southeast asian, she/her ⊹ DNI racist, -phobe, zionist, pro-i$rael, antisemitic, alt-right/maga. free palestine, congo, sudan, and all of those under oppressive rule.
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my fandoms. op, jjk, hp, twd, avatar (films), dc, asoiaf, marvel ++ but these are the only ones i read fics of :p my favs. satoru <3, shanks :D, yuuta, luffy, jake s., loak, neteyam, like uhm most of the targaryens sue me, sirius b., bruce w., clark k., rick g., ++ this is just a blog for me to read every fanfic i possibly could hahaha
tfw you’re reading a fic and it’s actually pretty good but every now and then you’ll read something that immediately tells you the author did not do any research about house targaryen and doesn’t know stuff outside of akotsk 😭 like idk if it’s just bcs i’m such a targ nerd but it makes me put off the fic for a while, at least until i forget abt the particular detail... ><
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (see part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here, part 5 here, part 6 here)
Summary: Let the summer vacation begin! Egg's streak of spilling the tea about Aerion continues.
Summer arrived abruptly as it always did in King's Landing. One week of tolerable warmth and then, suddenly, air that clung to skin and made layers unbearable.
You adjusted accordingly. T-shirts, lighter fabrics, sleeveless tops. Once, recklessly, a soft cotton top that dipped enough to reveal the elegant line of your collarbones.
Aerion reacted as though you had stepped outside utterly naked.
He stared at you across the courtyard that first afternoon, eyes narrowing slowly. “What,” he asked with chilling calm, “is that.”
You looked down at yourself. “A shirt.”
“It is barely a shirt.”
You tried not to smile. “It’s thirty degrees.”
“That is not an excuse for public indecency.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Are my elbows causing unrest?”
His gaze flicked to your collarbone and back up again, entirely too heated. “You are exposing structural vulnerabilities.”
“To whom?”
“To everyone.”
It was ridiculous. Completely theatrical. And entirely private. He did not actually care. If someone so much as glanced at you the wrong way, he would flatten them without hesitation. But this outrage was performance art strictly for you. An inside joke that had started from his complaints of you buttoning up to the throat in winter.
The next day he arrived with a garment bag.
“We need cohesion,” he informed you solemnly.
“Cohesion.”
“Yes. We are a couple. There must be aesthetic alignment.”
Inside were blouses far too expensive for daily wear and blazers cut so sharply they looked tailored by royalty. Soft silks. Clean lines. Neutral tones that would sit beautifully beside his darker wardrobe.
“You cannot just buy me an entire upper half,” you protested.
“I absolutely can.”
“You’re presumptuous.”
“And you’ll look devastating.”
You did. He was unbearably pleased with himself when you wore one of the blouses to dinner.
Still, summer won most days.
You wore what was comfortable. He would look at your bare forearms like a man enduring temptation and sigh heavily.
“This is a test,” he would murmur. “Of my character.”
“You don’t have that much character,” you replied sweetly.
“Cruel.”
The one day you wore a skirt, he nearly combusted.
It wasn’t even short. Just lighter. The kind that swished when you walked.
He noticed immediately. His hand found your waist in the hallway, fingers brushing down, then bold, opportunistic, slipping beneath the hem.
He expected bare skin.
Instead, his knuckles met fabric.
He froze. You felt the exact moment he registered it.
“Are you,” he said slowly, “wearing shorts.”
You looked up at him innocently. “It’s practical.”
He withdrew his hand as though personally betrayed. “This is sabotage.”
“It’s called foresight.”
His head tipped back in agony. “I had plans.”
“For?”
“Spontaneity.”
“You can be spontaneous around cotton.”
“That is not the point.”
He looked so genuinely frustrated that you laughed, which only deepened his offense. He leaned in, lowering his voice near your ear.
“I have never been so thoroughly defeated by modesty.”
You patted his chest. “You'll live.”
He muttered something about conspiracy and adjusted his blazer with wounded dignity.
The only thing he truly disliked about summer, though, revealed itself one evening when his mouth brushed your neck out of habit.
He paused. Pulled back. Looked at the faint mark already blooming just above your collarbone. His expression shifted from satisfaction to irritation.
“Unacceptable,” he said.
“You did that.”
“I am aware. It is poorly timed.”
“You could simply not...”
He gave you a look. “That is unrealistic.”
In winter he could leave small, possessive reminders in peace, hidden beneath scarves and high collars. Now every mark was a liability. Visible. Questionable.
He traced the edge of it with his thumb, frowning like a strategist reviewing a flawed campaign.
“You will have to wear one of the blouses tomorrow,” he decided.
“You’re the protesting against coverage.”
“This is different. This is damage control.”
He leaned down and pressed a softer kiss to the unmarked side of your neck instead, deliberately restrained.
“For the record,” he murmured, “if anyone comments, I will break their jaw.”
“I know.”
His hand slid back to your waist.
“Summer,” he concluded darkly, “is deeply inconvenient.”
Summer break made the campus feel hollowed out overnight. Suitcases rolled over cobblestones. Goodbyes echoed. Plans were announced loudly and repeatedly, as though volume made them more impressive.
You were over at Aerion's, helping Egg look for a charger he’d misplaced under an armchair when he said, far too cheerfully, “You should come to Summerhall with us this year.”
