family was already there. Baelor stood near the hearth, a goblet in his hand, his dark beard catching the firelight as he turned toward the door. He smiled when he saw you and inclined his head in greeting. Beside him, a woman had risen from her chair.
She was not tall. That was the first thing you noticed. Princess Jena Dondarrion was small and fine boned, with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes the pale, clear blue of a winter sky. She was not beautiful in the way the songs described princesses. Her face was too sharp for that, her nose slightly aquiline, her mouth set in a line that suggested she spent more time thinking than smiling. But there was something striking about her nonetheless, a quiet intensity, a sense of coiled intelligence behind those pale eyes.
The young man sprawled in the chair beside her could only be Matarys. He had his mother's coloring, though on him the hair curled wildly around his ears and the eyes held a restless, mischievous gleam. He was handsome, you supposed, in a way that was less polished than Valarr's careful composure. Where Valarr was stillness and duty, Matarys seemed to be barely contained motion, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair, his leg bouncing beneath the table. He was watching you with undisguised curiosity, and when your eyes met his, he grinned.
You dropped into a curtsy before you could lose your nerve, gripping the sides of your borrowed skirts the way Valarr had shown you in the practice room. "My prince's. My princess. I am honored to be received."
The words felt stiff in your mouth, rehearsed and foreign, but Jena's expression softened slightly at the edges, and Baelor raised his goblet in a small toast. "The honor is ours," he said. "Please, sit. You are not a petitioner tonight, Y/N. You are a guest."
Valarr's hand found the small of your back, a brief, steadying pressure, and he guided you to the chair beside his. The table was round, not long, and you found yourself seated between Valarr and Matarys, directly across from Jena. Baelor took the chair beside his wife, setting down his goblet with a soft clunk.
Servants appeared as if conjured, pouring wine into your goblet—a pale gold, not the deep red you had expected—and setting down bowls of soup. Leek and potato, just as Valarr had predicted. Steam curled upward, fragrant and warm.
"So," Matarys said, before anyone else could speak. "You are the dragon girl."
"Matarys," Jena said, her voice quiet but carrying a warning.
"What? I am only stating a fact. She is a girl, and she has a dragon. That makes her the dragon girl." He leaned forward, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it true she sleeps curled around you like a cat? Valarr said she sleeps curled around you like a cat."
"Matarys," Valarr said, in a tone that was considerably less patient than his mother's.
"I am only asking what everyone is thinking. You cannot blame me for being curious. There has not been a living dragon in seventy years, and now one is napping not half a league from where I sleep, and I am not allowed to see her." He turned to you, his expression plaintive. "Do you know what that is like? It is like being told there is a feast in the next room but you are not permitted to leave your chair."
You picked up your soup spoon, remembering Valarr's instructions. Away from yourself. Sip from the side. The soup was hot and creamy and rich in a way that village soup never was real cream, you thought, and butter, and herbs you could not name.
"Moonfyre does not curl around me like a cat," you said, after you had swallowed. "She is much larger than a cat."
"But she does curl around you?"
"Sometimes. When she is cold."
Matarys looked at Valarr with an expression of profound vindication. "She does curl around her like a cat."
"I never said she did not," Valarr muttered into his soup.
Baelor chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Let the girl eat, Matarys. You can interrogate her after the fish course."
The conversation eased after that, settling into something that felt almost natural. Jena asked you about the village how long you had lived there, whether the fishing had been good this season, if the storms had damaged any of the cottages. Her questions were practical, straightforward, the questions of a woman who had learned to manage a household and was genuinely interested in how other people managed theirs. You answered as best you could, and when you stumbled over a word or forgot to address her as "my princess," she did not correct you. She only nodded and asked another question.
Baelor asked about Marta, how long she had been a healer, what remedies she used for winter fever, whether she had ever trained with a maester. You told him she had learned from her mother and her mother before her, that she knew every herb on Dragonstone and what it cured, that she had never lost a mother in childbirth. Baelor listened with genuine interest, his eyes thoughtful, and when you finished he said, "She sounds like a remarkable woman. I should like to meet her properly one day."
The fish course came and went. You used the fish fork without incident, though you caught Valarr watching you with a small, private smile when you picked it up. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table, a warm point of contact that anchored you when your nerves began to fray.
It was Baelor who raised the question you had been dreading. "Y/N," he said, setting down his knife, his voice gentle but curious. "You have the look of our house, it is unmistakable. Have you any idea who your Targaryen parent might have been?"
The table went quiet. Not the awkward quiet of people who were embarrassed for you, but the attentive quiet of people who were genuinely interested. Even Matarys stopped fidgeting. You took a sip of wine to buy yourself a moment. The goblet was cool against your fingers.
"No, my prince," you said. "I was found abandoned. Marta took me in when I was only a few days old, or so she says. There was nothing with me—no note, no token, no clue to who my parents might have been. I do not even know if it was my mother or my father who had the Targaryen blood."
Jena exchanged a glance with Baelor, something unreadable passing between them. "That is a hard beginning," she said quietly.
"It was not so hard. Marta was good to me. I had food and a roof and someone who loved me." You paused, your thumb tracing the rim of your goblet. "I have wondered, of course. Every child wonders. But after a while, I stopped. It did not matter who my parents were. What mattered was who I was."
Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers lacing through yours and squeezing once.
"That is a wise perspective," Baelor said. "Wiser than many who have had easier beginnings." He did not press further, and you were grateful.
The conversation shifted, turning toward lighter things, the upcoming harvest festival in the village, the quality of the wine from the Arbor, a horse that Matarys had tried to ride and been thrown from. Matarys told this story with great enthusiasm, describing his ignominious fall into a mud puddle with the kind of dramatic detail that made even Jena's stern mouth twitch toward a smile.
Then he turned to you, his blue eyes bright with renewed curiosity.
"Valarr told us something else about you," he said, and something in his tone made you wary. "He said you admire the late Princess Baela. The rider of Moondancer."
You blinked. "He told you that?"
"He tells me many things. I am his favorite brother."
"I am his only brother," Matarys said, unperturbed. "But yes. He said you are fascinated with her. That you named your dragon after hers. Moonfyre, Moondancer. It is a tribute, is it not?"
You glanced at Valarr. He was looking at his plate, his jaw slightly tight, as though he had not expected Matarys to bring this up at supper and was already regretting ever telling him anything.
"It is," you said, turning back to Matarys. "Marta used to tell me the old stories when I was small. The Dance of the Dragons, the conquest, all of it. But I always liked Baela best. She was not the heir or the queen or the one the songs were written about. She was just—brave. Fierce. Loyal to the people she loved. She rode Moondancer against Sunfyre even though she knew she would lose. She did it anyway."
"That is why you like her? Because she lost?"
"Because she fought." You had not meant to say it so forcefully, but the words came out steady and sure. "Because she did not wait for someone else to save her. Because she made her own choices and she stood by them, even when they cost her everything, reading it myself with Valarr's help only made me adore her even more."
"Valarr taught you to read," Baelor said, breaking the silence. It was not quite a question.
"Yes, my prince. He has been lending me books from the castle library. Histories, mostly. Some legends."
"That is impressive," Baelor said, and he sounded as though he meant it. "To learn so quickly, and to read well enough to tackle the histories. You have a sharp mind, Y/N."
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I had a good teacher." Valarr's hand tightened on yours beneath the table.
"Valarr is many things," Jena said, her voice dry, "but patient is not usually among them. He must have made an exception for you."
"I am very patient," Valarr said, with a touch of indignation.
"You once threw a book at your septa because she corrected your High Valyrian pronunciation."
"I was eight."
"And you missed. Your aim has never been good."
Matarys let out a bark of laughter. Baelor hid a smile behind his goblet. Valarr looked at his mother with an expression of profound betrayal, and you found yourself laughing too, a real laugh, startled out of you before you could stifle it.
Jena's pale blue eyes shifted to you, and her expression was no longer unreadable. She was smiling, a small, private smile that softened the sharp lines of her face and made her look almost warm.
"I am glad to finally meet you," she said. "Truly. I have wondered what kind of girl could make my son sleep in a peasant's cottage."
"Mother—" Valarr began, but Jena continued as though he had not spoken.
"Do you know, when he was a child, he used to follow his father on hunting trips. He insisted he wanted to be a knight, wanted to learn woodcraft and survival and all the things a future king ought to know. And then he would come back after three days in the forest and cry to me because the bedroll was lumpy and the ground was cold and his tent had leaked in the rain." She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving your face. "He was a fastidious child. Very particular about his pillows. I had to have special ones made for him—goose down, with silk covers, because the wool ones gave him a rash."
"Mother," Valarr said, and his voice was pained.
"And yet now he sleeps every night on a straw pallet in a village cottage, with a roof that leaks and a hearth that smokes and an old woman who apparently throws slippers at his head." Jena set down her goblet. "He has not complained once. Not a single letter home lamenting the accommodations. So you must be something quite extraordinary."
You did not know where to look. Your face was burning, and Valarr's hand had gone rigid in yours, and Matarys was grinning like a fool.
"I do not think it is me," you managed. "Marta's cottage is very comfortable. The straw is fresh, and she keeps the hearth clean, and—"
"And you are there," Jena said simply. "That is the difference. He would sleep on a stone floor if you were beside him."
"Mother," Valarr said again, and this time his voice cracked slightly.
Jena smiled at him—a real smile, full of affection and amusement and something gentler beneath. "I am not mocking you, my son. I am glad. It is good to see you sleep somewhere willingly. You were always a restless child. You used to wake in the night and crawl into our bed because you had dreamed of dragons."
The word hung in the air for a moment. Matarys opened his mouth, probably to make some joke, but Jena silenced him with a single look.
"I am glad you found your dragon," she said to Valarr, and then her pale eyes shifted back to you. "And I am glad you found her."
You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything adequate. So you simply met her eyes and said, "Thank you, my princess. I am glad too." Beneath the table, Valarr's hand turned in yours, his palm warm and steady.
The meat course arrived a tender cut of lamb, pink at the center, dressed with rosemary and garlic and some kind of dark wine reduction that you did not know the name for. You used the meat fork. Valarr's knee remained pressed against yours beneath the table, steady as a heartbeat.
It was Baelor who brought the subject around, setting down his knife with a soft clink and folding his hands on the table before him. His expression was thoughtful, the same expression he had worn in the corridor when he told you to stay for supper, warm, but measured. A prince making a decision.
"I wrote to my father," he said. "The King. I told him about Moonfyre."
Your hand stilled on your fork. The lamb was suddenly very difficult to swallow. King Daeron the man whose word was law, whose temper you had never seen, whose opinion could change everything. You had known this moment would come. You had known, in some way, that the King would have to be told. But knowing and hearing it spoken aloud at a family supper were two very different things.
"What did he say?" Matarys asked, leaning forward with undisguised eagerness. "Did he believe you? Is he coming here? Does he want to see the dragon?"
Baelor held up a hand, silencing his younger son with the gesture. "He did not believe me."
The silence that followed was not shocked. It was confused, uncertain, the silence of people who had been expecting one answer and received another entirely.
"What do you mean, he did not believe you?" Valarr's voice was careful, but there was an edge to it. "You wrote to him yourself. In your own hand. With your own seal."
"I did. And he read the letter, and he concluded that it was not from me at all." Baelor's mouth twitched. "He thought Matarys had written it. As a joke."
Matarys blinked. Then his face broke into a grin of such pure, delighted mischief that he looked about twelve years old. "He thought I wrote it?"
“He complimented the attention to detail.”
You pressed your napkin to your mouth, but it was too late. A laugh had already risen in your throat, sharp and sudden and entirely inappropriate for a formal supper with the royal family. You tried to swallow it. You failed. It came out as a strangled sort of cough, and then another, and then you had to take a long drink of wine to keep from laughing outright.
Valarr looked at you with concern. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," you managed, your voice slightly strangled. "Perfectly fine. I was only thinking—" You set down your goblet and met Baelor's eyes. You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching. "He did not believe you."
"No."
Baelor's dark eyes were steady on yours, and there was something in them, recognition, perhaps, or wry amusement, or the shared understanding of two people who had learned the same lesson in very different ways. "That is precisely what he decided."
You took a breath and folded your hands in your lap, composing yourself with an effort that felt almost physical. "I cannot imagine," you said, very carefully, "how that would feel. Truly. To tell someone the truth, something you have seen with your own eyes, something you know to be real—and to have them smile and nod and think you are making it up. To have them be so certain they know better that they dismiss you without even bothering to investigate." You met Baelor's gaze and held it. "I cannot imagine that at all."
Baelor looked at you for a long moment. Then he let out a breath that was not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and lifted his goblet.
"Well played," he said quietly.
Jena was watching you with those pale blue eyes, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Matarys was looking between his father and you with the air of someone who had just watched a very entertaining joust and was not quite sure who had won. Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table again, and when you glanced at him, his mismatched eyes were bright with something that looked a great deal like amusement.
"He will believe you eventually," you said to Baelor, your voice softer now. "When he sees Moonfyre for himself. When she is standing in front of him, real and solid and breathing fire. He will have to believe you then."
"Yes," Baelor said. "He will. And when that day comes, I intend to remind him of this letter. Frequently. In great detail." He paused, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the same smile you had seen on Valarr a hundred times, rueful and self deprecating and entirely genuine. "I suspect you may understand something of that impulse as well."
"I might," you said. "A little."
—
The guest chamber was too quiet. You had been lying in the dark for what felt like hours, the canopy above you a deeper shade of shadow against the ceiling, the fire burned down to embers that pulsed faintly in the hearth like a heartbeat made of light. The bed was soft, softer than anything you had ever slept on, goose down and fine linen and pillows that smelled of lavender. It should have been wonderful. It should have been the most comfortable night of your life.
You could not sleep. Your body was exhausted, heavy with the weight of the evening, the soup and the fish and the lamb, the wine and the candles and the way Jena had looked at you when she said I am glad you found her. But your mind would not stop turning. It circled the same thoughts over and over, a crow picking at old bones. King Daeron did not believe Baelor. The King thought the letter was a joke. The King would have to be convinced, would have to see Moonfyre with his own eyes, and what if he believed and was afraid, or what if he believed and wanted to take her—
A knock at the door. Soft, hesitant, barely audible over the distant crash of the waves. You sat up, your heart lurching. "Who is there?"
"Only me." Valarr's voice, muffled through the wood. "I saw the light beneath your door. You are not sleeping."
"I am sleeping. This is a dream. You are speaking to a sleeping person."
"May I come in? Or shall I continue this conversation with the door?"
You hesitated. It was late, very late, the hour when respectable girls were asleep in their beds and respectable princes were asleep in theirs. But you were not a respectable girl, not really, and Valarr had never been a particularly respectable prince. He had slept beside you in Marta's cottage for nights now, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your hair. The servants would talk. The servants were probably already talking. What was one more transgression?
"Come in," you said. The door opened just wide enough for him to slip through, and then it clicked shut behind him. He was dressed for sleep a loose tunic, soft breeches, his feet bare against the stone floor. His dark hair was rumpled, the silver streak catching the firelight, and his mismatched eyes found you in the darkness without difficulty.
"You could not sleep either," you said.
"Your chamber is next mine. I could hear you thinking."
"That is impossible."
"Nevertheless." He crossed the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at you with an expression that was half affection and half exhaustion. "Would you like some company? I find that thinking is easier to bear when there is someone else to share the weight of it."
You did not answer with words. You only shifted over, making room, and pulled back the edge of the blanket in invitation. He climbed in beside you with the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and then his arm was around your waist and your head was tucked against his shoulder and the lavender-scented pillows were forgotten because there was nothing in the world that smelled quite like him salt and leather and something warm and clean that you had come to associate with safety.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly. The waves crashed against the cliffs below. His hand traced slow, idle patterns on your back through the thin fabric of your borrowed nightgown.
"Do you like it here?" he asked quietly. "Staying in the castle, I mean. Is it comfortable?" You considered the question. The bed was comfortable. The bath had been mortifying but the results were undeniable. The food was richer than anything you had ever eaten. The chamber was warm and dry and did not smell of goat or herbs or the particular mustiness that crept into Marta's cottage when it rained.
"It is comfortable," you said. "Very comfortable."
"And Moonfyre would be comfortable here too."
You tilted your head back to look at him. His profile was sharp against the firelight, his pale eye gleaming, his mouth set in the careful line of someone who was trying very hard to sound casual and not quite succeeding.
"What do you mean?"
"The castle and the caves are one and the same," he said. "The Dragonmont runs beneath Dragonstone like a web of veins. You have seen the eastern tunnels—they connect to the castle cellars, to the old hatcheries, to chambers that were built for the express purpose of housing dragons. If Moonfyre lived here, she would have a proper resting place. Warm stone. Hot springs. Room to grow. She would not have to sleep in a cave that is also a thoroughfare for goats and curious village children."