From across the room, Aerion stiffened.
Egg continued, oblivious. “Well. Not that Aerion ever comes. He hates it. Says it’s boring and full of horse people.”
Aerion’s voice was dangerously calm. “Egg.”
“But he always goes to Lys instead,” Egg added brightly.
There was a beat of silence.
You looked up. “Lys?”
Egg nodded. “Yeah. It’s his thing.”
Aerion crossed the room and clamped a hand over Egg’s shoulder, not violently, but firmly enough that Egg squeaked.
“Homework,” Aerion said through his teeth. “Now.”
“I finished...”
“You have more.”
Egg glanced between you and his brother, suddenly sensing danger far too late. “It’s just an island,” he offered weakly.
“Yes,” Aerion said tightly. “An island.”
You watched him with mild curiosity rather than accusation, which, as it turned out, was worse.
Once Egg had been dispatched under thinly veiled threat, you folded your arms. “What’s in Lys?”
Aerion exhaled slowly, as if preparing to defuse a bomb. “Heat.”
“I gathered.”
“Beaches.”
“Mm.”
“And,” he added stiffly, “a reputation.”
You tilted your head. “What kind of reputation? Should I look it up?”
He gave you a look. “It is commonly referred to as a pleasure island.”
You blinked once. “Oh.”
He waited.
You did not react.
That unsettled him far more than outrage would have.
“That is not where I am going this summer,” he said immediately.
“I didn’t assume you were.”
“I’m not.”
“All right.”
Your tone was so even it bordered on indifferent. You reached for your bag, as though the conversation were a footnote rather than a revelation about his teenage escapades.
He stepped in front of you. “You don’t care?”
You met his eyes. “About what you did as a teenager?”
He frowned. “You should care at least marginally.”
“Why?”
“Because Lys is not known for…restraint.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you’re not...” He gestured vaguely. “...concerned.”
You studied him, and something about his tension softened you. “Aerion, I assume you were a disaster at seventeen. Most people are.”
“That is not comforting.”
“You survived it.”
“That is also not the point.”
You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. “Were you planning to go again?”
“No.”
“How come?”
He hesitated, which told you more than any dramatic denial would have.
“Because,” he said finally, jaw tight, “I do not intend to behave like that anymore.”
You held his gaze. “Then I don’t see the problem.”
The lack of jealousy clearly frustrated him. He dragged a hand through his hair. “You should at least ask what I did there.”
“If you want to tell me, you can.”
“That is not how this works.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re very bothered.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He cursed under his breath.
The truth was, you trusted him. Whatever Lys had been, heat and ego and too much money and too little supervision, it belonged to a version of him you hadn’t known. The boy with piercings and a dragon-painted motorcycle. The one who needed spectacle.
This one was standing in front of you, bristling because you weren’t reacting dramatically enough to his past.
“I’m not going to Lys,” he repeated. “I was thinking of Tarth.”
“Tarth?”
“Blue water,” he said, more steadily now. “Cliffs. It’s quieter but no less beautiful.”
You raised a brow. “You? Seeking quiet?”
“I am capable of growth.”
“That remains to be seen.”
He ignored that. “You should come.”
“With your family?”
“No.” His mouth flattened. “Just us.”
You hesitated. “Aerion...”
“Before you go home,” he added quickly. “Before you disappear for months.”
The edge in his voice surprised you.
“You make it sound like exile.”
“You will be in another country.”
“Yes.”
“And I will be here.”
The implication hung there.
“You want me to come to Tarth,” you said slowly.
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I would rather be on a calm island with you than on a notorious one without you.”
That, at least, was honest.
“You nearly strangled your brother,” you pointed out lightly.
“He was volunteering information I did not authorise.”
“You can’t erase your teenage years.”
“I can attempt to prevent them from being used as character evidence.”
You laughed. “I’m not judging you.”
“That may be the problem.”
He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with your steadiness. As though he had braced for accusations.
“I am not indifferent,” you added more gently. “I just don’t think your past wild summer trips define you.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. “I don’t want you thinking I’m...”
“A walking cautionary tale?” you offered.
He grimaced. “Something like that.”
“I don’t.”
He studied your face, searching for cracks.
“Come to Tarth,” he said again, softer now. “The sea is just as blue. And the atmosphere is calmer.”
“You rehearsed that.”
“I refined it.”
You pretended to consider, though you already knew the answer.
“Fine,” you said. “But if you start acting nostalgic for Lys, I’m pushing you off a cliff.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I deserve that.”
He hesitated, then added, almost grudgingly, “For what it’s worth, it was never about the women.”
“Oh?”
“It was about not being at Summerhall.”
You regarded him. “That,” you said, “sounds more like something worth talking about.”
He didn’t answer immediately. But he didn’t look away either. For the first time since Egg’s ill-timed revelation, he seemed less concerned with what you imagined about his past and more aware of what he wanted his future to look like.
a/n: I suck at writing endings. Part 8: pending...
a/n: My messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
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Professional Boundaries (ModernAU!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Masterlist
Summary: You work remotely for a high-performing consultancy firm, and you absolutely do not have a crush on your infuriatingly charming manager. Baelor Targaryen does not flirt with employees. But he does welcome challenges. And unfortunately, you keep giving him one.