"Moonfyre likes the cave."
"I am not saying she does not. But she has grown, Y/N. She is larger than she was when you found her, and she will keep growing. The cave will not fit her forever. And—" He hesitated, his hand stilling on your back. "And she has knocked things over. In the village."
You winced. That was true. Moonfyre had knocked things over. The baker's fence, for one, when she had decided she wanted to follow you into the village and her tail had swung a little too wide. Old Tom's drying rack, which had been laden with salted fish and had gone crashing to the ground in a shower of scales and splinters. No one had been hurt, but people had screamed. People had run. People had grabbed their children and looked at your dragon with terror in their eyes, and Moonfyre had hissed at them because she did not understand why they were screaming, and you had spent an hour calming her down and another hour apologizing to everyone in the village and another hour after that sitting in Marta's cottage with your head in your hands.
"The villagers are afraid of her," you said quietly.
"Some of them. Not all. But enough." His hand resumed its slow pattern on your back. "It is not their fault. They have never seen a dragon before. They do not know her the way you do. They see teeth and claws and fire, and they are afraid, and fear makes people do foolish things. I do not want anyone to do something foolish and force Moonfyre to defend herself."
You closed your eyes. The image was too easy to summon, a frightened villager with a pitchfork, a dragon who did not understand the threat, fire where there should not be fire. "Neither do I."
"Dragonstone is called Dragonstone for a reason," Valarr said, and his voice was gentle but insistent, the voice of someone who had been thinking about this for a long time and had finally found the courage to speak. "It is the seat of dragonlords. It was built by my ancestors for this exact purpose—to house dragons and their riders, to be a place where both could thrive. The old hatcheries are still warm. The Dragonmont is full of caves and tunnels and chambers that have not been used in seventy years but are still there, still waiting. Moonfyre could have the run of them. She could fly from the mountain and return to the mountain, and no one would scream or run or grab a pitchfork. She would be safe here. You would both be safe here."
You were quiet. His words settled into the space between you, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.
"I do not want to leave Marta alone," you said finally. The words came out smaller than you intended.
Valarr's arm tightened around you. "You would not have to."
"She would never agree to leave the village. That cottage is her home. She has lived there since before I was born—before she found me. She knows every creak in the floorboards and every crack in the hearth and exactly where the roof leaks when the wind blows from the east. She would never leave it."
"Then we will not ask her to leave it." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The firelight caught the silver streak in his hair, turned it to molten moonlight. "I will take care of her. Servants to fetch her water so she does not have to haul it from the well. Guards to keep her safe. A girl to help with her herbs and her remedies and whatever else she needs. She will be treated like a lady of the castle, even if she chooses to stay in her cottage. She raised you. She kept you safe when no one else would. The least I can do is make sure she never has to work herself to the bone again."
Your throat was tight. "She will throw a slipper at the servants. She does not like people fussing over her."
"Then the servants will learn to duck." He reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "You are not choosing between Marta and the castle, Y/N. You are not abandoning her. You are simply moving a little further up the mountain. She can visit whenever she likes. You can visit whenever you like. The distance is not so great that you cannot walk it in an afternoon."
You looked up at him. His face was open and earnest, his mismatched eyes soft with concern, and you could see the care he had put into this, he way he had thought through every objection, every fear, every reason you might say no.
"And what would I do here?" you asked. "In this castle. What would my life be?"
"You would learn," he said. "How to be a dragonrider. A true dragonrider. Not just someone who clings to Moonfyre's back and hopes for the best, but someone who knows how to fly and fight and command. There are books in the library—old books, from before the Dance, written by dragonriders for their children. There are records of techniques, of commands, of ways to bond with your dragon that have been forgotten for generations. You could learn all of it. You could become something the realm has not seen in seventy years."
"And beyond that? When I am not flying?"
He smiled, a small, private smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Beyond that, you could learn whatever you wished. History. Languages. Music. Statecraft. You have a sharp mind—my father said so himself. You could put it to use. You could become a lady who impresses the King when he finally arrives and sees Moonfyre for himself. You could become someone who does not feel out of place at a supper table with six forks."
"There were only three forks."
"Three forks tonight. There will be more at the Red Keep."
You laughed despite yourself, a soft huff of air that was half exhaustion and half something warmer. "You are very good at this."
"At what?"
"Making me feel as though the world is not quite so terrifying as I thought it was."
His expression softened. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I am only telling you the truth. You are not alone in this. You never have to be alone again. Whatever you decide—whether you stay in the village or move to the castle or fly off on Moonfyre and never come back—I will be there. I will take care of Marta. I will take care of you. That is not a negotiation. It is a promise."
You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the place where his dark hair gave way to that single silver streak. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like a cat seeking warmth.
"Stay," you said. "Tonight. Just stay."
"I was not planning to leave."
"Good." You tugged him back down to the pillows, settling yourself against his side with your head on his shoulder and your hand over his heart. His arm wrapped around you, solid and steady, and his lips pressed once more to the top of your head.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he murmured.
"Goodnight, Valarr."
The fire crackled. The waves crashed. And somewhere deep in the mountain, a dragon slept in a warm cave, dreaming of the sky.
□ summary: Valarr tried to avoid you for two days. Fate, unfortunately, seemed to have other plans. A midnight adventure beyond Winterfell's walls leaves him discovering a side of himself he never expected.
□ word count: 4k
□ tropes: slow burn, he fell first and harder, hurt-comfort, No use of y/n, no physical description of reader, reader is a badass and can fight, reader and valarr are adults.
□ warnings: afab reader, slight misogny, mentions of death, cursing, reader has a direwolf, no beta read.
□ a/n: sorry this was posted late. There was a thunderstorm warning so i had to do emergency store run. I hope you guys like the chapter, and thank you for reading 💛
Chapter 4
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Valarr's chambers were quiet. Only the occasional crackle of the hearth disturbed the silence as shadows of the flames danced lazily across the stone walls.
Valarr sat near the fire, one leg stretched before him while the other remained bent beneath the chaise. A goblet of wine rested loosely in his hand, the dark red liquid catching the glow of the flames. The linen shirt he wore hung open slightly at the collar, far less formal than the silks and velvets he was expected to wear before the court.
Since arriving at Winterfell, peaceful nights had become a rarity. But tonight, his thoughts were proving far more troublesome than ever.
Valarr dragged a hand across his face and shut his eyes briefly.
It had been two days since the council meeting.
Two days since he had somehow looked you directly in the eyes and called you charming.
His ears still burned at the memory.
For two days he had avoided you with a determination that would have impressed even his father. Whenever he heard your voice echoing through the corridors, he found another path. Whenever he spotted your dark cloak crossing the courtyard below, he suddenly remembered somewhere else he needed to be. Once, he had turned around so abruptly that Daeron had asked if he was being hunted.
Valarr had nearly thrown a goblet at his brother.
The worst part was that nobody appeared to have noticed.
Or at least, he hoped they had not.
With a sigh, he looked down at the wine in his hand.
He was not here for you.
The thought had become a prayer of sorts. A reminder repeated so often that it had begun to lose its meaning.
And Lady Berena deserved better than a husband whose attention wandered elsewhere.
And yet it feels as though a treacherous part of him kept looking elsewhere, kept wanting another conversation- to hear your thoughts on matters that had nothing to do with war or politics.
It simply wanted to know you more.
And that frightened him more than anything else.
Because if he allowed himself to follow that desire, he feared he would discover something he could not afford. Something capable of reducing years of duty, expectation and discipline into little more than ash.
And Valarr was not yet ready to watch it burn.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet as a memory of the morning surfaced.
The training yard.
He should have simply ignored Aerion.
William Stark had been sparring that morning when Aerion, in all his infinite wisdom, had remarked that this was what a proper heir looked like. Valarr had taken the bait immediately.
Looking back, it might have been the stupidest thing he had done all week.
Half the yard had stopped to watch.
The duel between him and William itself had been friendly enough. Wooden swords with no real danger.
Yet each exchange only made the difference between them more obvious.
William moved with the confidence of a man who had spent his life carrying steel. And Valarr did not.
He had managed to hold his own for a time.
Then William disarmed him.
Then again.
And again.
And by the fourth time, Aerion was no longer bothering to hide his amusement.
Valarr had accepted the defeat with as much dignity as he could muster and congratulated William on his skill.
Then he left.
Not because of Aerion.
Not because of the crowd who were probably judging him.
But because from the corner of his eye, he had noticed you watching.
You were standing at the far edge of the yard, giving archery lessons to Errold, the youngest Stark. Before your attention had turned towards them.
And he had not wanted to know what you thought.
Of the prince whose father was called Breakspear.
Of the prince who could never quite seem to live up to the name.
A heavy sigh escaped him as he chugged the wine in a go. Sleep was clearly not coming tonight.
Valarr rose from the chaise and set the goblet aside with a quiet clink. Pulling his fur cloak around his shoulders, he made his way towards the door.
The moon hung high in the sky. Though the snowfall had stopped, the chill still lingered in the air. The last thing Valarr wanted was to fall ill and embarrass himself further.
He opened the door to his chambers, and Ser Crakenhall straightened immediately.
"Your Grace," the man in the white cloak greeted.
Valarr gave him a nod and stepped out of the warmth of his chambers, the cold air striking his face at once.
"I wish to take a walk," Valarr said with a small smile. "Alone."
"But Your Grace-"
"It is an order. And I will remain within the castle walls, Ser. There is no need to worry."
Ser Crakehall looked hesitant for a moment, but eventually bowed his head and stepped aside.
Valarr moved through the corridors, his thoughts swimming somewhere between the humiliation of the morning and the uncertainty of the future.
He descended the stairs with the ease of a man who knew his way around. Over the past few days, he had developed a habit of haunting the halls of Winterfell whenever sleep refused to come.
Within minutes, he found himself at the rear of the castle, standing upon the balcony that had slowly become his sanctuary in the cold North. He had discovered it during one of his nightly wanderings and quickly decided he loved the silence.
Valarr rested his elbows against the railing and exhaled slowly, watching his breath disappear into the night air. After a moment, he leaned forward, resting his face in his palms as his eyes drifted towards the dark woods stretching beyond the castle walls.
The Wolfswood.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
Valarr could not help but wonder what else wandered through those woods after dark.
Just as his thoughts began to drift, he heard footsteps.
Light and careful.
Like someone trying not to be heard.
His hand instinctively moved towards the pommel of his sword as a shadow slipped across the level below him.
Valarr's feet moved before he could think. He descended the stairs quickly and rounded the balcony where he had seen the figure pass.
Nothing.
The corridor stood empty.
Valarr frowned. He was certain he had seen someone. Yet there was nothing there but stone walls and the ever present northern cold.
A pair of Stark guards were approaching from the opposite end of the corridor. Valarr considered asking if they had seen anyone.
Before he could open his mouth, someone seized his wrist.
The world lurched.
Valarr was pulled into a nearby room.
The door shut behind him.
Before he could protest, a hand covered his mouth.
Your scent reached him first. Then your voice.
"Shh."
His back hit the door as you pinned him against it, one hand over his mouth while the other remained wrapped around his wrist.
The moonlight filtering through the lone window was too weak to illuminate the room properly. He could only make out fragments of you.
A dark cloak. The outline of your shoulders. And the way you craned your neck towards the window, muttering curses beneath your breath as the clanking of armor echoed past outside.
Valarr could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Seven above, he was certain you could hear it too.
He breathed through his nose, trying desperately to steady himself. The brush of your palm against his lips did things to him he did not care to examine too closely.
It was all too much.
The woman he had spent two days avoiding. The woman who had occupied every spare corner of his thoughts.
And now she was pinning him against a door in an empty room.
Seven Hells. If someone were to see them-
Valarr abandoned that thought immediately. He could not move or speak. He could barely think.
All he could do was stare at you as something traitorous twisted happily inside his chest.
Valarr gulped when your attention finally shifted towards him.
He could feel you staring back.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he cursed the darkness for hiding your eyes.
"Shit," you muttered beneath your breath. Your hands slipped away from his mouth and wrist.
And Valarr found himself strangely disappointed by the loss of contact.
"My prince, I apologize. You see- I- me- it's just-"
"My lady, is everything alright?" Valarr somehow managed, a flush creeping across the back of his neck.
You laughed awkwardly and stepped away from him, moving into the moonlight.
Only then could he properly see you. You were dressed in common clothes. A rugged dark cloak hung around your shoulders, and a sword rested at your hip.
You looked nothing like a noblewoman. And somehow that only made the sight more fascinating and beautiful.
"I am alright," you said, glancing back towards the window. "I simply need to go somewhere. It is rather...important. I just did not wish to alert the guards."
"My lady, it is rather dark outside. Is everything truly alright?" Valarr took a cautious step closer, trying to get a better look at your face.
"I am certain, my prince. It is nothing."
You moved towards the door and pushed it open. Valarr watched as you carefully scanned the corridor before pulling your cloak tighter around yourself.
"I shall see you later, my prince."
You turned and headed towards the stairs leading down into the courtyard.
Valarr should have stopped there.
You were not his concern.
He should have returned to his chambers and forgotten this ever happened.
Instead, he followed.
He told himself it was because it was dark, and a lady should not wander alone at night.
At least that was the excuse he offered his heart.
"My lady, wait."
You stopped and turned towards him.
Valarr could see your face scrunch in frustration.
"Your Grace, you should really go back. I promise there is no need to worry."
"But my lady, it is not safe for you to wander alone. I know you are a skilled warrior, but still—"
The distant clanking of armor interrupted him. Valarr saw your eyes widen. Panic etched across your entire face.
And then suddenly you were dragging him across the courtyard. Your hand wrapped tightly around his wrist as Valarr nearly tripped over his own feet.
"My lady- I- what- "
You ignored him entirely as the two of you hurried across the courtyard towards the eastern gates.
"Please. Please. Please. Let them not be there," you muttered beneath your breath.
Valarr scarcely knew where he was being taken.
His mind had stopped functioning several moments ago. All he could focus on was the warmth of your hand seeping through the sleeve of his shirt.
The eastern gate came into view. There were no guards there.
Likely a shift change.
And before Valarr fully realized what was happening, the two of you were beyond Winterfell's walls.
You led him through the sleeping town until you suddenly darted into an alleyway and pulled him in after you.
Your hand finally released his wrist, and you bent forward slightly, laughing as you tried to catch your breath.
Your laughter faded as you leaned against the wall of the alleyway, catching your breath.
Valarr stood several feet away, looking thoroughly lost.
The alley was narrow, squeezed between two weathered buildings. Snow had gathered in uneven piles along the stone walls, while lantern light from the nearby streets spilled weakly into the darkness.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Valarr merely blinked at you, as you blinked back.
Then your expression changed.
Valarr watched confusion give way to realization, and then realization gave way to absolute horror.
Before either of you could speak, a voice suddenly cut through the silence.
"What the fuck?"
Valarr's hand flew instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Beside him, yours did the same.
A shadow stepped forward from deeper within the alley, draped in a dark cloak just like your own. Snow clung to the figure's shoulders as he stopped beneath the lantern light.
Valarr tensed, and then he heard you let out a quiet groan. The stranger pulled back his hood.
William Stark.
Valarr felt even more confused than before. William looked at him, then at you and then back at him.
The silence stretched.
"Your Grace?" William finally asked.
Valarr offered an awkward nod.
William stared for another heartbeat before slowly turning toward you.
"What is he doing here?"
You muttered something under your breath. Unfortunately for Valarr, whatever you said was too quiet to hear. William's eyes widened.
"What?"
You moved closer to your brother, lowering your voice further.
Valarr took a cautious step forward.
"-followed me," he finally caught. "I panicked and dragged him here."
For a long moment William simply stared at you. Then he dragged a hand down his face.
"Have you completely lost your mind?"
"What would you have me do?" Valarr heard you hiss back. "Let the guards find me sneaking out again? And then what? Spend the next moon trapped in my chambers while mother lectures me every morning?"
William opened his mouth and closed it before sighing heavily.
"Gods help me," he muttered.
Valarr cleared his throat. Both siblings turned toward him so quickly that he nearly forgot what he had been about to say.
"I apologize for interrupting, but I feel I should mention that I am still very confused."
You narrowed your eyes at him. Valarr immediately wished he had remained silent.
"We cannot go back now," you declared.
"My lady—"
"There are soldiers searching the grounds."
Valarr blinked.
"What?"
You pointed vaguely back toward Winterfell.
"If they find me sneaking out, I am doomed." You crossed your arms. "There is only one solution."
Valarr did not like the confidence with which you said that. Neither, judging by his expression, did William. Slowly, you pointed your finger towards him.
"We take him with us."
Valarr opened his mouth, before closing it again.
William stared at you.
Then, to Valarr's immense confusion, amusement flickered across his face.
"Oh, this should be interesting."
"You agree?" you asked.
"I think we are beyond good decisions at this point."