Corporate, Teams messages, even late at night, and the kind of eye contact that should come with its own HR disclaimer.
Word count: 12K (damn, i really went overboard with this haha)
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, power dynamics, age gap(reader is in her late 20s, or early 30, Baelor in his mid-40s) explicit smut, masturbation (f), unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, corporate lingo, flirting through Teams chat, best friend Lyonel, English is my second language
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
Author’s note: Did anyone ask for this? Nope, but I just had to write it hahaha Did I go overboard? Absolutely! This started out as a drabble while I was outlining and drafting the next chapters of my other two stories, after I saw this pic of Bertie Carvel. And then whenever I tried to write the second chapters for ‘The Lady of Summerhall’ and ‘In the Shadows of the Red Keep’, my mind kept going to this, because in this house we cope with modern AUs and smut! And apologies for the corporate lingo in some places!
So, yeah, here you have it! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it :)
From a young age, you had always been exceptionally good at managing your crushes.
Not avoiding them, that was never realistic, but containing them. Filing them neatly into the corners of your mind where they could not and would not interfere with productivity, judgement or even dignity. You believed that such feelings could be controlled. And you were always successful in that endeavour.
Until the manager at your new job turned out to be the infuriatingly charming Baelor Targaryen.
Now, let's be clear, you did not develop a crush on him. What you felt for him was professional admiration, entirely reasonable and appropriate. Baelor was composed, precise and unnervingly competent at his job, and anyone would respect that. So what if your stomach performed an inconvenient somersault every time he said your name during a meeting? That was a perfectly normal reaction, a biological response to authority and competence. It had absolutely nothing to do with the measured cadence of his speech, or the confidence in his voice, or the way his mouth sometimes curved when you challenged him, or the fact that he was a very, very handsome man, objectively speaking.
Truly, none of this would have been an issue if Lyonel Baratheon had not insisted you apply for the job in the first place.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It had been a Sunday, both of you enjoying the remnants of your brunch, and you were complaining to Lyonel for what felt like the hundredth time about your current job.
“I think you are just bored.” Lyonel said, stirring his coffee with an exaggerated calm.
“I am not bored.” You retorted, sipping your own coffee.
“Oh please!” He said. “You reorganised your team’s work process for fun.”
“Not for fun! It was inefficient.” But he didn’t hear you, continuing on.
“You built a performance tracker no one asked for.”
“Well, they use it now.”
“You are just proving my point.” He laughed. “You have been complaining about this position for months now. I think you just need a change of pace.”
At that, he opened his phone and after finding what he was looking for, he slid it across the table to you.
“You know I am not looking for a new job.” You said.
“Just read it!” He said, exasperated. “I think that it’s just what you need! And you get to work with yours truly.”
You took the phone, ignoring how he wiggled his brows, and skimmed through the job listing: Senior Strategy Associate in a competitive consultancy, high pressure, high visibility, remote work.
“Who would I report to?”
Lyonel hesitated, just slightly. “Baelor.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, leaning on the table. “As in Targaryen?”
“As in Targaryen.”
Baelor Targaryen was a legend in his field. Not in the loud, self-promotional way some senior executives tried to be. He did not post LinkedIn essays about leadership philosophies or speak in rehearsed soundbites. He just… won. Campaign pivots, that other firms had declared unrecoverable? He turned them around in a quarter. Clients that were impossible? He retained them. He had built a reputation on precision, strategic recalibrations so clean they felt surgical. People did not describe him as creative, they described him as dangerous.
“I think you’d like him.” Lyonel said casually.
“If I apply, I will apply for the job Lyonel. Not to date him.”
He rolls his eyes. “That is not what I meant.”
“That is exactly what you meant.”
Lyonel grins, ignoring her remark. “Do you want to know more about him?”
“Fine.” You folded your arms, leaning on the chair. “What is he like?”
“Composed.” Lyonel mused, scratching his beard in thought. “Irritatingly controlled. Intense. He listens more than he talks, but he likes to challenge people. Push them to their maximum potential.”
He took a large sip of his coffee. “He is very much a ‘I have a five-year strategic vision with a colour coded spreadsheet’.”
“That just sounds like he is very competent.” You remarked. “He is, after all, one of the best in his field.”
“Understatement of the year.” He smiled wide. “He also hates mediocrity. And he detests yes-men.”
Your brow lifted. “So that made you think of me?”
“Immediately.”
You kicked him under the table, ignoring his yelp.
“Look…” He added, rubbing his hurt leg. “You need someone who pushes back. And he needs someone who won’t fold. It’s like the perfect alignment.”
You sighed, changing the topic before he could push you more. But later that night, you applied. Mostly because you refused to let Lyonel be right about you being bored. And partly because you wanted something new.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The first couple of weeks at your new job were spent completing the onboarding and training courses. Your first one-on-one meeting with Baelor was scheduled for a Thursday morning, for thirty minutes, the calendar invite simply reading ’Introductory alignment’. It was perfectly timed with when you completed the onboarding process, and just before the team meeting in the afternoon.
You joined the meeting a minute earlier, wanting to make a good first impression. And also to make sure that the background was blurred, and that you looked good on camera.
Baelor joined exactly at 9am sharp. You told yourself you only noticed out of habit, assessing punctuality, presentation, authority, which was normal, professional.
The crisp grey shirt fit him too well to ignore, structured and intentional, the kind of detail that suggested control rather than vanity. His hair was styled with the kind of precision that looked effortless, and his beard, neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey, only made him more handsome in a way that felt unfairly deliberate.
You mind catalogued all of it automatically. You reasoned with yourself that it was all because it was your first impression of him, an assessment of his leadership presence. That was all.
But then, he looked directly into the camera. The heterochromia was subtle at first, very easy to miss unless the light caught it the right way. But when it did, the difference became unmistakable, one shade deeper than the other. Not dramatic enough to feel mystic or theatrical, just enough to feel arresting. You felt your attention linger a second too long on them.
It was just nerves, you told yourself. Anyone would be a little hyperaware of a new manager, or new expectations, or new dynamics.
It had nothing to do with the way he held himself, or the steadiness of his gaze, or the small smile he gave you, or the quiet confidence in the simple act of saying: “Good morning.”
Yeah, nothing at all.
“Hello.” You smiled back at him, ignoring how clammy your hands felt.
“Welcome to the team.” He said, as if you had always been expected. “I am happy that you decided to join us. We are very much looking forward to your perspective.”
You ignored the way your stomach involuntarily flipped the more you listened to his voice. It was just nerves, you told yourself again.
“Happy to be here.” You said to him instead.
He spent the first few minutes talking about the company, the team he led and that you would be a part of, before turning the conversation back to you.
“I would like to understand your long-term objectives.” He said, looking at his notes before returning to look at you through the camera lens. “Where do you see your skill set expanding and where do you expect friction?”
You blinked. “Friction?”
“I believe that if you are not encountering resistance…” He explained calmly. “You are not operating at your edge.”
You felt yourself lean forward slightly. “I do not mind going against the resistance if I believe, and I know, that my position is correct.”
“I assumed you wouldn’t.” There was a small pause, and the faintest shift in his expression. Approval perhaps? Or at least, you hoped it was that.
He continued by asking you about your previous projects, challenging a few of your conclusions here and there. He was neither aggressive or dismissive in his line of questioning, everything felt deliberate. When you explained why you had pushed back against a former team lead at your old job on a campaign positioning, Baelor listened without interrupting.
“And did you win?” He asked, his voice melodic, with an almost teasing lilt.
“I wasn’t trying to win.” You replied.
“That wasn’t my question.”
You held his gaze through the camera, feeling goosebumps trailing from your neck to your spine.
“Yes.” You answered.
The silence that came over you was measured, not awkward at all.
“Good.” He finally said, making a note of something. “You will not find much tolerance for mediocrity here.”
“I do not do mediocre work.” You replied evenly, not feeling the need to diplomatically dress it as something else.
There was another pause, and his eyes found yours again.
“Good.” He repeated, quieter this time.
The call ended after precisely thirty minutes, and you sat there a moment longer than necessary. There had been nothing inappropriate, flirtatious or personal. It was just a manager meeting and assessing a new hire. And yet, the way he had said ’Good’ the second time, something lingered.
Before you could give it some more thought, your Teams chat pinged with a new message.
Lyonel:
So?
You stared at the message before replying back.
You:
He seems competent at his job
Lyonel:
That’s not what I meant
You ignored him.
Your first proper team meeting began at exactly 1:00 pm later that day. Baelor appeared on the screen without much fanfare, sharply on time again with the same crisp grey shirt, dark hair perfectly in place.
“Good afternoon all.” He said, voice even, measured. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our new team member.”
Your name sounded different in his voice, a faint blush covering your cheeks.
“She joins with a competitive strategy background. I expect she will challenge us in useful ways.”
There was that word, challenge. And he didn’t look at his notes when he said it. He looked directly into the camera, at you. There was something… assessing in his gaze. You straightened instinctively, smiling.
“Welcome!” A few voices chimed in and you recognised Lyonel’s voice easily, your eyes naturally searching for him in the grid.
The meeting moved on after, the team going through updates efficiently. When there was silence, it was always intentional, when someone rambled or went off course, Baelor redirected them with surgical politeness.
During the entire meeting, you remained aware of him. You could not deny it, you thought, he was a handsome man. Not in the effortless or careless way of someone who relied on it. His attractiveness and charm were precise, composed posture and controlled expressions combined. He was the kind of man who was aware of the space he occupied and how he chose to fill it carefully.
You pushed these thoughts to the back of your mind, focusing on the meeting. They were irrelevant, you told yourself, entirely irrelevant.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
By the fifth week, you understood the rhythm of the team. What Baelor expected from the team was structure, clear outcomes, arguments backed by numbers and not just instinct. He also preferred to give his opinion last, which usually meant that everyone adjusted to his opinions.
The meeting that morning was about repositioning a major client campaign. You listened to everyone’s thoughts, took notes. The keywords being thrown out were risk mitigation, conservative rollout, with at least two team members echoed variations of the same caution.
You felt everything was played safe. Too safe actually.
Baelor hummed, before summarising. “So, we’re talking about phased release and controlled messaging. No deviation from the tested framework at all?”