You nodded as though that settled everything. Then your attention shifted towards Valarr. And Valarr could not help but admire the way you looked under the moonlight.
"Do you enjoy music, Your Grace?"
Valarr stopped.
"What?"
"Music and ale."
"I am afraid I do not understand the question."
Valarr can see a grin tugging at the corner of your lips, and he could not help the flush on his cheeks.
"My prince," you said, clasping your hands behind your back, "have you ever been inside a common tavern?"
"N-No."
Your grin widened.
Beside you, Valarr can see William suddenly looking far too entertained.
"Well," you said, turning toward the lantern-lit street beyond the alley, "it appears tonight is your lucky day."
And for some reason, despite every warning screaming inside his head, Valarr followed.
The tavern was loud. The moment Valarr stepped inside, it felt as though he had entered an entirely different world.
Warmth immediately wrapped around him, washing away the bitter cold that had clung to him since leaving Winterfell. The air smelled of woodsmoke, roasted meat, spilled ale and damp wool. Music drifted through the crowded room, carried by a fiddler tucked into a corner while men and women laughed loudly around him.
Tankards slammed against tables.
Someone was singing.
Someone else was arguing over a game of dice.
And somehow, despite the chaos, everyone seemed content.
Valarr sat stiffly at one of the tables near the bar, his hands wrapped around a mug of ale he had yet to touch. Beside him, you looked entirely at ease.
One arm rested lazily atop the table while the other held your tankard. The hood of your cloak had long since been pushed back, revealing your face in the warm glow of the lanterns hanging overhead.
Valarr found himself staring again.
He needed to stop doing that.
Across the tavern, William had already disappeared into the crowd.
Valarr could see him laughing with several men near the hearth, a tankard raised high in one hand while someone attempted to drag him toward the musicians.
Valarr watched him vanish into the crowd before looking back down at his untouched ale.
"My lady?"
You hummed in response. Valarr hesitated.
"You do not have to remain here with me."
That earned him a confused look.
"I merely meant," Valarr cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your brother appears to be enjoying himself. You need not sit here in my rather boring company."
For a moment you simply stared at him.
Then you snorted. Actually snorted.
Valarr immediately felt his ears burn.
"My prince," you said, shaking your head. "If I wished to be elsewhere, I would be elsewhere."
You took another drink from your tankard.
"I only came because William wished for it."
Valarr glanced toward the dance floor where William was now attempting something that could generously be described as dancing.
He found that difficult to believe.
"And besides," you continued, setting your tankard down. "I do not find your company boring."
Valarr froze. His mind promptly stopped working.
"Oh."
You rolled your eyes. The movement was simple and ordinary. Yet Valarr found himself watching it anyway.
The lantern light softened your features, casting warm golden hues across your face while shadows danced against your skin from the nearby hearth. A loose strand of hair had escaped and now rested against your cheek.
Beautiful.
The thought arrived uninvited, and Valarr nearly dropped his mug.
He quickly looked away. His heartbeat stumbling somewhere inside his chest.
You took another drink before glancing towards him.
"My prince."
Valarr straightened immediately.
"You have been holding that mug for ten minutes."
Valarr looked down at his mug.
"I was observing."
You raised an eyebrow.
"The ale?"
"The tavern."
A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
"And what conclusions have you reached?"
Valarr glanced around once more.
A serving girl laughed as someone spun her around. A group of laborers were singing badly enough that it might have been considered a crime. Someone dropped a mug.
Nobody cared.
"It is..." Valarr paused, "very loud."
The laugh that escaped you was bright and genuine. Valarr hated how much he liked that sound.
"That is your grand observation?" you asked.
"I have others."
"Oh?"
Valarr nodded solemnly.
"The man near the hearth is definitely cheating."
You blinked.
Then followed his gaze toward a dice game happening across the room. The older man quickly slipped a die into his sleeve. Your eyes widened.
"He is."
Valarr looked pleased with himself.
"And the fiddler has missed the same note six times."
You stared.
"You can hear that?"
"I was taught music."
You shook your head slowly.
"What?"
"You truly are a prince."
Valarr couldn't help but laugh. For the first time that day, the nervousness in his chest eased slightly.
And for a moment, surrounded by music and laughter and the warmth of the tavern, he almost forgot that he was supposed to be avoiding you.
Valarr finally gathered enough courage to take a sip of his own ale.
Immediately he coughed. Yhe drink was far stronger than he had anticipated. Ypu laughed and Valarr scratched the back of his neck.
"Do you come here often?" Valarr found himself asking.
You shrugged, "Sometimes."
Your gaze drifted around the tavern.
"When I wish to feel..." you paused briefly. A small smile formed on your lips. "Free."
Valarr looked down at the ale in his hand.He understood that feeling more than he cared to admit.
The conversation faded after that. Neither of you seemed particularly bothered by the silence.
Then suddenly you spoke.
"You did quite well today."
Valarr frowned.
"Hm?"
"In the training yard."
Your head now rested lazily atop your folded arms as you looked at him from across the table.
Valarr nearly choked.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"My lady."
You raised an eyebrow. Valarr snorted into his mug.
"Please do not humour me because I am a prince."
The words escaped before he could stop them. You immediately rolled your eyes.
"I am not humouring you."
"You witnessed the same duel I did."
"I witnessed William sparring against someone who has never seen actual battle."
Valarr opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he argue.
"My brother has spent years fighting raiders, wildlings and bandits."
You gestured vaguely toward the crowd where William had somehow acquired another tankard.
"He has been training for actual combat since he was old enough to hold a sword."
Valarr remained unconvinced. And he can see your expression softening.
"My prince."
Reluctantly, Valarr looked up.
"You need to give yourself more credit."
He laughed quietly, almost sarcastically.
"I mean it."
Your finger tapped lightly against the wooden table.
"Many men cannot stand against William for more than a few seconds."
"The men people remember are the ones who win."
"That is not true."
The certainty in your voice made him glance back towards you. You were already looking at him.
Not with pity or sympathy. But with certainty. As though you truly believed every word leaving your mouth.
Valarr felt something tighten in his chest.
"Remember what i said back at the godswood. The strongest people I have known were not always the most skilled."
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the crowd.
"They were simply the ones who kept getting back up."
The tavern seemed quieter for a moment. Or perhaps Valarr simply stopped hearing it. Because once again, you had unknowingly said exactly what he needed to hear.
His eyes lingered on you longer than they should have.
The hours passed quicker than Valarr expected.
At some point, William had disappeared entirely into the crowd, only appearing every now and then with another mug in his hand and a different group of friends around him.
The tavern remained loud. But Valarr found himself smiling.
Not the polite smile he wore during feasts, or the practiced smile expected from a prince.
A real one.
The realization startled him, and his gaze drifted toward you. Your head still rested lazily against the table. One hand wrapped around your mug while the other traced absent patterns into the wood.
You were watching the crowd now. A small smile rested upon your lips. And for a moment, Valarr forgot everything else.
The expectations. The crown. The future waiting for him beyond Winterfell.
All of it seemed distant.
Far away.
Like a dream someone else had lived.
A laugh escaped your lips at something happening across the room.
Valarr felt his heart stumble.
You were beautiful.
Not in the way court ladies were beautiful. Not polished and perfect beneath jewels and silks.
You looked alive.
And somehow that made it worse. Because Valarr could feel himself drifting closer with every conversation.
Every smile.
Every shared moment.
Like a ship slowly being pulled toward rocks despite knowing exactly what awaited it.
His fingers tightened around his mug.
You turned your head suddenly.
Valarr looked away so quickly it made him lightheaded.
"You are staring again, my prince."
The tips of his ears burned.
"I was not."
"You were."
"I was merely thinking."
"About what?"
Valarr opened his mouth, and then closed it. Because he could hardly tell you that all his thoughts somehow seemed to begin and end with you these days.
A grin spread across your face as you watched him struggle.
And Seven Hells.
Valarr was doomed.
But for the first time in his life, the realization did not fill him with dread, but warmth.
And Prince Valarr Targaryen found himself hoping the night would never end.
Not a request, just a concept I thought of and needed to share w someone: groomer!baelor
I just love the idea of being Baelor’s ward and being totally at his mercy, he’s given you everything, rescued you from destitution, and you totally put him on a pedestal. Nothing in life comes for free though, and unbeknownst to you he’s been slowly moulding you and shaping you into the perfect woman. He’s so sly and manipulative, when you eventually end up in his bed he makes you think it was all your idea in the first place
Love this!!
The reader is the only child and sole heir of a noble house, not a minor one, but not quite a great one either. An important house, ancient and proud, with deep roots and deeper vaults. When she was but a child of six, her family sided with the Blackfyres during the rebellion. They raised their banners for the black dragon, hosting Daemon Blackfyre's war councils in their halls and pledging their swords to his cause.
But when the tides turned and the rebellion began to crumble at the seams, her father saw the writing on the wall written in blood and fire. In a desperate, last moment gambit, her house switched their allegiance back to the Targaryens, throwing open their gates to the loyalist forces and providing crucial intelligence about Blackfyre movements. This betrayal of the betrayers spared them from complete annihilation, from the sword and the flame. But mercy from the Iron Throne is never free, and it always comes with strings attached like a leash around a dog's neck.
As punishment, as insurance, as a living, breathing hostage to guarantee her family's future good behavior, the Targaryens took her the only heir, the precious only daughter, the future of her entire bloodline as a "ward" of the crown. She was brought to King's Landing at seven years old, a frightened little girl with big eyes and a trembling lip, clutching a worn doll to her chest as the Red Keep loomed before her like a monster made of red stone. She grew up in the shadow of the Iron Throne, surrounded by Targaryens, a hostage whose continued safety and good treatment depended entirely on her family's loyalty.
She was treated well, surprisingly well, better than most hostages could ever dream. She was given fine chambers, soft gowns, excellent tutors, and a place at the royal table. But she was never allowed to forget that she was, at her core, a prisoner. A cherished prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless.
She grew close with the young princes, Valarr and Matarys, the sons of Prince Baelor Breakspear. They were of a similar age, and children are wonderfully blind to politics. Valarr, the heir after Baelor, developed a sweet, tender little crush on her as the years passed. He would bring her wildflowers he picked himself from the gardens, their stems crushed in his eager grip, and stammer through compliments that made his ears turn bright red.
And Baelor himself? When she was a child, he was simply kind to her. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing strange or untoward. He saw her homesickness, her fear, her desperate desire to please everyone around her so she wouldn't be sent away or hurt. He treated her gently, speaking to her with patience, making sure the servants didn't neglect her, occasionally even finding her crying in some forgotten corner of the castle and sitting with her in comfortable silence until her tears dried. He never touched her inappropriately, never looked at her with anything but the innocent fondness a father might show. He protected her from the cruelest courtiers, the ones who wanted to see the traitor's daughter humiliated, and she grew up seeing him as a protector, a mentor, a steady, reassuring presence in a world that had been turned upside down.
And then she started growing into a woman.
The soft roundness of childhood melted away, replaced by the curves and lines of womanhood. She grew taller, her figure filled out, her face lost its childish plumpness and revealed the elegant, striking bone structure beneath. She was beautiful in a way that drew eyes and silenced conversation when she entered a room. And the marriage proposals started arriving like a flood breaking through a dam.
Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms sent ravens and emissaries, offering alliances, dowries, lands, and promises. Her house was wealthy and strategically placed, and she was the sole heir marrying her would mean absorbing all of that power and wealth into another family. The proposals came in a steady stream, each one more tempting than the last. But they did not go to her father, languishing under house arrest in his own castle. They came directly to Baelor, because he was her official warder, her jailer, her keeper in the eyes of the crown. The future of her marriage, the continuation of her house, the fate of her entire bloodline, it all rested in the hands of a Targaryen prince as part of the "apology" her family owed for their treason. She had no say. Her father had no say. Only Baelor could decide who she would marry, when, and to whom.
And Baelor rejected every single proposal that crossed his desk. Not because they were bad offers, many of them were excellent matches by any objective standard powerful lords, gallant knights, wealthy heirs with bright futures. Matches that would have secured her house's position and brought honor and stability. But Baelor found fault with every single one of them. This lord was too old, that knight was rumored to be cruel, this heir had gambling debts, that one's lands were too far from King's Landing. The excuses piled up like fallen leaves, and his clerks grew accustomed to drafting polite, formal letters of rejection bearing the Prince of Dragonstone's seal.
The real reason, the truth that Baelor himself did not consciously acknowledge for a long, long time, was that he simply could not bear the thought of her leaving. Of her going away to some far off castle as the wife of another man. Of her not being there, at his side, every single day.
Because by this point, she had become utterly essential to him. What had started as a ward and her warden had evolved into something far more intimate, though still technically proper. She had become his constant companion, his shadow, his little secretary. She was always at his arm, a wax tablet or a sheaf of parchment in hand, helping him manage the endless work of ruling. She organized his correspondence, reminded him of appointments, took dictation for his letters, and sat quietly in the corner of his study while he wrestled with the burdens of being the heir to the Iron Throne. Sometimes, when he was stuck on a particularly thorny political problem, he would ask her advice. And she would think carefully before answering, her brow furrowed in concentration, offering insights that were sharp and perceptive and often exactly what he needed to hear.
They grew incredibly close, she knew how he took his tea, which documents needed his immediate attention and which could wait, when he needed silence and when he needed distraction. She could read his moods from the set of his shoulders and the line of his jaw. And he knew her too, he knew what made her laugh, what books she loved, what foods she craved when she was sad. He knew the sound of her footsteps in the corridor and the way she hummed softly to herself when she was concentrating. They spent more time together than he spent with anyone else in the world, including his wife.
It was Jena who finally made him see it. His gentle, patient wife, the mother of his children. She came to him one evening, her face tired and her voice soft with suppressed hurt, and told him that it bothered her. The way he looked at his ward, the way he always had her nearby, the way he seemed more attentive to the daughter of traitors than to his own wife. She pointed it out quietly, without accusation, almost sadly. And Baelor, standing there in the sudden silence of his chambers, felt the realization hit him like a war hammer to the chest. If forced to choose—truly choose, with no evasion or excuse—he would choose her over Jena. He would choose his little hostage, his secretary, his constant companion, over his own lawful wife.
It should have horrified him. It should have sent him to his knees in the sept, begging the gods for forgiveness. Instead, something dark and possessive unfurled in his chest, and instead of pulling away from her, he began pulling her closer.
He started modifying her wardrobe. A new gown would arrive in her chambers, cut in a style he preferred, made from rich fabrics he had personally selected. The colors shifted gradually until her wardrobe was dominated by deep crimson reds and stark, dramatic blacks. Targaryen colors. His colors. She wore them without complaint, perhaps not even noticing the deliberate shift, and when she walked through the Red Keep draped in red and black, she looked like she belonged at his side. Like she was already his.
He began having her sit beside him more and more often. At meals, at court sessions, at formal audiences. When Jena was seated on his right, the place of the wife, he would place his ward on his left, equally prominent. When Jena was not present, the ward sat at his right hand.
Jena, desperate and worried, proposed what she saw as an elegant solution. Marry the girl to Valarr. It would keep her within the family, bind her to the Targaryens legally and permanently, and remove her from Baelor's orbit into his son's. It made perfect political sense, and it would soothe the rumors that were beginning to swirl. But when Jena suggested it, Baelor's reaction was swift and volcanic. He vehemently denied the idea, his voice rising with a fury that startled his gentle wife. He was angry, furious even, that Jena would dare suggest such a thing. When pressed for a reason, he seized upon the old excuse like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. She was the daughter of traitors, he said coldly. She carried traitor's blood in her veins. Why would he reward traitors by marrying their daughter to his own son, his heir, a future king? It was out of the question. Unthinkable.
Meanwhile, he was giving her private "lessons" in his study, late in the evening when the candles burned low and the castle grew quiet. Lessons on how to be a good wife, he called them. He taught her how to speak to her future husband, how to comfort him after a difficult day, how to manage a household and command servants with firmness and grace. He taught her how to walk, how to curtsy, how to compose her features into serene pleasantness even when she was exhausted or upset. And then the lessons shifted, becoming more intimate, more perilous. He taught her how to kiss a husband. Properly, he said, so she would not embarrass herself on her eventual wedding night. He would demonstrate, his hands cupping her face gently, his lips moving against hers with slow, deliberate instruction. He never pushed further, never made her feel truly uncomfortable or afraid, never crossed the line into something she could definitively call improper. But they both knew, in the secret, unspoken places of their hearts, that what they were doing was already far beyond the bounds of what a warder should do with his charge.
She was always at his side now the rumors began growing like mold in a damp cellar. Whispers slithered through the Red Keep, through the court, through the city beyond. They said she was his mistress. His paramour. His secret lover. They said she warmed his bed while poor Jena slept alone. The rumors grew so loud that Jena finally confronted her directly, face to face, woman to woman. The princess asked, with tears in her eyes, if the rumors were true. And the reader, shocked and genuinely distressed, denied it with complete honesty. Nothing truly improper had ever happened between them. The prince had only been helping her, teaching her, preparing her for her future role as some lord's wife. He had been a mentor, a protector, a guide. Jena left the confrontation relieved, believing the girl's words completely.