A chorus of yeses followed. Pursing your lips, you decided you had to speak up. And just before you did, there was a small tightening in your chest. The friction he had asked about in your first one-on-one came to mind.
“If we do that…” You said evenly. “We will lose momentum by Q4.”
The silence that followed your statement was heavy. Baelor’s eyes shifted to yours immediately, no hint of annoyance, just curiosity.
“Explain.”
Inhaling deeply, you noted how he did not move on the defensive, or dismissive stance. He took your opinion as a challenge, not defiance, just as Lyonel had told you.
And speak of the devil, a Teams message flitted at the top right corner from him.
Lyonel:
Go get them :)
Pulling your presentation slides, because of course you had prepared one just in case, you shared your screen.
“As you can see from the data gathered from the last two quarters, it shows response spikes during higher-variance content cycles.” You explained. “Instead of adapting, we are proposing to react to this volatility by ignoring it.”
A few people shifted in their chairs. One of the analysts frowned slightly. Baelor didn’t interrupt you and leaned back on his chair.
“If we slow the release…” You continued. “We signal uncertainty. And our competitors will exploit that.”
After that, you canceled your share screen, letting the argument stand. Baelor tilted his head, looking at her directly. You noticed Lyonel’s eye brows had shot up, and you knew it was not because of your words. But you decided not to focus on that, waiting for Baelor to say something.
“So, you are suggesting an accelerated rollout?” He asked, his eyes intensely on you.
“Yes.” Your pulse echoed in your ears. You convinced yourself it was the nerves that you went against Baelor and the team. And not because he was looking at you like… that. Well maybe it was both. Thank God your voice was steady at least.
“What you propose comes with higher exposure risk.”
“But with higher engagement probability.” You were quick to reply.
“Are you comfortable carrying that risk?” He asked after a moment.
Your eyes narrowed. The phrasing was deliberate. You knew what was coming.
“Yes.” You finally answered.
The room suddenly felt warmer. Heat spread through your neck.
“It’s a substantial gamble.” Baelor said calmly.
“It’s a strategic decision.” You replied, just as calm.
His captivating eyes did not leave your gaze. He studied you in that same assessing way from your first one-on-one, except this time there was something sharper behind it.
Your phone started vibrating with messages, but your focus was solely on him.
“You are proposing deviation from established protocol in your fifth week.” He said.
“I am proposing growth.”
A ripple moved through the team, subtle, but there.
After a fraction of a second, his mouth curved. Not in a smile, not quite that. Approval maybe?
Baelor looked around the virtual room. “Any thoughts?”
There were a few cautious ones, a few predictable ones. He listened, nodded and took notes, deliberating. Then he looked back at the camera, at you.
“We will pilot y/n’s model,” he said, his word final. “Limited segment, full metrics tracking. If performance dips below baseline, we revert immediately.”
He did not break eye contact as he added: “You’ll lead it.”
Your pulse jumped again, and you felt light headed. “Understood.”
The meeting moved on from that, but something had shifted. It was not just that he had sided with you, but it was the way he had done so. Public and deliberate, trusting you with something high-visibility instead of barring you from it.
After the call ended, you stood up to go to the kitchen, to grab some water. You finally checked your phone, not surprised that it was Lyonel who spammed you with messages.
Lyonel:
Didnt take you too long to challenge him in a full team meeting
Oh my god! He did the thing!!
The posture!!!
You:
What are you talking about?!
His replies came in very quick succession.
Lyonel:
The posture
The lean
The head tilt
That is his I am intrigued pose
I’ve not seen him do that in more than a year
You telling me you did not notice that??
Of course you had noticed, but you did not think it was a big deal at first. But now…
You:
You are making this bigger than it is. He was just being a competent leader
Lyonel:
Yeah just… a competent leader
You were about to reply to him when you heard Outlook ping with a meeting invite from your manager.
Follow-up: Campaign Acceleration Pilot in 15 minutes. When you joined, he was already there.
“You anticipated resistance.” He said without preamble. “You came prepared.”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed causing friction.” It wasn’t an accusation, instead Baelor said it more as a conclusion.
You held his gaze. “I enjoy showing my competence.”
He had that almost-smile again. “Be careful.” He said.
“Of what?” You asked, slightly confused. Wasn’t he the one who always pushed for this?
“Of winning too quickly.”
Your stomach dropped. “And why is that?”
“Because,” He said, before taking a deep breath. “It changes the way people look at you.”
The silence that followed was different from the others. It was thicker, no longer just professional, no longer safe, no longer hidden behind corporate talk.
“And how do you look at me?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
He did not answer immediately, but he didn’t deflect, didn’t change the topic.
“With interest.” He said at last.
That could be a professional answer. After all, he could just be interested in your career progression, as a manager would and should be. But it was ambiguous enough, for the voice inside your head to go that dark and dangerous route, to that dark corner of your mind.
Truly, you thought, it was undeniably intentional.
“Execute the pilot. Send projections by Thursday.” He said abruptly and the call ended.
Leaning back in your chair, you just sat there, your heart steady, but your mind not. Because that had not been flirting. But it also was.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The second time you contradicted him, it wasn’t planned.
The discussion was about reallocating the budget after early pilot results, your pilot results, and Baelor proposes tightening the expansion until the next quarterly review. You impulsively challenged his cautious and controlled plan to delay the expansion, interrupting him and arguing that hesitation would kill momentum. He methodically dissected your argument, asking you to outline worst case scenarios and reputational risks. In the end, he did not concede to your answers, did not endorse them. He set a condition, send him with a full risk breakdown by the end of the week, making approval contingent on proof.
You were searching for some reports for his ask, when a private Teams message came in nine minutes later after the call. Your eyes widened, as you opened the chat window. He had never reached out by direct message before, he preferred emails and meeting invites to chats.
Baelor:
Well argued.
But you should not have interrupted me.
Your ears thrummed, still staring at the screen, longer than necessary. You started typing a reply, deleted it, then typed it again.
You:
Thank you. And I am sorry for doing that
But was I wrong?
You would not let it go so easily. Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared and then reappeared.
Baelor:
No.
But you challenged me in front of the room.
And there it was, the line that wasn’t quite a reprimand, but it was something sharper than just feedback. You pursed your lips as you wrote your reply, hitting enter before you could regret it.
You:
The numbers needed to be clarified.
Baelor:
You could have waited.
Your jaw tightened as you typed your reply.
You:
And just let the assumption stand?
A longer pause from him this time. The three dots appeared almost instantly, stopped, reappeared…
Baelor:
You assume I would not have corrected it.
You:
Respectfully, I wasn’t trying to undermine you
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, stopped and returned.
Baelor:
I know.
If you were, I would have handled it differently.
Your stomach flipped at that. It was not a threat, but a simple fact. You typed before you lost your nerve.
You:
I just don’t wait when I’m certain
Baelor:
I’ve noticed.
Your pulse stuttered, but you did not get a chance to compose yourself when the next messages hit the chat.
Baelor:
It is one of the reasons I keep you in the room.
Next time, let me finish the sentence.
And then challenge me.
No don’t, just later.
And that was it. You closed the chat window, pushing yourself to forget what he wrote and focus on the reports. He did not reach out to you for the rest of the day, no emails or meeting invites. But the boundary felt less like a wall now, and more like a line drawn in chalk.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It was close to midnight, and you were still up finishing that risk breakdown he asked for. You still had a day before the deadline was up, but you had gotten so honed in on it that you just had to finish it. You emailed it to Baelor and went to take a shower.
When you came back to your home office to grab something, you saw a notification on Teams.
Baelor:
I expected you to send that tomorrow.
You stared at the timestamp, 11:47 p.m., and he was still online.
You:
You asked for it at the end of the week
A pause, then:
Baelor:
Most people interpret that differently.
You:
Well, I am not most people
The reply came faster than it should at that hour.
Baelor:
No. You are not.
The three dots appeared again, lingering longer this time. Your breath was caught in your throat. What was he writing?
Baelor:
Your downside modeling is thorough. In section 3, you assumed a 12% volatility ceiling. Why not 15?
You exhaled slowly. Of course he read the report already, and of course the message was going to be about that. And not something else, something that would make your stomach flutter.
You:
At 15% the narrative collapses regardless of pacing
It took him three seconds to reply.
Baelor:
Good.
You think ahead.
It was not praise exactly, but it was recognition. You closed your laptop five minutes later, your mind still very much awake.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The observation came up casually. You were halfway through your brunch, at your usual table, Lyonel watching you with an expression that meant that he had already decided on something and was waiting for you to catch up to it.
“Do you know what’s worse than the posture?” He asked.
You groaned, embarrassed. Every time Baelor did the posture during a call, which lately it had been every time you spoke, Lyonel would ping your phone.
“Do you have to mention it every time we hang out?” You complained. “And there is nothing worse than the posture.”
“Oh there is.” He leans over the table. “He lowers his voice when he talks to you.”
You look at him for a second, before laughing loudly. “No, he doesn’t!"
“Yes, he does!” Lyonel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Everytime he addresses the team, it’s one tone, controlled. The standard issue.” He tilts his head a bit. “When he talks to you though? It drops.”
“You are just teasing me now.” You tried to deflect.
“I am not.” He retorted, offended at the insinuation.
“You are projecting.”
“I am observing.”
You shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee.
“You really didn’t notice?”
“No.” You hated how you sounded, so uncertain.
Lyonel did not push you further. He just smiled, his eyes teasing. “Oh you’ll hear it now.”
Rolling your eyes, you replied. “I will not.”
But when you had to review a recorded meeting, a routine procedure for you, you remembered his words when Baelor’s voice filled your headset. Even through them, his voice carried that steady, measured tone: composed, deliberate, never rushed. Then, you reached the segment where you had challenged his position about reallocating the expansion metrics. He had been mid-sentence when you interjected. You noted how he turned towards his camera, his mismatched eyes serious.
“Explain.”
Your stomach tightened, rewinding the recording a bit, playing it again. When he was addressing the team, his voice was firm and with clear authority. When you interjected and he spoke to you… It was definitely lower.
You straightened in your chair, skipping ahead and finding another moment, later in the meeting, when you clarified a data point.
“I understand your position.”
There it was again, lower, quieter. Intimate was not the right word, but it was closer than anything else.