And then, two months later, Jena Dondarrion, wife of Baelor Breakspear and mother of his children, fell ill with the winter fever that was sweeping through the realm.
It was a cruel sickness, swift and merciless. Jena's health declined rapidly, her strong body ravaged by chills and fever, her lungs filling with fluid until each breath became a desperate struggle. The maesters did everything they could, bleeding her with leeches, applying poultices, praying to the Seven, but nothing worked. She died within a fortnight of first showing symptoms, slipping away in the gray hours of dawn with her husband holding her hand and her sons weeping at the foot of the bed.
The reader felt awful about it. Truly, genuinely awful. Jena had always been kind to her, even when suspicion and jealousy must have been eating at her heart. Jena had never treated her cruelly, never had her whipped or dismissed or sent away, even though she had every right as Princess of Dragonstone to do so. The reader mourned Jena sincerely, wearing black for weeks and spending long hours in the sept lighting candles for the dead princess's soul.
But more than her own grief, she felt a deep, aching sympathy for Baelor. After the funeral, after the last prayers had been chanted and Jena's body had been laid to rest in the crypts, the reader made a decision. She would go to him in his study and comfort him. He had been kind to her for so many years. He had protected her, taught her, guided her. The least she could do was offer him solace in his grief. Her intentions were the purest they had ever been.
She found him in his study late that evening, sitting alone in the darkness with only a single candle burning. He was not working. He was just sitting there, staring at nothing, a cup of untouched wine on the desk before him. She entered quietly, her footsteps soft on the stone floor, and spoke his name gently. He looked up at her, and the raw, unguarded grief in his eyes made her heart clench painfully. She crossed the room without thinking, sat beside him, and took his hand in hers. She told him she was sorry. She told him she was there for him. She told him he was not alone.
What happened next was a blur of grief and longing and years of suppressed desire finally breaking free. He kissed her, but not as a lesson this time. He kissed her like a drowning man gasping for air. She did not return to her own chambers that night. Or the next night. Or the night after that.
Half a year later, she stood before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor, swathed in a gown of pure white silk that cleverly disguised the soft swell of her belly. The ceremony was rushed, the guest list carefully controlled, the whispers of scandal already spreading through the court. But Baelor Breakspear looked at his bride with naked satisfaction, his hand warm and possessive on the small of her back as he spoke his vows in a clear, steady voice. And when the High Septon pronounced them man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Baelor smiled the smile of a man who had finally, after years of waiting, gotten exactly what he wanted.
She was his now. Completely and irrevocably his. The hostage had become the wife. The ward had become the princess. And her family, sitting in their distant castle, could only watch as the Targaryens tightened their grip on everything they held dear.
---
Darker ending from the night of the funeral:
He kissed her and her body went rigid, her hands pressing instinctively against his chest, but he was so much stronger than her. He had always been so much stronger than her.
She tried to pull back, to create distance, to gently remind him of who she was, of who he was, of the impropriety of this moment. She said his name, a questioning, uncertain sound. But he did not stop. He pulled her closer, his hands gripping her waist with a desperate, possessive strength that made her ribs ache. His voice, when he spoke against her lips, was rough and broken. He told her he needed her. He needed her so badly. He had needed her for years, had burned for her for years, had denied himself for the sake of duty and honor and a wife he had never loved the way he loved her. And now Jena was gone, and he was alone, and he could not bear to be alone tonight. He could not bear it. He would not survive it. He needed her. She was the only one who understood him, the only one who truly knew him, the only one who could make the pain stop. Would she really be so cruel as to abandon him now, in the darkest moment of his life? After everything he had done for her? After he had protected her, clothed her, fed her, kept her safe from the vipers at court? After he had rejected every suitor who would have taken her away from him? Did all that mean nothing to her?
The words tangled around her like silk cords, binding her, confusing her. Guilt bloomed in her chest, hot and sickening. He had protected her. He had been kind to her. He had given her a home when she was a frightened little hostage with nowhere else to go. And now he was in pain, terrible pain, and she could help him, could ease his suffering. What kind of person would she be if she turned away from him now? But beneath the guilt, a small, panicked voice screamed that this was wrong, all wrong, that she did not want this, that his hands were moving over her body in ways that made her feel trapped and small and terrified.
She did not want to kiss him. She did not want his hands on her. But he was her warder, her keeper, the man who controlled every aspect of her life. He decided where she lived, what she wore, who she spoke to, what she ate. He decided her future, her marriage, her fate. He was a prince of the blood, the heir to the Iron Throne, and she was the daughter of traitors living on borrowed time and royal sufferance. If she angered him now, if she pushed him away and wounded his pride in this moment of terrible vulnerability, what would happen to her? Would he send her away? Would he finally accept one of those marriage proposals and ship her off to some distant, dismal keep to be the wife of a man she had never met? Would he withdraw his protection and leave her to the mercies of the courtiers who still whispered about her traitor's blood? Could she afford to refuse him? Did she even have the right to refuse him?
She realized, with a cold, sinking clarity, that she did not. She had never had the right to refuse him. Her entire existence was conditional on his goodwill. And so when he kept kissing her, when he pulled her from the chair and into his lap, when his hands tangled in her hair and his mouth traced a burning path down her throat, she did not fight him. She went still and quiet and compliant. She closed her eyes and let it happen. She told herself it was gratitude. She told herself it was comfort. She told herself she owed him this for all the years of safety he had given her. She told herself that her body's trembling was from sympathy, from shared grief, from anything other than fear and revulsion.
He took her silence as consent. He took her stillness as acceptance. He whispered against her skin that she was so good to him, so perfect, his sweet girl, his constant companion, his everything. He had waited so long, denied himself so long, and now she was here and she was his, truly his, finally his.
She did not return to her own chambers that night. She lay in his bed, staring at the canopy above her, feeling his arm wrapped around her waist like an iron band. She listened to his breathing even out into sleep, felt his chest rise and fall against her back. Her body felt foreign to her, heavy and strange. There was a dull ache between her thighs and a sharper ache behind her breastbone that would not go away. She did not cry. She did not move. She just lay there, wide eyed in the darkness, waiting for dawn to come.
He sent for her the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. And she went, because she did not know how to refuse him. Because she was too afraid of what would happen if she said no. Because he had given her everything, and now he wanted this in return, and she could not bring herself to deny the grieving prince his only comfort. So she went to his chambers every evening, and she let him take what he wanted, and she learned how to smile and murmur the words he wanted to hear. She learned how to be what he needed. She learned how to survive.
And when she missed her moon's blood a month later, and then again the month after that, and the maester confirmed what she already knew in her bones, Baelor kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her stomach turn and told her they would be married before her belly showed too much. His eyes were bright with satisfaction, with triumph, with a possessive joy that looked almost like love but felt exactly like ownership.
She stood in the Great Sept of Baelor half a year later, swathed in white silk that draped cleverly over the swell of her stomach, and spoke her vows in a voice that did not tremble. She was Princess of Dragonstone now. Wife of the heir to the Iron Throne. The most envied woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
And she had never felt more trapped in her entire life.
For your 500 follower celebration (congratulations!), how about jealous!Maekar (because I love jealous Maekar!) being jealous of Baelon, because his younger second wife was actually meant to marry him, and he thinks she's sad about it, but in reality she was the one to requested that she married Maekar instead, because she had always been in love with him. Hope that made sense! Please and thank you!
the dour brother
Maekar x Second Wife!Reader drabble
Note: This one's more angst/comfort but still suggestive towards the end ;)
Tags/Warnings: Age Gap, Older Man/Younger Woman, Implied Smut
He watched you and Baelor converse further down the dais with a clenched jaw. Why did the two of you need to lean so closely into each other’s orbit? His brother was not yet fifty, and certainly not hard of hearing.
But Maekar knew why. You hadn’t been meant for him, not at all. A pretty maiden from a powerful house, you’d been chosen for Baelor – to be the Crown Prince’s second bride – instead of stepmother to a fourth son’s brood of children.
At some point in your stay at the Keep, during courting, things had changed and Maekar had been faced with his brother, asking him to marry you instead. He had accepted, of course he had. Maekar was no fool, despite what some might say; you were young and radiant, a true beauty.
It had not been a hardship to take you under his protection earlier today. He remembered your blush as he had taken your maiden’s cloak from you and replaced it with the crimson and black of House Targaryen. Perhaps you had pretended it had been Baelor who had done so.
Maekar could not blame you. Anyone would prefer the Prince of Dragonstone over his dour, scarred younger brother. Who would want him, when they could have been Queen instead?
You had still been talking with Baelor when Maekar had stepped up to announce that you would retire. There was to be no bedding, a small mercy. He could not have been able to watch as Baelor spearheaded the charge, and tore your dress from you. Could not have survived seeing you shoot desirous eyes at his brother.
You were his wife. His. Not Baelor’s. If Baelor had wanted you, he should not have all but given you away.
There was silence when the two of you entered his chambers. Yours now, too, he supposed.
You moved to loosen your laces, sitting at the edge of the bed. Maekar stopped you, trapping your wrists against his long-fingered hands.
“I will not take you unwilling,” he said, breathing out slowly through his nose, determined not to be the kind of man who took out his frustrations on his wife. “Nor will I take you while you imagine me to be another.”
You tilted your head, brows arched in surprise. Your eyes were wide and confused. “Unwilling?” you squeaked, before you added, “And who else would I think of?”
“You need not pretend,” he huffed. “I know I am no great prize compared to Baelor.”
Immediately, you squinted. “What has given you the idea that I want Baelor?”
“It is only natural that you would resent this, the Crown Prince was promised to you–” The rest of his words were muffled in a kiss as you surged to your feet.
He allowed you to nip at his lips clumsily, your tongue a wild thing, curious and eager. Then you separated to breathe.
“I asked to marry you,” you admitted, cheeks gaining a rosy hue, “I saw you and I thought you the handsomest man I had ever seen. I begged my father to change the betrothal. I went so far as to go to Prince Baelor himself and confess my feelings for you.”
You smiled, a hesitant, brittle thing, and it filled his heart full of hope. “I have thought of nothing but this night for weeks. So please, let us continue and allow me to have my husband. Show me what the Anvil is capable of.”
And show you, he did. Repeatedly, thoroughly. No crevice of you did he leave untouched as he took you. He made sure to make you scream his name, and let everyone know just who was giving you such pleasure.
(I can't remember where I downloaded that gif, if it's yours or know whose it is, hit me up and I'll credit you/them!)
Tags ✶ arranged marriage (sort of), marriage for political gain (on both sides), mild playful banter, smut, playful and passionate lovemaking, erotic undressing, masturbation, mild teasing, p. in v. sex, riding
Wordcount ✶ 3,925
Sent to escort your half-brother Daeron to Oldtown where he is to ward, you learn that you are to remain there and wed into the Hightower family. Despite your initial outrage, you realize that a match with the queen's brother could obtain you some influence.
Gwayne Masterlist
The Tower was usually silent at this hour of the morning, as it was the time for prayer, but not on this day, Gwayne remarked as he made his way from his rooms to his uncle’s library. The door to Lord Hobert’s sitting room was open and hushed, firm voices were spilling into the hallway like the whisper of a stream, which prompted Gwayne to make his way up the stairs, intrigued.
He thought he recognized the voice of a woman, which was unusual as his uncle was a private man, and rarely received calls in his quarters, but as soon as he came upon the threshold, he saw that the unexpected caller was you, still dressed in your morning clothes. He gave a polite knock and entered, wondering if he could be of assistance. His uncle gave him a tired nod, allowing him in.
Following Hobert’s line of sight, you turned, exhaling indignantly when you saw who the intruder was. “Were you aware, Ser Gwayne?” you immediately inquired, poised but noticeably upset. “Surely your father or your sister has written to you.”
“Whatever the matter is, princess, I am sure that I am not aware,” he replied, and his amused tone came across as arrogant, making you scoff.
“Prince Daeron carried a letter from the Lord Hand,” Hobert explained.
The day prior, a small party had arrived with careful instructions from his sister the queen—she had sent her youngest son Daeron, who was eight of age now, to ward in Oldtown. It seemed that for all its coin and privileges, the capital was not the most salubrious environment for boys to be raised into young men, and thus had sent her last son to her uncle in the hopes of salvaging his education and values.
Gwayne was rather proud and looking forward to participating in his nephew’s education, however he wondered how it related to you. As the second child of King Viserys, a daughter brought into this world on the very day Queen Aemma had passed on, you had come as an escort to young Daeron, the boy’s dragon being too small to be ridden.
“I am to remain here in Oldtown and rely on House Hightower to find a husband, and I am sure my lord will have a perfect suggestion,” you said sarcastically, turning to his uncle again. “Your eldest son is still unwed, is he not?”
Hobert smiled placidly. “Indeed,” he confirmed. Gwayne understood then and there, the true purpose of your coming here. While he understood the ways of noble and royal arranged marriages, he could imagine how difficult being sent away from your home without a say was, and he regretted that you had not been informed until after the arrangement had been made.
“I will not let the Lord Hand choose my husband,” you said firmly before turning on your heels and leaving the room.
At his desk, Hobert sighed. “She is the dragon’s daughter indeed,” he said, a polite phrasing for the headache he no doubt expected.
“Do not worry, uncle, I shall take it upon myself to make sure the matter is resolved without any more fuss,” Gwayne said amicably. “Father will be satisfied.”
While you had reacted in anger in Lord Hobert’s sitting room, the truth of the matter was grief. Since your birth you had never quite found your place in King’s Landing, or within your own family. For the king, you represented the passing of his wife, and for Alicent, you were the shadow of the queen that had preceded her. For your sister Rhaenyra, even though she cherished you, you were the walking reminder that your mother had died for a lost cause.
Some days you wondered what your life would have been like if you’d been a son. On the rare occasions you allowed yourself to contemplate it, you knew there was only one path your life could have taken. You would have been made Prince of Dragonstone, and would have likely been betrothed to a daughter from House Velaryon from a young age. In those moments of contemplation you realized the choice wouldn’t have been ours, as your own parents’ marriage had been arranged.
Son or daughter, you were submitted to the will of the crown, under the weight of obligation.
However the Gods had seen it fit to have you born a girl, and now that you had recently come of age and the queen was seemingly eager to use you as leverage and to keep you under her influence by sending you to wed one of her kin. Upon departure you had not understood you would not only escort your youngest half-sibling, but would only return once wed.
For near a fortnight you lived with your newly discovered fate, until you came to the conclusion that resisting it would be your undoing. The choice was between acceptance and madness, and the third option was inconceivable to you—to go against your father’s order and defy the very customs by which you lived.
One morning after prayer, you were strolling the gardens and mentally going through a letter you would later write to him, when you came across Ser Gwayne. It almost seemed to you as though he was waiting for you at the end of an alley, but you dismissed the thought.
“Ser Gwayne,” you greeted politely, surprised when he fell into step with you, arms crossed behind his back primly.
“I have been wanting to speak with you, princess,” he said amicably—he had meant to come to you sooner, but he had not wanted to provoke your anger further. “I wanted to assure you, I was not aware of my father’s agreement with my uncle.”
Seemingly surprised, you looked at him intently before answering, and he hoped you could see he was being genuine. “I believe you,” you said, perhaps more curtly than you ought to, but you did not entirely trust his intentions.
“While my situation was much different than yours, I can sympathize,” he offered, hoping you would be receptive to his sympathy.
“How so?” you inquired, slightly incredulous.
“I was very much a young boy when my father came to King’s Landing to serve King Jaehaerys, and took my mother and sister with him, but chose to leave me in my uncle’s care,” he explained, and while you had known of his situation, it was still discomforting to hear it from him. “I was never given any sort of explanation as to the reason, nor any choice.”
“I am sorry,” you replied.
Ser Gwayne gave you a small smile, and the two of you walked in silence for a moment, as though he was expecting you to speak again. In the end, you proved him right. “I suppose you could not petition the queen or the hand to retract their arrangement with your uncle,” you said.
He tilted his head towards the sky slightly, looking up at the looming shadow of the Hightower, and gave you a self-deprecating smile.
“I am afraid not. It is beyond the scope of my influence,” he replied, trying not to sound too bitter. “In other matters, I would have gladly been your champion.”
While he seldom spoke of it, and instead centered himself around his duties here, serving his uncle and training young squires sent by the Hightower’s bannermen, he sometimes wished for a more prominent role. Oldtown might have been the voice of the faith and the richest city in the realm, he longed to be trusted and influential, to make his own mark in the world.