Your pulse drummed in your ears. You skipped ahead again, this time to a moment where he addressed another analyst.
“Duncan, walk us through the variance.”
Baelor’s voice was a higher register, firmer. But when he addressed you?
“Y/n, what would you adjust?”
There it was again, the subtle drop, as if the air changed when he spoke to you. You paused the video, staring at the frozen frame of his face.
You are imagining this, you told yourself. You just want to hear it, because you are walking that tight rope between professional admiration and unrelenting crush. It’s nothing! You’d never notice it if it wasn’t for Lyonel.
Blushing furiously, you shot the culprit a text.
You:
I hate you
Lyonel:
??
Oh you heard it, didn’t you?
When you left him on read, he texts again.
Oh my god. You did hear it!!!
You typed back slowly, biting your lip.
It’s probably unintentional.
Immediate reply.
You know that’s worse, right?
You sighed sharply. That was the problem, because if it was intentional, it would be a choice. But if it’s unconscious…
You played one last segment, not knowing what you were hoping to achieve.
“Good…” Baelor said in response to your analysis. Again lower, measured.
Stopping the recording, you pressed your hands to your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth that spread below your stomach. There was no denying it, when Baelor spoke to you, the room disappeared from his voice.
This moved beyond theoretical now, as voice was harder to control, harder to fake, harder to justify. And when the next meeting came, you knew exactly what you were going to listen for.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You were in bed, phone dimmed, doom scrolling mindlessly before sleep when the notification appeared.
Baelor:
Are you awake?
There was absolutely no reason why he should be asking that. And you really should not reply, it was after work afterall. But your fingers did not listen, as they opened the chat and replied.
You:
Yes
The typing indicator appeared immediately.
Baelor:
Revising the expansion deck. Quick question.
If we reframe the pilot as controlled disruption, does that weaken your original argument?
You propped yourself up against your pillows.
You:
Only if you position disruption as instability.
Call it evolution instead?
Three dots appeared, disappeared and reappeared.
Baelor:
You are good at this.
Honestly, his compliments were starting to feel addictive. But this one settled differently. Maybe it was the hour, the quiet, suspended feeling of being awake when the rest of the world was not. Or maybe it was the way the conversation had narrowed, stripped of meetings and agendas and witnesses. The chat window felt smaller somehow, more intimate, like the world outside it did not exist, leaving only the two of you and the glow of the screen.
You:
That’s why you hired me
This time the pause stretched, long enough that you wondered if you overstepped.
Then:
Baelor:
I hired you because you are capable.
Followed by:
I keep you because you are exceptional.
Your pulse quickened in a way that has nothing to do with career validation. There was pride there, sharp and bright, but threaded through it is something more dangerous. Because the “I hired you” was business, the “I keep you” was not.
Baelor:
And because I like watching you work.
Heat climbed up your neck before you could stop it. Because liking your work was one thing, liking watching you do it was something else entirely.
The chat went still after that, and you sighed softly. You set your phone down on your stomach, the quiet pressing in around you.
His last three messages replayed in your mind, not as text, but in his voice. Especially the way it dipped when he spoke to you, subtle, controlled, as it always happened.
You closed your eyes and saw him, his expressions, immediately. The steady eye contact through the camera, the slight tilt of his head when you made a point he had not anticipated, the almost-smile he gave you whenever you challenged him and refused to back down.
You turned onto your side in a huff. This… crush was getting ridiculous. He was your manager, your boss. You had prided yourself on the way you managed your crushes, on your ability to control your emotions, on never blurring the lines.
But…
I keep you because you are exceptional.
You shifted under the sheets, restless, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him. At the way his last messages burrowed in your mind, under your skin, making your blood sing. Your thought about his gaze, the way lately lingered a second too long in meetings. The way his voice lowered whenever he spoke to you, the way he said your name.
You really should not think about that, you should not imagine how your name would sound like on his lips if you were alone in a room. But your body did not care, heat pooling down between your legs, heavy and impossible to ignore.
You breathed slowly, deeply, trying to think about anything else. And failed spectacularly at it, because your mind betrayed you immediately, conjuring an image of Baelor leaning closer than necessary, one hand braced on the desk beside you, close enough that you would feel his warm breath upon your neck, close enough that his voice would not need to carry, close enough that his quiet, measure control would slip, just slightly.
This moved beyond professional admiration, or seeking to impress him, or earning his approval, or enjoying the intellectual sparring. This was about want. And you wanted him, plain and simple. Not just hypothetically, not just intellectually, but physically as well. That thought alone sent another wave of heat through you, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively.
“Fucking unbelievable…” You whispered into the dark. But you did not stop thinking about him.
You imagined the way he would look if that composure fractured, if he stopped choosing restraint, giving way to raw need. Your breath quickened, your hand sliding down the covers, past the waistband of your panties, fingers ghosting over your swollen clit.
You moved slowly at first, testing the edges of your fantasy, dipping into the wetness between your thighs before pressing two fingers firmly against your clit. You imagined his strong hand gripping your waist, thumb tracing your lower lip. You envisioned the way he would say your name when no one else was there to hear it, the way his lips would feel on yours, crashing against yours in a hungry kiss. The way his fingers would feel in you, stretching you, filling you.