“There isn’t much for me to do, but make peace with the situation, then,” you continued, sounding resigned and defeated more than truly convinced. “I have written to my father, and it is his definite wish that I find a good match here. So I shall obey my king. Even though I suspect the queen whispered the idea into his ear.”
At that Ser Gwayne gave you another pained smile, and you realized that perhaps, you had been harsh with your tone and implication. “My apologies, she is your sister,” you were quick to add.
“Do not trouble yourself,” he reassured you—he might have been the queen’s brother, he knew of the ruthless reality of court. “It is a political calculation, that is certain. Bonds between families are what make the realm.”
With another sigh, you raised your eyes to the blue sky and the flocks of seagulls circling overhead, coming from the bay of Whispering Sound. It was a clear day with a gentle sun, one you intended to spend contemplating the choices offered to you.
“Whether to a Hightower or another lord, I was always to be married for political influence, I have known that fact since I was a child,” you said bitterly.
“We must all serve in the way our birth dictates,” Gwayne replied in turn, this time sounding more bitter than he was comfortable with.
At that you seemed to frown, but quickly smoothed your features over elegantly. “Ser Ormund is a logical match,” you told him then, almost regretfully—part of you loathed to agree with the Hand’s plan, out of pure spite. “What can you tell me of his character? After all, who would know him better than his cousin.”
For some reason he could not comprehend at that moment, Gwayne was not entirely comfortable with the question, but still answered as honestly as he could. “We are brothers, in all but blood,” he explained. “He is intelligent and confident in himself. Pious, but a touch arrogant at times, I must admit.”
His answer seemed to satisfy you. “Would he make a good match, tell me, Ser Gwayne?” you inquired.
Gwayne gave you a small nod, a pang of discomfort in his chest. “An excellent one.”
Weeks went on leisurely, the weather of the Reach agreeing with you. The city was far more agreeable than the capital, and you enjoyed being out of the queen’s scrutiny, even though you still felt her eyes through those of her uncle.
All were anxious for a decision on your part, even though it seemed everyone’s understanding that you would eventually choose Ser Ormund, and you loathed that the choice you were given was only an illusion.
While Ser Ormund appeared to be the man his cousin described, you could not bring yourself to accept a betrothal. For weeks you observed him, quickly dismayed by the way he showed Daeron so little patience nor interest. However it seemed Ser Gwayne had taken to him as an older sibling would.
The young man took pride in having a new wardrobe made for him in the Hightower colors, and if not for the color or their hair, the two of them looked so alike they could have been brothers, or father and son. They spent their mornings in the training yard, and when the summer sun became too bright in the afternoons, retreated to the library where they studied.
Ser Gwayne introduced him to poetry and ballads, and it seemed Daeron manifested an interest in music and playing the lute, which his cousin encouraged.
Whether it was what you had seen of his character or the spirit of spite very much alive in you, you slowly came to a decision regarding Ser Gwayne. One early evening you asked him to your chambers, having prepared arguments as one would in a negotiation. You were being forced into a political match, therefore you would treat it as an entirely political matter.
When Gwayne entered your chambers, he noticed you were dressed for the night already, with a long nightgown that grazed the floor and an embroidered robe in the Targaryen colors, fastened at the waist.
It was later than was appropriate for a man to pay a call on a young woman, but he had been too curious to resist your unusual request.
“I have a proposal,” you said rather decidedly before he could speak. “I thought we could serve each other’s interests.”
Gwayne was taken aback by your offer, unsure what it was supposed to entail. “You are the queen’s brother, and I am the king’s daughter,” you observed, to which he nodded. “As such, you have the queen’s ear, to some extent, as much as I have the king’s.”
Understanding dawned on him, a prickling at the back of his neck at how bold you were being. He took a step forward, tilting his head in interest. “Indeed.”
At that, your polite smile grew into a delighted grin. “Marriage is a consolidation of assets, would you not say?” you asked, slightly breathless.
“I would say,” he replied, slightly amazed at your offer. “Each on our own we might not have much influence, but together we will have a stronger voice.”
Since the very day he had interrupted your conversation with his uncle, he had wondered how to turn the situation to his advantage—you were a beautiful young woman, with a countenance and temperament he could see himself enjoying in private, and you could easily be the way to advance himself.
After all, he was only the son of a second son, and stood to inherit very little but a small sum of money. He was a knight of impeccable reputation, which brought him pride, but he owned no castle and land. All he had was his good name and his reputation on the tourney field, but with you as his wife, he could hope for more for himself, but also any children you would bear him.
“Before we agree to this, I shall need some guarantees,” you said, looking awfully serious.
“Such as?” he asked.
A heavy pause settled over you, then, slowly, your eyes travelled from his face down to his trousers, then up again until you were holding his gaze straight-on. “I will not spend my life tied to a man whose touch I cannot stand and whose sight I cannot bear,” you said severely, which made him swallow his chuckle.
Still, he found himself utterly charmed by your forwardness. “Have you made the same proposal to my cousin?” he answered, biting his lip to restrain his smile.
“I will, if you are to disappoint,” you said in a flat tone, your expression impassive, but he thought he saw a glint of amusement in your eyes.
“Pray tell, how shall I prove myself to you, princess?” he inquired, standing up straighter.
Once more your gaze travelled from his handsome face to the hem of his doublet, which fell mid-thighs, yet slower. You allowed your eyes to trace the black laces at the front which were undone at the base of his throat, making your meaning as clear as could be.
“Show me,” you replied, quieter, almost insecure, although you feared he would refuse.
Without a word he complied, the prickle of anticipation at the back of his neck returning tenfold, spreading down his spine. His fingers came to undo the leather lace holding his dark green doublet closed, pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it to the ground carelessly. His eyes keeping track of the move of emotions on your face, he then pulled his gray linen shirt over his head.
Watching avidly as he revealed himself piece by piece, you were delighted by his alabaster skin, spattered with freckles at his chest and stomach. He was lean but obviously strong, and you knew him agile from the training field. “Do I prove satisfactory so far?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said, briefly glancing up.
Almost on instinct, you reached up and settled your palm over his heart, marvelling at how warm he was, and how soft the nearly hairless skin was. “Have you seen enough or must I convince you?” he inquired.
He seemed to almost mourn it when you let your hand drop away. “It is not quite enough I’m afraid.”
“Might I be allowed to request the same of you? Marriages are built on exchange after all,” he suggested, and he was so polite about it, you were inclined to accept.
With a slight smile, you untied your robe and removed it, draping it over the back of a chair before taking a few steps around the room, closer to the hearth. In the soft light of the fire, the shadow of your curves stood up through your nightgown.
“I must leave some element of mystery for you to uncover in due time,” you said.
“Do men not carry mystery?” he asked, a touch of wonder to his tone, his eyes following the play of light and shadow, the movement of your hips and the dips of your waist through the thin cotton. The buzzing warmth in his spine melted to heat, permeating his entire abdomen and settling low in his core.
“For all the poetry men have written about the female form, I would say we have the advantage in that regard,” you replied, confident once more, and it incensed him.
His next question came easily, eager on his tongue. “How would you have me demonstrate that I can please you?”
Delight flushed your face with heat. “Here I was hoping for mere tolerance of sight and touch, but you offer me pleasure?”
“I would,” he replied in a breath, shedding his boots and then his trousers under your avid attention. Your own breath had grown shallower, a strange warmth enveloping you, coursing through your veins.
“No mystery,” you reminded him quietly, and at that he removed his smallclothes, standing entirely bare in front of you. “Sit.”
Eyes bright and attentive, he slowly made his way to the bed, delighted at how you followed two steps behind, then sat on the edge of the bed. His stomach shivered and clenched when he noticed the way you were looking between his legs, exploring without touching. This time, you did not have to prompt him.
“Oh,” you breathed with unconcealed wonder as he reached between his thighs and wrapped his hand around himself.
It was not as large as you had feared, and it was lovelier to look at than expected. Slowly, he stroked the thin skin over the hard length, the head of it flushed pink, soft sounds coming from his lips.
It made your own core ache, a feeling which you knew and now longed to explore through another’s touch, but you could not let go of such a wondrous view yet.
You watched desire spread over his features, a deep flush coming to his cheeks, darkening his freckles and spreading down to his neck and chest.
Mouth parted on shuddering exhales, he started rocking his hips into his hand. “Am I pleasing you yet?” he asked, his voice rougher.
“Almost,” you replied, and he smiled at that, amused and seemingly aroused at the slight taunt.
Pulling your gown up until it revealed your legs but no further, you climbed after him on the bed until you were kneeling on either side of his hips, your arms around his shoulders. His own hands came to rest on your thighs, tense and trembling, no doubt wishing to slide higher.
Slowly, you kissed his parted lips, enjoying their softness and the warmth of his tongue when it prodded yours. Without warning you gently pressed into him until his hard length was caught between his stomach and your core and started a subtle rocking.
He responded as beautifully as you had anticipated, his hands tightening around your thighs, his kiss still restrained but turning passionate. You carded your fingers through his soft mane, relishing the simmering heat building in your core, your pearl pressed against his length through your gown.
“Allow me,” he murmured after a long minute of surrendering to your pace, his right hand sliding under the draping of your nightshift over your lap until he found your core, and pressed a thumb to it, exploring its seam and finding only wetness.
“Seven Gods,” he cursed, drawing tentative circles atop your nub until your hips rocked into his hand and your fingers tightened in his hair.
Following the rhythm of his touch, you reached between your bodies and wrapped a hand around his length, stroking it as he had. He faltered then, clinging onto you with a rough moan. You swiped a thumb of his tip, swiping the bead of wetness that had pearled there, and he looked like he could cry.
“Am I pleasing you?” he nearly begged, eyes wide, and you gave him an encouraging hum. “I want to take you,” he then said, bold and desperate, and you shook your head even though your entire being was yearning for it, desperate to feel him inside of you.
“I cannot give myself to you,” you replied. “Not when I might still turn to Ser Ormund.”
The mention of his cousin made him groan, and you hid your victorious smile in his neck. “I will not disappoint you, princess,” he vowed, and you rewarded him by pushing him back onto the mattress, to which he complied without resistance.
Flat on his back, pleading eyes wide and rimmed with red, his mouth dropped open when you reached for your gown and pulled it off completely. He looked upon you as though he was seeing the Maiden herself straddling him. Your hand still wrapped around him, you rose higher to your knees and guided the tip of his length between your folds and ground down, taking him into your body.
He threw his head back when you slowly sank onto his length until your hips were snug with his. Palms flat to his chest and shoulder for leverage, you rocked back and forth, the stretch of him pulling you under fast despite the slight discomfort. His thumb was quick to find its place again on your pearl, and it proved to be your undoing.
Neither of you could stand the feeling for long, madly chasing your peak, your eyes watching the other’s face. You were tight around his cock, a wet heat to which he was unable to resist, rocking up into you desperately, encouraged by your sighs and moans.
Pressure mounted at the base of his cock and he cursed, biting his lip to keep it at bay until your own pleasure was spent. Soon you were shuddering, your hips losing their rhythm until you were grinding against him, clenching around him as your peak took you under.
“Gwayne,” you called, and he nearly cried with how close to the edge he was, crying out a sob when finally you relented and he pulled out, spilling on his own stomach.
With a breathless laugh you fell to the bed, nestling to his side with your head on his shoulder. “Do we have an agreement, then?” he asked, sounding awfully pleased with himself.
“Yes,” you replied with a soft laugh, kissing a freckle at his shoulder. “I shall not seek your cousin out.”
“Good.”
The two of you remained silent for a long moment, until your breaths had evened and the sweat on your skin had cooled, making you shiver. Without a word he rose from the bed and retrieved your robe, which you took gladly.
“I shall write to my father. He will be pleased, I’m sure,” you said as you fastened the belt around your waist, then glanced up at him, still shamelessly bare.
“As will mine be,” he replied, then bent down to press a kiss to your lips, chaste but full of intent. “Together we might achieve a great deal for ourselves.”
A/N: Dividers by @/arcielee. Requested by @nourangul ♡
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✧ Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ Content warning: some dubious consent, reader is mute, large age difference, thigh riding, power imbalance, scar worship, loose mentor-mentee relationship, kissing, mention of suitors, tongue sucking, subtle father figure connotations.
✦ — Baelor discovers you, the young daughter of a lord who had opposed him during a minor rebellion, with a slit throat and a faint pulse near a riverbed, and decides to grant you a second chance at life.
Upon learning that you would have difficulty ever uttering a discernible word again, Baelor had kindly made accommodations to ease your struggles.
He had taught you how to write more eloquently, assisted you with broadening your vocabulary and knowledge by allowing you unrestricted access to his personal library, and provided you with the shelter and protection your family had been unable to upkeep when they had chosen to side with a traitor.
And here you were, nearly a decade after he had saved you that rainy afternoon, seated on a cushion near the hearth of his solar with your legs folded neatly by your side, watching your saviour fight to stay awake.
Baelor was opposite you, perched comfortably on his wide reading chair, scanning scrolls and various other letters that demanded his immediate attention, all while visibly battling not to succumb to sleep’s awaiting embrace. His eyelids gradually sank lower until the gaze he used to assess the parchment turned into narrowed slits; shadows coloured the skin beneath his eyes, their presence proving how tired he truly was despite his stubborn refusal to admit it.
You had long since abandoned your book, finding his struggle far more entertaining than “The History of the North”, the contents of which he had insisted he would quiz you on during breakfast the following day.
His hair had grown significantly greyer since you had first laid eyes on him all those years ago.
He had been the first person your vision had settled upon once you had awoken from a two moon long slumber, the startling contrast of his one blue and one brown eye had your eyelids fluttering open and closed repeatedly, their unusual pairing, as well as his distinct features, had made you believe he was a figment of your imagination.
The soft, amused lines that often creased around his eyes when you would visibly convey your visceral loathing towards a particularly old-fashioned court custom had also deepened as he had aged.
Whilst you had had your lessons on etiquette, history, and embroidery since you were young, there were many things you did not have the chance to learn before entering the court’s watchful eye, and it was the older prince who took the time to educate you with patience and guidance.
He had confessed to you one spring evening, after two years of being under his care and guidance, that he had always wanted a daughter.
“How many chapters have you completed?” Baelor’s soft timbre wrought you out of your musings, his gaze moving from the words in front of him to your undivided, star-struck stare.
Your head whipped down, opening the book back to where a feather had held your place, and indicated with your fingers how far you had delved before becoming distracted.
“Six?” his brows furrowed, a hand rising to absentmindedly stroke his beard. It was a habit, you had learned long ago, that he did when he was unsatisfied with your progress, “I imagined you would be nearly done by now.”
It was your turn to communicate your disapproval of his excessive expectations with a shrug of your shoulders and a jut of your lower lip. Feeling brave, you pointed at him, made a motion that represented sleeping, and fixed him with an accusatory look.
“My fatigue has no bearing on your studies,” Baelor responded, his own reading long forgotten as he discarded the scroll on a nearby table.
“I should confess,” he began suddenly, appearing uneasy, “that there have been some discussions amongst my council concerning your best interests.”
You placed the book beside you, uncaring that you hadn’t marked your place, and leaned forward.
“You are,” Baelor’s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, his digits pressing so harshly into the soft fabric that you were certain there would be residual indents long after he had released his hold on them, “at an age where it would no longer be appropriate for you to remain under my care.”
As though you had eaten expired food, your stomach churned violently; the overwhelming lightheadedness that assaulted your senses made you grateful you were already seated on the floor.
“I have found quite a few amiable suitors, all of which you will have the opportunity to get to know before you make your final decision to.. marry one of them.”
You moved to a kneeling position, the majority of your weight resting on your calves, as you stared at the older man with a betrayed, anguished look on your face.
A desperate wish to speak once more filled your heart, it had been your sole prayer for years, one that you hadn’t silently begged for since the day Baelor told you that you did not need an audible voice to relay a message worthy of being heard. Now, as you were subjugated to his decree, you wished for your voice to return to you with a quiet sob.
“You will be happy,” he spoke gently, “as well as generously taken care of.”
You wanted to confess to him that you longed to remain by his side until the end of your days, listening to his mild complaints concerning the realm all the while gladly completing the reading he would assign you.
Of course, you could send him letters outlining your opinions on the novels you had finished, which would not be much different from how you communicated your thoughts to him presently, but you did not want to be away from him.
Baelor refused to look at you, his jaw clenching beneath his beard as he revealed that arrangements for you to meet each one of your suitors would be made in the upcoming days.
Distraught, you moved forward, skirts tripping you as you closed the distance between yourself and the man whose decisions you had once obeyed blindly.
When Baelor’s gaze finally returned to yours, your vision was too blurry to notice the glossiness to his own eyes–he was not unaffected by your uncharacteristic outburst.
Desperately, both of your hands grasped at one of his hands, a tingling of sparks traversing up your limbs and settling heavily over your heart at the feel of his calloused, large hand cradled within yours. You could count on one hand the number of times you had touched him since he had found you, most of which had been accidental.
“I will not allow anything to befall you, if that is what burdens your heart,” was Baelor’s strained reply to your hushed cries.
Frantically, you shook your head and bowed your face to kiss the top of his hand, your hold tightening.
“Rise,” Baelor ordered and for the first time since your heart had opened to the older man, you refused to follow his command.
His knuckles against your lips suppressed the sound of your cries; your warm tears flowed freely onto his limb, running down the length of his fingers to collect at the tip of his digits before falling into the chaotic mess of your skirts below.
Baelor spoke your name in a low, pained tone, his available hand moving to push your chin upwards until your tear-stained, puffy face was visible to him once more.
“Do not be afraid, sweet girl,” he offered you a kind smile, one that once would have had your heart racing and stomach fluttering pleasantly.
Now, it evoked unwanted, distressing thoughts.
What if you never saw it again?
“On the morrow, after you have slept on it, you will see that–,”
The older man was cut off by the abrupt collision of your mouth against his parted lips.
Baelor’s startled form remained still when you awkwardly enclosed his upper lip between both of yours, inexperience evident in the clumsiness of your movements.
Less than a beat later, Baelor had moved you backwards with a firm hold on your shoulders, his breath leaving him in quick huffs as the gravity of what you had done hit both him and yourself like a bolt of lightning.
His alarmed expression caused a wave of dread and humiliation to cascade over you, an ice cold pit of regret now replaced the frightened swirl that had afflicted you only moments prior.
In a flurry of movements, you twisted out of his light grip and fled.
The following weeks were torturous, to say the least.
You silently endured the distance Baelor had created between the two of you, his solar and private library no longer welcoming sanctuaries that you could seek peaceful solitude and warmth within.
Suitors met you and, once you ignored them thoroughly enough, disclosed their reluctance to move forward.
Initially, each one was more determined than the last to be the one who, if they could not steal your affections, would earn your respect and willingness to form a strategic alliance with their house.
Of course, there were some suitors who believed themself above you, reiterating words you had heard countless times.
“A traitor’s daughter is provided refuge by the very man whose life her father had plotted and treasoned against,” one had said during a stroll of the gardens, “how ironic.”
“If I were the prince, you would not have been shown mercy, of that, I am certain,” another had mumbled underneath a tree after you had accepted his offer to watch the sunset.
The final suitor you would grant your precious time had been the most filthy of his vulgar predecessors.
“Has he tasted you? Is that why he kept you to himself all these years? A silent mouth to fuck?”
Before you had the time to process his crude allegations, he pressed his unpleasant mouth hard against yours, inciting a startled sound from deep within your chest.
Of its own accord, your hand rose and firmly struck his cheek.
Days later, when you refused to meet another suitor, despite the desperate pleas of your lady’s maids and chaperone, Baelor himself was forced to take matters into his own hands.
“You must be willing,” were the first words he had spoken to you in weeks, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders and heaviness of each step he took, “I had expected you to behave more mature regarding this subject.”
You moved to your desk to scribble several sentences, occasionally stopping to glare up at his patiently waiting form, before holding it out for him to retrieve.
“I do not wish to be married, especially not to a man who is incapable of behaving like a gentleman.”
Baelor read your words aloud, a grimace tugging at the side of his mouth as he looked at you pointedly, “Who has behaved ungentlemanly towards you?”
You motioned for him to continue reading.
"He kissed me without permission, that is why I struck him."
A livid look passed over Baelor's face before he schooled his expression back into a mask of composed neutrality.
"I was not informed that he behaved in such a manner towards you, but I assure you he will be dealt with."
You reached for a fresh piece of paper to jot down another message before you held it up for him to read from where he stood.
“I will take meeting each suitor more seriously if, and only if, you offer your assistance in the teachings of one, final subject of my choosing.”
“Very well,” Baelor agreed with a tilt of his head, a weight settling over his shoulders as he watched you continue to write.
You hesitated once you finished, placing the stiff quill down firmly as an onslaught of thoughts plagued your mind. Finally, you turned over the note to his outstretched hand, the tip of your finger tingling pleasantly when it brushed against his heated palm.
“I will not marry until you have taught me how to properly and thoroughly–,”
Baelor’s voice cut off, his figure stiffening until you could nearly feel the flustered indignation rolling off of him in waves.
“You cannot be serious.”
When you made no movement to reveal you were jesting, Baelor gave a firm, disapproving shake of his head.
“No,” was his adamant reply.
Immediately, your hand returned to the quill, a hurriedness to each stroke you wrote.
“I have never asked anything of you, except this. I ask for your guidance one last time, on a subject that I wish to be better acquainted with. It is merely a peck that I wish for.”
The look of disbelief and then contemplation that reflected within Baelor’s eyes told you that he was truly considering it.
“A peck?” he questioned, taking a seat on the cushioned chair in the corner of your bedchamber, “Then, you will return to your suitors?"
You could have dislocated your neck from how enthusiastically you nodded, your hands rising to press over your chest as a silent vow to uphold your end of the deal.
He sighed frustratedly, a hand moving to pat the short hairs atop his head downwards.
“Very well,” he held out a ring adorned hand when you bounced over to him, “but as soon as I say stop, you will stop.”
Once more, you nodded your agreement and moved to hunch over his frame.
Baelor stared up at you pensively, his lips tightly pressed together as he waited for you to get this urge out of your system.
As though he were a sacred gift sent directly from the Gods to you, you carefully cradled his face in your hands and leaned forward to plant a light kiss over his tense mouth.
For a moment, neither one of you moved, the cool exhale of his breath tickling the top of your lip.
You had kept your eyes open because he had, but soon enough your lashes were fluttering until you could no longer hold the heavy weight of your eyelids up.
A low sound left his throat in response to your sigh, his eyes drooping when you cautiously pulled at the flesh of his bottom lip.
Baelor’s mouth parted, wide enough to allow you access to lick the front of his teeth.
You had spent countless evenings watching them appear and disappear as he read to you; equally having imagined what his tongue would taste and feel like against your own each time it had swiped across his lips to moisten them.
“Stop,” Baelor’s raspy voice entered your ears and settled heavily between your legs, a visible tremor moving across your limbs as he shifted beneath your hold.
Urgently, you held him in place, a secure loop of your arms around his neck as your head turned sideways to press a kiss below his right eye.
“You appear to be–,” you cut him off, tongue swiping at his temple to taste the saltiness of his skin.
A mewl left your throat when you returned to his lips, the messy melding of your mouth against his was unpracticed but willing and desperate to please.
You were certain he had had past lovers whose skill when it came to something as simple as kissing would put your experience, or rather, lack-of, to shame. However, it did not matter, not now that you had finally fed your desire to know what he tasted like.
A deep noise rumbled through Baelor’s chest, scattering your thoughts into nothing except how he felt.
When you pulled back to regard his face you found his darkened, mismatched eyes already on you, his lips moistened from your spit and reddened from your nibbles.
“Have you had your fill?”
His cropped, dark grey and silvery hair stood in messy clumps atop his head, courtesy of your fingers and their ceaseless tugging. Though, it was the dusky pink hue that coloured the tops of his ears and cheeks that fascinated you.
A sharp intake of air filled Baelor’s lungs when you drew closer, your thumbs caressing the sides of his eyes before you bent to place kisses against the heated flesh of his cheekbones. He exhaled your name unevenly, the huskiness to his voice made it sound like a plea and a prayer mixed into one word.
Would he be upset if you marked his flesh?
Determined to leave a remembrance of this encounter into his skin, you suckled a large, colourful spot into his throat.
Baelor’s subtle shift of his head, his body instinctively submitting to your ministrations, was all the permission you needed to continue. With a newfound hunger, you returned to his mouth to suck on the wet muscle of his tongue, the suction of your cheeks slipping it further past your lips.
In a lapse of momentary judgement, Baelor pulled you over him, your knees resting comfortably on the cushion below, a calf pressed to either side of his thighs.
The sound of teeth clashing, saliva obscenely mixing, low sighs and deep moans filled the chamber; the lewd combination of noises created a swirl of arousal within your abdomen.
Baelor’s reluctance to view you as the woman you had gradually grown into under his tutelage was now forgotten as your hips bucked against his thigh, fingers grasping roughly at the coarse hair of his beard to angle his head how you wanted it.
Unthinking, you unlatched your lips from around his tongue and leaned backwards, pulling his face to your neck.
Baelor’s tongue swiped across the scar that horizontally marked your throat, the sensitive flesh tingling under his attention.
“Sweetling,” he rasped, panting against the marred skin that had once been your most painful insecurity.
His affections were laved heavily over the length of your neck, the stifled murmuring of “I would have never,” was followed by an array of kisses and light nips, and then, “let this happen.”
The underlying insinuation of his words had you pulling him back upwards, your open mouth fitting against his with a frenzied neediness.
It felt like you could kiss him for days and not feel an ounce of hunger or fatigue.
“Wait–,”
You scarcely heard him over your loud whimpers.
“Sweet girl,” Baelor called, gently pushing you backwards to examine your features and took a shuddering breath at the sight that greeted him; his widened pupils dragged down to lock on the string of spit that still connected your mouth to his, “this has gone on far enough.”
A look of hurt passed over your face, an embarrassed whine bubbling up in your chest when he turned his head to the side when you attempted to kiss him once more.
“You are more than proficient at..” he trailed off, his throat bobbing as he leaned further back, “well, you know.”
Nudging closer, your mouth made contact with his again, a twist of your torso releasing his already loosened hold on your arms.
Baelor’s quiet complaints fell on deaf ears, his lips moving against yours even as he repeatedly assured you that you did not require any more of his teachings.
Haphazardly, your hips continued to shift against his firm thigh, the feeling of your wet core dragging against the heat of his limb proved to be too much when you felt the quickly approaching tendrils of a release begin to wash over you. The scorching temperature of his leg somehow seeped through the layers that separated the both of you, his hands moving to help you find your completion despite the occasional murmurs of protests he exhaled against the skin of your burning cheeks, extended throat, and swollen lips.
“Baelor,” you struggled to stutter aloud, his name was barely discernible and strange on your heavy tongue, but his head snapped up at the sound of it regardless.
An indecipherable look spanned across his face, his heated, wide hands rising to cradle your face.
Baelor leaned forward, his hesitancy forgotten as he assisted you with reaching your peak.
He lifted his solid thigh to press more snugly between your legs, the strength of it sending wisps of pleasure that began at your core and dispersed throughout each of your limbs left you malleable above him.
During the onslaught of pleasure, you would later recall your lips returning to his, the depth of his open mouth swallowing your cries of ecstasy to replace them with guttural groans of his own.
Baelor’s lips moved down to your throat a final time, licking at it over and over again until the skin felt raw and tender beneath his care; he lapped at it as though he could replace the large scar that rested there with an even more noticeable one of his own making.
Dark spots danced around the edges of your peripheral, their size growing until your vision was rapidly tunneling.
Your hips ceased their movements as a blanket of satiated bliss enveloped you; your limbs weightless and tingly in the aftermath of your release.
The last sound you heard before you succumbed to darkness was Baelor's hoarse voice. His words were muffled against your collarbone, leaving you to wonder what it was he had said before your mind drifted to a state of familiar unconsciousness.
─ summary: Baelor watches you become Valarr's wife and learns to love you from afar. Valarr spends every day fearing you will return to his father.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader
─ word count: 10k (this is why I split part 3 into parts 3 and 4, it would have been 25k words)
─ content: 18+ MDNI | past infidelity | canonical character death | pregnancy | angst | smut | insecurity | jealousy | grief | fluff | children | canon divergent
─ a/n: The long, long, long-awaited part three to A Fair Husband and Keep You Close. I don't say this like ever, but you actually do need to read part two to know what is happening here in part three. Thank you so much for your patience. Writing this kinda beat me up a little, but it is done, yay!! Low key, I was kinda emotional writing this, everyone is a bit sad. Hope you enjoy. I will post part four tomorrow. Comment below if you would like to be tagged in that. Thank you as always for likes, comments, reblogs, and everything. I appreciate you. 🖤 Masterlist here.
The Small Council chamber was empty now, Valarr long gone, the candles guttering in their sconces. Baelor remained where he was, slumped in the chair at the head of the table. He had agreed, surrendering the only woman he had ever truly loved to his own son.
The next morning arrived with a cruelty that only the gods could devise. The sky above King's Landing was a bruised, overcast grey, weeping a cold, persistent rain that drummed against the slate roofs of the Red Keep. Inside the Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and heavy incense, trying valiantly to mask the smell of wet wool and damp stone. The seven-sided crystal fractured the meagre light into weak, intermittent rainbows that danced across the stone floor, but there was no warmth in them.
Baelor stood at the front, shrouded in the shadows. From his vantage point he could see everything, yet he felt entirely removed from it, as if he were watching a play performed on a distant stage.
You stood before the altar looking like a vision woven from starlight and silk. Your gown was crimson, heavy with intricate embroidery that glittered subtly with every breath you took. Valarr stood beside you, resplendent in black and crimson, the silver streak in his hair catching the candlelight. He looked at you with open, adoring intensity that made Baelor's stomach turn.
"I am yours," Valarr said, his voice ringing out clear and strong, trembling only slightly with the sheer force of his emotion. "And you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days. I promise to shield you from harm, to cherish you, and to love you with all that I am."
Baelor watched Valarr's face. There was no hesitation there, just the pure, unadulterated love of a boy who believed he had won the greatest prize in the world. It shattered something inside Baelor to watch it.
You turned to face the septon. You were smiling, but Baelor saw the tension in your shoulders, the slight nervous flutter of your hands at your sides. You repeated the vows, your voice softer, melodic. You meant it, in your way. You were committing to this life, to this man, to the duty Baelor had forced upon you.
When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Valarr did not wait. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands gently, and kissed you; a deep, passionate claim of your mouth, right there in front of the High Septon, the court, and the gods.
It felt like hell to Baelor. He turned away before the kiss broke, unable to stomach the sight of you belonging to another, unable to watch the life he should have had unfold before his eyes like a nightmare he could not wake from.
The festivities in the Great Hall were an overwhelming mix of noise and colour that neither of you truly wanted. Forgoing the bedding ceremony had been an easy decision; neither Valarr nor you had any desire to turn your intimacy into a drunken spectacle. You retired to your chambers early, the heavy door closing out the rest of the world.
The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and a dozen candles scattered across the tables. A vast bed draped in heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the linens crisp and white at the centre. Valarr stood by the fire looking at you with a mix of adoration and nervousness.
"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," Valarr whispered, crossing the room to you. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I want to make you happy."
You looked at him, seeing the man who was now your husband. "I know you will, Valarr," you said softly, covering his hand with yours.
He undressed you with agonising slowness, treating every layer of silk and lace like sacred wrapping paper. When you stood before him in nothing but your shift, he did not rush. Instead he led you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were made of porcelain.
Valarr was a fast learner, his enthusiasm tempered by a desperate need to please. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, listening to the sharp intakes of your breath and guiding his movements by your soft gasps. When he settled between your thighs he looked up at you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.
"Tell me," he urged, his voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
He pushed inside, groaning against your lips. It was pleasant, warm and vigorous and full of a youthful stamina that lasted longer than you expected. You met his thrusts, your body responding to the friction and the heat, finding a release that left you panting and trembling beneath him.
Valarr followed shortly after, spending inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, holding you tightly as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.
He murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. "My wife."
Within minutes his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his leg tangled possessively between yours. He was out, exhausted by the emotional and physical exertion of the day.
You lay in the dark, staring up at the velvet canopy above. A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, sliding hot and wet down your temple and into your hair. Then another. You did not make a sound, just let them fall, tracking silently through the dampness on your face.
As you lay there in the circle of Valarr's arms, the reality of it settled over you all at once. Baelor would never hold you like this again.
You thought about the secret passages, the stolen moments, and the way Baelor's hands felt on your skin. You thought about what it would have meant to simply leave, to refuse the marriage, to take your son and go somewhere no one knew your name. You imagined a life where you chose yourself, where you chose love over duty. You cried because you hated this life, because you had done everything right and still felt as though you were dying inside.
On the other side of the Red Keep, in a chamber that felt too large and too quiet, Baelor knelt on the cold stone floor. He was still wearing his doublet, the fabric chafing against his throat, but he could not move to take it off. He felt paralysed, trapped in a moment of grief so profound it threatened to tear him apart.
The thought of you in Valarr's bed, Valarr's hands on your skin, Valarr's lips on your mouth, it was all too much. For the first time in his adult life, Baelor Targaryen wept. He wept for the woman he loved, for the son he had lost to his own selfishness, and for the crushing, unbearable reality in which he existed in a world where you were not his.
The weeks that followed were a slow, agonising march through grey. Baelor kept his word. He did not speak to you or seek you out, effectively erasing himself from your life with the same discipline he applied to his governance, but it cost him dearly.
He saw you, of course. One afternoon, as he exited the Small Council chamber, there you were standing in the corridor ahead, waiting for your father or perhaps for Valarr. You were dressed in deep red velvet, the colour bringing out the brightness of your eyes, which softened at the sight of him.
"Baelor."
He opened his mouth and took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself.
"Father?"
The voice was sharp, clipped from behind him. Valarr strode past, moving with a purposeful aggression that made the air around them vibrate. He did not look at Baelor as he walked to you.
"How fortunate am I," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "to have such a beautiful wife who comes to visit me!"
He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed your cheek, a lingering press of lips that was as much a performance for Baelor as it was an affection for you. "Come, my love. I have something to show you."
You allowed yourself to be led, but you turned your head back over your shoulder, eyes locking onto Baelor's in a silent communication; a mixture of regret, longing, and sadness.
Valarr noticed the look. He said nothing, only tightening his arm around you and steering you away as he glared at his father.
Baelor stood alone in the corridor. He could not remember what he had been doing, where he had been headed. He retreated to the solace of his solar, where he spent the rest of the day replaying that moment in the hall, replaying the argument with Valarr. I should have fought harder, he thought, the mantra looping in his mind until his head throbbed. I should have fought for her.
Not that his agreement with Valarr's terms helped bridge the chasm between them. Valarr hated him. The betrayal was still fresh, a festering wound in Valarr's mind. He did not know if he would ever forgive his father, and he made no effort to hide it. But being near you, loving you, and being loved by you in return made the burden easier to carry. You were his balm, his reward.
Yet the insecurity gnawed at him, a rat in the walls of his happiness. He tried to suppress it, tried to accept that you were with him, but he could not shake the feeling. Every time he looked at you he wondered if you were comparing him. When he touched you he wondered if his hands felt as skilled as his father's. When he lay with you, driving into your body with desperate intensity, he wondered if you were closing your eyes and imagining Baelor.
His single-minded focus became the one thing he could give you that his father never could: a child. He wanted to see your belly swell with his seed, to create a life that was undeniably yours together. It would be the only part of you that was just for him, a legacy untainted by the memories of his father's touch.
He came to you every night, sometimes twice, worshipping your body, trying to erase every trace of the past with his own passion. "Let me give you a child," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with need. "Let me give you a son."
You, for your part, were an eager and willing participant. You wanted the family, the stability, the distraction. You wanted to give Valarr what he needed so he would stop looking at you like you might disappear at any moment.
Baelor, meanwhile, was desperate for some semblance of peace in his home. He was in pain, a constant, dull ache that radiated from his chest. His heart was broken, his mind a mess of regret and what-ifs.
He finally did the one thing he had avoided for weeks. He sent a request to Jena's chambers.
She arrived, her posture stiff, her eyes guarded. She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him not with anger but with a cool, detached curiosity. It was worse than her rage.
"I was wrong," Baelor said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He did not know where to start, so he started with the truth. "I was a fool. I was arrogant and cruel, and I used you. I used our son as a pawn in my own selfish game."
He looked down at his hands. "I am sorry, Jena. For the affair. For the callousness. For making you feel less than you are. You were right about everything." He broke down, his composure cracking as he sat there, stripped of his pride, waiting for her judgment.
Jena watched him. She saw the genuine remorse in the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked. She knew he was saying this because he was lonely, because you were gone, because he had lost his son. But it did not change the fact that she still had love for him, buried beneath layers of resentment. She sighed, a long, weary sound.
"Forgiveness will take time, Baelor. But I am willing to try."
It was not a triumph, but it was a start.
A month later, the family gathered for a small, private dinner in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was cautiously civil. Jena sat at Baelor's side, close enough that their elbows brushed on the table. Valarr sat at the foot with you beside him.
Valarr stood, looking full of pride and happiness, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.
"We have news," Valarr announced, his voice trembling with excitement. "My spectacular wife is with child."
A gasp went around the table. Baelor felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at you; glowing, your hand resting gently on your stomach, a soft, serene smile on your lips. You looked completely, utterly happy, as though you had everything you had ever wanted.
"Congratulations," your father boomed, beaming. "That is wonderful news."
He looked down at your son, Theo, a boy of two years, running around the table with a toy dragon in his hand, oblivious to the commotion. "And you, young man! Are you excited to be a brother?"
Theo did not even pause. He lifted the toy high in the air, roaring at the top of his lungs, completely ignoring the question. He continued running until Valarr caught him, lifting him and placing a kiss on top of his head.
Baelor sat frozen, the excitement of the room fading into the background. Under the table, hidden by the linen cloth, Jena's warm, soft hand covered his. She squeezed his fingers tight, offering him silent comfort in the midst of his torment. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the life drain out of him, listening to the sound of his son's happiness and knowing it was built on the ruins of his own.
The seasons turned within the Red Keep, the stone walls absorbing the shifting temperatures and the relentless passage of time. The initial, brittle peace that had settled over the royal apartments after your pregnancy announcement began to wear thin, not through any great catastrophe, but through the friction of daily existence. Marriage, you discovered, was not merely the grand gestures witnessed in the sept or the desperate passions of the wedding night; it was the mundane, grating reality of shared space.
You and Valarr argued, no different from any other newly married couple learning the painful geometry of two lives intersecting, yet the air between you always seemed to hold a charge, a lingering voltage from the secrets you kept. One afternoon a disagreement regarding the education of your son escalated into a shouting match that left the nursemaid hovering nervously in the corridor. Valarr's voice, usually so measured in public, cracked with frustration as he paced the rug, his hands gesturing sharply. You stood your ground by the hearth, your chin lifted, eyes flashing.
But when the shouting faded, there was always the aftermath. Valarr would inevitably cross the room to you, his anger draining away to leave him looking boyish and apologetic. He would pull you into an embrace, burying his face in your neck, and you would soften, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You loved each other. It was a complicated, knotted love, tangled with duty and jealousy, but it was real.
As the new year bloomed, the atmosphere in the castle shifted from domestic friction to a heavy dread. Jena fell ill. It began simply enough; a persistent cough that rattled in her chest and a fatigue that kept her abed longer than usual. But the weeks wore on, and her strength did not return.
Baelor became a fixture at her bedside. He sat for hours, reading to her in a low, steady voice or simply providing her company. In those long, quiet weeks, the distance that had yawned between them for years seemed to close. They spoke of things long buried; memories of their children when they were small, the scandals of courts past, the simple, mundane absurdities of royal life. It was not the passionate love of ballads, nor was it the all-consuming fire he felt for you, but it was warm, steady, and comfortable. He found that he liked her, this woman who had borne his children and endured his silences. She was funny, in a dry, sardonic way he had never noticed before, and she was kind, more so than he deserved.
One evening, as the light outside the window bled into a bruised purple, Jena woke from a restless sleep, her breathing a raspy, whistling sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room. Baelor leaned forward, taking her frail hand in his.
"Valarr," she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.
"He is outside," Baelor said softly. "He will not enter while I am here."
She closed her eyes, a faint, tired frown touching her lips. "He is so much like you. So proud. He holds his anger like a shield."
Baelor squeezed her fingers. "He has reason."
Her eyes opened again, fixing him with a look that cut through his defences. "You hold onto your guilt. It is drowning you, Baelor."
He looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. "I have made unforgivable mistakes."
"What is done is done. You must forgive him, and you must forgive yourself."
Baelor looked back at her and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
She squeezed his hand weakly. "Good. Now, help me sit up. Then call the boys inside."
Jena died the next morning.
Baelor had not known there was more room for sadness, but his heart expanded to accommodate it. The realisation of what he had lost in the quiet moments of reconciliation came too late.
The funeral was a blur of condolences, black, and smoke. Baelor stood at the front, Valarr and Matarys on either side of him. Valarr was pale and stony as he stared straight ahead, fixed on the pyre, as if willing the world to stop turning.
He remembered his final conversation with Jena. She was beautiful, bright, and entirely focused on his comfort and wellbeing even at the end. He had always assumed his mother would always be there, perhaps taken her presence for granted; now there was only silence. Valarr felt your hand slip into his and squeezed hard. He needed your strength.
Inside your chambers afterwards, the silence was absolute. Valarr stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his back rigid. You watched him for a moment, seeing the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and walked over to him slowly, not touching him yet, just standing close enough that he would know you were there.
"She is gone," Valarr said, his voice cracking on the words. He did not turn around. "She is really gone."
"I know."
It was as if those two words broke the dam. Valarr turned, and the mask shattered. He reached for you with a clumsy movement and collapsed in your arms. You caught him, wrapping your arms around him as his knees gave way, sinking with him to the floor.
He sobbed into your shoulder, a sound deep and wrenching that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones; weeping for the mother who had smoothed his hair and bandaged his knees, for the voice that had soothed his nightmares and sung him lullabies, for the unconditional love that had now passed. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, letting him pour his sorrow out into the fabric of your gown. There were no words for this. You just anchored him, your presence a steady, silent promise that you would not let him drift away.
After a long time the sobbing slowed, turning into ragged, uneven breaths. Valarr pulled back slightly, his face puffy and red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
"You are all I have."
You reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You have your father," you said gently. "He grieves with you."
Valarr looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and nodded. "I know." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, drawing strength from your breath against his skin. Then he stood, pulling you up with him. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, grateful press of lips, before straightening his tunic and squaring his shoulders. He looked like a prince again, albeit a battered one.
He found Baelor in the solar the next evening, sitting behind the massive desk that seemed too large for one man. The room was dark, lit only by a few tapers and the dying embers in the grate. Baelor was staring at a book but he was not reading it. He looked up when Valarr entered, his eyes guarded and weary.
"Father." The word was awkward and heavy.
Baelor stood slowly. "Valarr."
Valarr took a deep breath. "I do not wish to be at war with you. It is too much, and, mother hated it." He paused. "I shall not apologise for what I said to you. I was right."
Baelor closed his eyes. "I know."
"But," Valarr continued, his voice softening slightly, "I wish to move forward."
When Baelor opened his eyes, the gratitude in them was clear. It stripped away the years, the titles, the grievances, leaving only a father looking at his son. "I would like that," Baelor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would like that very much."
The scars from the past remained, but this was a beginning. They spoke then, haltingly at first, then with more ease.
Weeks melted into months, and the heavy cloak of mourning began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of new life as your time drew near. The labour was long and arduous, a test of endurance that lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning. You gritted your teeth, sweat beading on your forehead, hands crushing the linens. Valarr paced outside the room like a caged beast, his face a mask of terrified helplessness.
Baelor arrived with Matarys shortly after. He saw his son, wild-eyed and frantic.
"The birth can take hours," Baelor said. "You must prepare yourself for the wait."
The hours dragged on, marked only by the shifting of the guard and the occasional muffled cry from within the room. Baelor watched Valarr, seeing the terror in his posture, and remembered his own fears when Valarr and Matarys were born.
When the child finally came, he let out a squall that shook the rafters; a strong, healthy sound.
The door opened and a midwife stepped out, her apron stained but her face beaming. She curtsied low. "My princes! You have a son!"
Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. He did not wait for an invitation; he pushed past the midwife and into the room.
You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but your eyes were fixed on the bundle being placed in your arms. He was perfect, small, squinting against the light, but as he settled, the features became clear.
A tuft of stark white hair crowned his head. He opened his eyes, and you drew in a breath. One eye was a deep, shining lilac, the other a clear, bright blue. He was all Valarr, and yet entirely his own person.
Valarr approached the bed with hesitant steps, his eyes wide. When you gently transferred the bundle into his arms, the transformation in him was instantaneous. He looked down at the child with complete awe.
"Hello," he whispered, his voice trembling. He touched the infant's cheek with a single finger, like the boy might break. The baby shifted, yawning, and Valarr let out a choked laugh. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his face unchecked. "Welcome to the world, Jenaerys."
You smiled, brushing the white hair back from the baby's forehead.
Baelor stood in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on this moment of triumph for his son. But Valarr looked up and saw him, nodded, stepping aside slightly; an invitation.
Valarr gently passed the infant to his grandfather. Baelor took the child, supporting the tiny head with his large hand. He looked down at the newborn, and all he saw was you.
The delicate curve of your nose, the shape of the mouth, the sweet bow of the lips that were yours. It was as if you had taken your own features and breathed life into them, gifting them to this child.
This was the son he would never have with you.
Baelor lifted his head, his gaze moving from the baby to you. You lay against the pillows, smiling at him. It was a soft, knowing smile, full of understanding and shared sadness.
He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down his throat. He looked back at the baby, then at you again.
"You did well," Baelor said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of everything he could not say.
The year that followed the birth of the new prince settled into a rhythm that felt almost like forgiveness.
Valarr moved through the halls with a new centre of gravity. The sharp, frantic edge that had defined him, the desperate need to prove, to possess, to secure, had dulled into a steady, quiet confidence. He spent his available hours in the nursery, looking down at the boy with a look of utter disbelief, as if the child were a miracle he had conjured from the air itself. He leaned down to nuzzle the baby's stomach, eliciting a squeal of delight.
From his spot by the window, Theo watched the interaction. He crossed his small arms, huffing. "He just sleeps," the boy complained, his voice high and petulant. "He does not play anything."
Valarr chuckled, a low, warm sound. He reached out a hand, beckoning him closer. "Give him time, little lord. Soon he will be chasing you, stealing your toys, and generally making a nuisance of himself. You shall miss the quiet."
Your son approached reluctantly, but when Valarr ruffled his hair, he leaned into the touch. Valarr's affection was not divided; it multiplied. He looked at the dark-haired boy with the same fierce adoration he held for the infant, bridging the gap of blood with sheer will and love.
It was harder than Baelor had anticipated to step back, to watch you build this life with his son while he remained on the periphery. But he forced the feelings down, burying them under layers of duty and familial affection. This peace was too fragile to risk. He had his sons, he had these perfect grandsons, and he had you in this new, purified light; as a daughter, a friend, a fixture of his life that he could admire from a careful distance. This, he told himself as the sun dipped below the walls of the Keep, was a good life. It was not the life he had dreamed of in the quiet hours of the night, but it was a life he could endure, and even enjoy, because you were safe within it.
The peace was shattered at Ashford.
The tournament was meant to be a display of chivalry and sport, but soon turned to malice. The Trial of Seven was a chaotic mess of steel and mud, a melee of honour that turned brutal. When the dust finally settled, the crowd's roar died in their throats.
Baelor had fallen.
He did not die, though the Seven seemed to toy with the idea. A blow from a heavy mace, wielded in the heat of the moment by his own brother Maekar, had struck him squarely. The Prince of Dragonstone lay motionless.
Three days passed agonisingly slowly. The castle of Ashford became a tomb of silence. Maekar paced the corridors, his face gaunt, his hands trembling whenever they were still. Valarr sat by the window in your shared chambers, staring out at the tourney grounds now empty of revellers. He spoke little, but the fear radiated off him like heat. He was not ready to be an orphan. The thought of facing Matarys and telling him their father was gone was unbearable.
You moved through the days like a ghost, your body present but your mind trapped in the sickroom, imagining the worst.
On the third night, the castle slept. The torches in the hallways burned low, and you lay in bed beside Valarr, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but sleep continued to evade you. You did not care about propriety or if a guard saw you or what the court would whisper. You just needed to see him.
Baelor's sickroom was guarded by a single drowsy sentry, who stepped aside at the sight of your determined face. Inside, the air smelled of valerian root, feverfew, and the copper tang of dried blood.
Baelor lay in the centre of the large bed, looking smaller than he had any right to. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his tanned skin. His breathing was shallow, a faint rise and fall of his chest that seemed to require all his strength.
You moved to the chair beside the bed and sank into it. The sight of him, a man usually so vibrant and strong, reduced to this, broke something loose inside you. A sob tore from your throat as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound, but tears spilled over uncontrollably.
You remembered the way he looked at you in the Kingswood, the way he held your son, the sound of his voice saying your name like a prayer. You remembered the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, the safety you had felt in his arms. It was clear in that moment that you loved him still.
"Please," you whispered, leaning over him, your tears dripping onto his tunic. "Baelor, do not leave me."
You pressed your lips to his cheek. It was dry and cold, the stubble rough against your soft skin. "I love you." You kissed him again; a firm, lingering press on his lips, pouring every ounce of your love and your regret into that contact. You did not want to be a princess or a wife. You just wanted him to be alive.
Exhaustion eventually claimed you. You leaned forward, resting your head on the edge of the mattress, right beside his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him as you fell asleep.
The first thing Baelor truly saw when he opened his eyes was long hair and soft skin.
The pain in his head was a blinding, splitting agony, a white-hot spike driven through his temple. He groaned, trying to move, but his body felt heavy, disconnected.
He turned his head slightly, and his breath caught.
You were asleep, your head resting on his chest. For a moment, Baelor was certain he had died. This surely was the Stranger's final mercy, a vision of heaven's most beautiful angel keeping vigil beside him before the end.
He stared at you, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering in sleep and the soft parting of your lips. He missed all of this; the warmth of you near him, the smell of your hair, the quiet intimacy of just breathing the same air as you.
You stirred, your eyes heavy with sleep fluttering open and focusing on him. For a heartbeat, the world held only the two of you. A slow, tired smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.
"My heart," he breathed, his voice a dry rasp.
The sound of his voice shattered the spell. You scrambled backward, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. You felt as if you could not breathe. The intimacy of the moment, the love you saw in his eyes, it was too much.
"I must fetch the maesters."
You turned and fled the room, rushing into the corridor. "Maester! Help! The prince is awake!"
"Wait," Baelor tried to say, reaching for you, but his strength failed him. He watched the empty doorway where you had stood, the warmth of your presence already fading into the cold morning air. He closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of heaven snatched away, leaving him with only the pain in his skull and the hollow ache in his chest.
You returned to your own chambers, drained and hollowed out by the night's vigil and the emotional whiplash of seeing him awake. Valarr was waiting, fully dressed, though the sun had barely risen. He turned as you entered, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks.
He looked devastated.
"I woke to find you absent from our bed," he said. "I went to check on my father, and found you there." He took a step closer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I give you, you continue to carry a torch for him."
"Valarr."
"Do you wish you were his wife instead of mine?"
Something inside you snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the years of walking on eggshells; it all rose up. "I am sick of this, Valarr. Why must I continuously prove myself to you?"
He began to speak, but you cut him off, raising a hand. "I am married to you, and I am happy. I carried your child. Let this go." You took a breath, your gaze steady on his. "You have already lost your mother. Do you truly wish to spend your life hating your father and looking for betrayal where there is none? You must forgive him, truly, because you are poisoning our marriage by carrying this resentment."
His composure crumbled. His hands began to shake as he closed the distance between you, taking your hands in his. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I did not mean it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to him."
You squeezed his hands, your own anger softening. "You will never lose me, Valarr." You leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I love you."
That was the truth. You loved the man he was, the father he was to your children. But in the quiet, secret chambers of your heart, you knew there was more. His close brush with death had shown you that you were far from over Baelor. You would always, always love him. But you had made your choice, and that choice was Valarr.
Weeks later, the family returned to King's Landing, but the respite was short-lived. King Daeron II passed away peacefully in his sleep, and the weight of the crown descended upon Baelor's head. He moved through the ceremonies with grace, but inside he felt entirely unready. He had not been able to speak a private word with you since the tournament, since the morning he had woken to find you and then lost you to the chaos. For three years, Baelor tried to forget you, to smother the fire of his feelings. He failed. The familial peace he had forced himself to accept felt like a prison now. He wanted to tell you he loved you still, to apologise for what he had done, to apologise for not marrying you himself.
His opportunity came on a warm afternoon, several days after his coronation. Baelor saw you slip out of the main hall, moving toward the gardens. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs, and followed, keeping his distance as he rehearsed his words in his head. You moved quickly, with purpose, disappearing around a turn. He turned a corner, the anticipation rising in his throat, and stopped dead. You were there, but you were not alone.
Baelor could only watch as you stepped into Valarr's arms, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He watched as Valarr tilted your chin up and kissed you; a kiss full of a tender, possessive love that Baelor had never been able to claim publicly. He saw the way Valarr held you, as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. This was a tableau of love, of a bond that was living and breathing, while his own love was a ghost that haunted the halls. Seeing you like that, a perfect, united whole, made him feel utterly foolish, pining for a woman who was clearly, irrevocably happy in the arms of another.
His heart broke again. He shook his head slowly, the bitterness of regret rising in his throat as he turned around and walked away.
Baelor, hurt and quietly jealous, could not protest later that week when Valarr announced that he would be taking you and the children to Dragonstone, putting an entire sea between you and Baelor.
"Of course," Baelor said, his voice betraying none of the storm within him. "If you think it best."
The year on Dragonstone had worn the sharp edges from your life, smoothing it into contentment. In the nursery, the air was warm and close. Valarr sat on the floor, his long legs folded beneath him, a position he endured without complaint for the sake of his audience.
"And so the brave knight defeated the evil wizard and saved his kingdom."
Theo, at five years old, sat cross-legged directly before his father, his chin resting on his fists. His dark eyes were wide with concentration. "I want to be a knight, Papa!"
Valarr smiled. "You will be a great one."
Jenaerys was not so captivated by the story. He toddled to the heavy wooden chest in the corner, his small hands patting against the iron hinges. "Open," he demanded, his brow furrowed with effort.
"No more toys; it is time for sleeping," you said from the rocking chair near the fire. You shifted your weight, the familiar ache of your back a gentle reminder of the new life growing within you. In your arms, your newest babe, Baelon stirred. He was just learning to sit up on his own, a wobbly, determined effort, but the cadence of his father's voice was lulling him into sleep. His head lolled against your chest, his breaths coming in soft, even puffs against your skin.
You watched Valarr, your heart swelling. He was a patient storyteller and a better father, weaving tales of conquest and dragons, teaching his sons where they came from in the very heart of their ancestral home. He met your gaze over Theo's head, and the look you shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was your life, your fortress, built not of stone but of shared moments and the small, perfect bodies of your children.
Jenaerys, having given up on the chest, ambled back over and plopped down onto Valarr's outstretched leg, babbling a string of tired words that he clearly believed were a vital contribution to the narrative. Valarr did not miss a beat, simply resting a hand on his son's back and continuing the story.
You looked down at Baelon, fast asleep, and ran a thumb over his soft cheek, then let your hand drift down to rest on your own stomach. The subtle, rounded swell was still a secret shared only between you and Valarr. You had always wanted a large family, and the gods were being generous.
Back in your chambers, the fire had been built up, chasing away the evening chill. You sat on the edge of the large bed, watching as Valarr poured two cups of wine and handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours.
"Have you been feeling well?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"Quite well, you need not worry." You tilted your head back to look at him. "Although this house is becoming rather overrun with men. A mother needs an ally."
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that a hint, my lady?"
"One more son and I shall be completely overwhelmed."
Valarr's hand spread wider over your belly as he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "This one," he whispered, his voice filled with certainty, "is a daughter. I can feel it."
A thousand miles away, in the oppressive, perfumed air of the Red Keep's council chamber, Baelor sat at the head of the polished table, irritated.
"Must we discuss this once more? Valarr is my heir. The line is secure."
"A king needs a queen, Your Grace," another lord ventured, a plumper man who dabbed at his brow with a silk square. "For companionship. For counsel. You should not be so, solitary."
The word solitary struck a nerve. Solitary was his bedchamber at night, vast and empty. It was the long walk from the throne room back to his apartments, his footsteps echoing in a silence that seemed designed to mock him. He was a king surrounded by thousands, and he had never been more alone.
He thought of you; a constant, living presence in the hollow spaces of his life. The sound of your voice. The way your eyes would light up with a mischievous spark just before you said something daring. The feel of your hand in his, a perfect fit. How could he ever take another woman to his bed? The very idea was a betrayal of a truth that lived in his bones.
"I have no need for a queen."
The council, as expected, did not relent. They sent ladies to him. Each encounter left him more certain, more hollowed out as he compared them all to you, and not a single one could measure; not in grace, not in beauty, not in the fierce, loyal heart he knew so well. He gave up the charade, retreating further into the solitude of his duty.
His only solace was the raven that arrived from Dragonstone every fortnight. Valarr's letters detailed the boys' antics, your health, and matters of governance. Each letter was a taste of the life he had exiled himself from, a life that contained you. He missed your family terribly. He missed the sound of Valarr's voice, the sight of his grandsons, and you.
The city is too quiet, he wrote. Your brother and I would have it filled with your presence again. Come home.
The days in King's Landing unfolded like a dream, a brilliant, sun-drenched respite from the shadows of your past. The Red Keep, once a place of stifling formality and whispered anxieties, now echoed with the unrestrained laughter of children. Jenaerys had discovered the perfect kingdom for his games. The gardens were a sprawling wilderness of hedges and statues, the corridors a labyrinth of hiding places just his size. He took particular glee in darting away from his nursemaids, a flash of a child disappearing behind a stone gargoyle or a curtain of heavy velvet. The servants would flurry, their calls growing increasingly frantic, only for him to emerge with a triumphant grin from behind a curtain or the top of something he had no business climbing. He was a whirlwind of joyful mischief, and his energy was infectious.
Where Jenaerys was action, Theo was inquiry. He followed the maesters around like a duckling, his small finger pointing at everything. His curiosity was boundless, his wide eyes taking in every detail with a sweet, serious concentration that charmed everyone he met.
And then there was your infant son, a cooing, gurgling centre of gravity. He was passed from adoring arms to adoring arms. The septas, the couriers, the guards; all were utterly captivated. But no one was more captivated than his grandfather.
Baelor was transformed. In your time away, he had become stern, but that melted away, replaced by a man who was content to participate in all the silly antics the children required of him. Watching them, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was what you had always wanted for them; the joy of being children, knowing they were loved, living in a place filled with laughter. You allowed yourself to hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, that these days could stretch into forever.
Evenings, however, belonged to you and Valarr.
The hustle of the court faded behind the doors of your bedchamber. You brushed out your hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing after a long day of managing the children and court life. You watched Valarr in the looking glass. He had changed in the year you had been away. The bitterness that used to cling to him like a second skin had sloughed off, leaving behind a man who was confident, devoted, and utterly at peace with his world.
He turned, catching your eye in the reflection. A slow, tender smile curved his lips.
"You are staring, my lady," Valarr murmured, coming up behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.
"And if I am?" You leaned back into his touch, tilting your head to rest against his chest. "I have much to look at."
He chuckled and turned you around, lifting you easily to sit atop the vanity table.
"I missed this," Valarr whispered, his voice dropping an octave, roughening with that familiar edge of desire. "I missed the quiet. Just you and I."
"As did I," you breathed, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "The boys are happy here. It is good to see."
"It is," he agreed, though his focus was entirely on your mouth. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours; a tease, a promise. "I have been neglecting my wife."
"You have been busy being a prince," you countered, your breath hitching as his hand moved from your waist to the laces of your nightgown.
"Tonight I am just your husband."
He kissed you then. You parted your lips, welcoming the sweep of his tongue, the tang of the wine he had drunk at dinner still lingering on him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardening length of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.
Valarr groaned into your mouth, lifting you from the vanity without breaking the kiss. He carried you to the bed, laying you down against the crisp linens. He followed you down, settling his weight between your thighs, pressing you into the mattress. The heat of him was overwhelming, a furnace that chased away the chill of the night.
"I love you," he rasped, pulling back to look you in the eye. His gaze was intense. "Everything I am, everything I have; it is for you."
Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer volume of emotion swelling inside you. "I love you, Valarr. More than life."
Valarr shifted, laying you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. The nightgown was a flimsy barrier, and he made quick work of it, his hands sliding the fabric up your thighs, over your hips, until he could pull it over your head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your skin, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace. He looked at you; your heavy breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs, with a worshipful hunger that never failed to undo you.
He shed his own clothes quickly, and then he was skin against skin, all hard muscle and heat. He settled between your legs, not entering you yet, just rocking against your slick folds, teasing you both. "You feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "So perfect."
"Please, Valarr," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you."
He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours. He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and guided the head to your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, inch by agonising inch, stretching you open until he was seated to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite; you could feel him in your very core.
You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even deeper.
He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stole your sanity. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession. His hands found yours, their fingers lacing together, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. He kissed you then; a deep, filthy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. The pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of your bodies filling the room. You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, leaving red furrows in his skin. He did not flinch; he just drove into you harder, with a desperate, frantic energy.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His arms banded around you as he continued to drive into you. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach threatening to snap. He must have felt it too. He lifted his head again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. "Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Come for me."
His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and your release crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made you cry out his name. Your cunt clenched around him, rippling and spasming, and with a hoarse shout he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spent inside you, a hot, flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his heart hammering against your ribs.
You lay tangled together, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks, the firelight casting long shadows on the wall. It was a perfect night, a perfect moment of connection and love. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly complete.
The dream was not long for this world, however, ending with the arrival of the Spring Sickness.
It came on the winds from Flea Bottom, a whisper at first, then a roar. The city was awash with a cruel, efficient plague that showed no deference to rank or coin. The lowborn died in their gutters, the highborn in their silken beds. The Red Keep, an impenetrable fortress for armies, proved no defence for this invisible enemy.
The first blow landed hard. Matarys, a boy of barely seventeen with his father's kind eyes and his mother's fiery spirit, took sick. It was a swift, brutal illness. One day he was complaining of a headache; the next he was burning with a fever that no maester could break, his body wracked with chills so violent his teeth chattered constantly. He died three days later, his young body simply giving out.
Then Valarr fell ill.
It started with a weariness he could not shake. Then the fever came. He lay in the sick bed, far from the place of your perfect night, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the roaring fire. His skin was pale and waxy, pulled taut over the sharp bones of his face. He looked like a stranger, a beautiful, broken effigy of the man you loved.
You never left his side. You sponged his burning skin with cool water, forced water and broth between his cracked lips, and prayed. You prayed to the Seven, to the old gods, to any god who would listen. You bargained, you wept, you promised anything, everything, just for him to overcome this. But the gods had turned their faces away.
On the fourth day, he woke. His eyes were hazy with fever, but they found yours. "My love," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.
Your heart clenched. "I am here. I am right here."
"Bring the children to me, please."
Your first instinct was to refuse, to protect them from this, from the sight of their father so broken. But the look in his eyes was desperate. You nodded, sending a guard, and moments later a nurse led the three children into the room.
Valarr struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort, as you piled pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard. He looked terrible, but a weak smile touched his lips as his sons were lifted onto the bed.
Theo, ever the observant one, stayed at the foot of the bed, his small face etched with a confusion that was close to fear. "Papa? Are you sick?"
"I am a little tired," Valarr managed, his voice thin. He held out a trembling hand. "Come here."
Theo crept forward and took his father's hand. Jenaerys, less understanding, simply plopped down onto the mattress, patting Valarr clumsily. "Papa," he babbled, happy and entirely unaware.
Valarr's smile widened, a genuine, heartbreaking thing. He pulled the children close, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads. He looked at his beautiful boys, their bright, innocent eyes, and then his gaze shifted to you, to the gentle swell of your stomach, and the sleeping baby in your arms. He looked at his entire world, gathered in this room, and it was more than enough. It was everything.
Valarr held them for as long as he could, his strength fading fast. Then, with a sigh, he spoke. "Be good for your mother and cause no trouble, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Papa." Both boys said it together.
"Never forget, you are my sons, and I love you."
The nurse gently took the boys away, their cheerful ignorance a stark contrast to the crushing dread that filled the room. You knew this was a farewell. He placed a trembling hand on your belly, the touch so light you barely felt it.
His eyes fluttered closed, his body sinking back against the pillows. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, until the candle guttered out and the room was plunged into darkness. You must have fallen asleep, because you woke with a start, the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You reached for his hand. It was cold. You scrambled closer, your fingers fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. There was nothing. The Stranger had come in the night and stolen your husband.
Valarr's pyre was lit the next day. Baelor, his face a mask of cold, regal grief, stood and watched as the body of yet another son was committed to the flames. You stood apart, the heat of the fires blistering against your skin, but you felt only an internal, icy cold. You held the hands of your sons. They were quiet, not understanding the solemnity, only that their mother was holding their hands too tight. They did not understand that the smoke curling into the sky was all that remained of their father.
When the rites were over and the last embers had faded to ash, you fled to your chambers. You barely made it to the safety and privacy of your rooms before you began to truly weep. This was not a graceful weeping. It was an ugly, gut-wrenching storm of sobs that wracked your entire body. You collapsed to the floor, your nails scraping the stone, your cries the sound of a soul being torn apart.
The door opened, and Baelor entered. He said nothing, just crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside you. He was the only other person in the world who knew this specific flavour of hell. You did not hesitate. You crawled into his arms, burying your face in his chest, and let the grief consume you. You sobbed for the endless hours you had held yourself together, for the terrible conversations with a toddler who kept asking when his father would play with him. You sobbed for the future that had been incinerated, for the man you loved who was now just smoke and memory.
When you finally pulled back, hiccuping, your face streaked with tears, you saw that Baelor was crying too. He had lost the love of his life, his wife, his parents, and both his children. How much more could one man be asked to endure?
You decided you could not stay. King's Landing already felt like a tomb. Every stone, every corridor, every shadow held the ghost of Valarr. The sight of the pyre was burned into your mind, haunting you, tormenting you. You needed to go home to Dragonstone, where the memories were not of sickness and death but of passion and hope. You would raise your sons there, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons and the memory of their father.