Your back arched slightly before you could stop it, a curse falling from your lips. You slid one finger inside your tight heat, pretending that it was his claiming you.
You bit your lip to stifle any sound threatening to escape, as if Baelor could somehow hear you through the silence of the night, sense your secret through the darkness. As if he would know exactly what he had done by ending the conversation the way he did.
You imagined him being there in the room with you, eyes locked on you, guiding you through your pleasure, voice low with approval, praising you.
“That’s it…” His voice echoed in your mind. “Just like that…”
The thought of his controlled gaze snapping, hunger flaring, as he saw the power he had over you, how completely you yielded to him, sent a sharp pulse through your body.
You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucking into your palm, your fingers moving faster, your soft whines and gasps filling the room, as waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your body shuddering in release.
Spent, you laid there, chest heaving and breath uneven, staring at the ceiling, reality slowly seeping in.
This obsession was going to be a problem, you thought. Because tomorrow, during the calls, you knew exactly what your body would remember, how it would react, when Baelor says your name.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You could not pinpoint exactly when it started. Or perhaps you could, but you did not want to admit it. After that night, after lying in the dark with his voice in your head and your body still warm from it, something switched.
Sweatshirts and simple blouses disappeared from the rotation, substituted with tailored blouses and shirts that fit just a little too well. Your hair was styled every morning now, nice and neat. A subtle, but deliberate lip colour was on you before any meeting, not bold enough to invite comment, just deliberate enough to matter.
This is normal, you told yourself, you had always been polished. Baelor set a standard for the team, in work and presentation so you had to reflect that. That was professionalism.
It had nothing to do with how aware you were of the exact moment he joined a call. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary whenever you spoke. Nothing to do with the quiet drop in his voice whenever he said your name. And it certainly had nothing to do with the memory of how easily your body responded to the thought of him.
It was just about standards, you told yourself, about presence. You were allowed to look good.
Adjusting the collar of your shirt, you clicked on the one-on-one meeting link. Today, you had decided to wear a dark red shirt, the fabric having a subtle sheen, and the open collar framing your neck and collarbones. A delicate gold necklace rested lightly against your skin.
You felt good, you knew you looked good. And you tried, very hard, to ignore the somersaults your stomach did while you waited for Baelor to join the call.
By the time he did, you had composed yourself somewhat, greeting him with a smile. He returned it, greeting you in a polite and professional manner. Then his gaze shifted, first to the shirt, then the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you conscious of every detail, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your breath hitched, and you barely heard him for the first moments of the call. But still, you told yourself that it was not anything more than him noticing your shirt.
You wore it again the following week. It was an ordinary Tuesday, and it was the usual team during the call. Yet, there was no reason for your pulse to spike but it did. You told yourself it was because the quarter was intensifying, and leadership visibility was increasing. Of course it was not about Baelor, not him.
When the meeting began, it was the usual routine, team updates, forecast adjustments. You tried your best to focus. Lyonel pinged you on Teams instead of your phone, because he knew you would ignore his texts.
Lyonel:
Why are you dressed like ur about to negotiate a merger?
You still ignored him, keeping your attention on the meeting. Midway through the meeting, someone asked you to walk through the revised projections. As you spoke, you noticed Baelor’s eyes dip, from your face, to your collar, and then back again. Subtle, barely noticeable if you had not been watching him. Your mind screamed: You imagined it, it was nothing, you are projecting…
When you shifted slightly, he looked away. He had stopped, it had been a conscious decision.
When the meeting ended, your Teams pinged. You assumed it was Lyonel again, but your breath caught when you saw the sender.
Baelor:
Your revised projections were well structured.
You were about to reply, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when another message followed.
Baelor:
The dark red suits you.
Your heart lept. For a second you stared at the screen, re-read the message. The words seemed harmless, casual even. But your body reacted before your brain could compose something rational.
You had told yourself it was not about him, you had told yourself you just liked looking put together. But he had noticed. Not the updates, not the projection, not the work. You. And he wanted you to know that he had noticed.
You swallowed and forced your fingers to move.
You:
Thank you
A perfectly simple and neutral response, but your heart was anything but. Now, it’s no longer just the posture, or just the tone of his voice when he addressed you directly. It was a pattern.
The late night messages, lingering eye contact, compliments that stepped half an inch beyond necessary.
Patterns were harder to deny, harder to dismiss as coincidence, harder to explain away as nerves, harder to pretend you were not participating. You leaned back in your chair slowly, heat spreading low and steady.
You could not lie to yourself anymore. He was watching… And you did not mind, because you wanted him to.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It was 12:03am when your phone lit up. You knew who it was, who had texted, before you even looked.
Baelor:
You were right about scaling.
Your stomach flipped, that quiet, familiar drop that had nothing to do with work or analytics. You stared at the phone screen for a moment, before quickly replying.
You:
Metrics came in?
Baelor:
Yes.
A moment passed.
Baelor:
You were confident before the numbers justified it.
Your throat tightened slightly. You could almost hear the way he would say it, calm, measured, faintly impressed.
You:
That is part of the job sometimes
A longer pause this time, you watched the typing indicator appear, disappear, return.
Baelor:
No. That is instinct.
And you trust yours.
The words settled low and warm in your chest. He was not just validating the outcome, he was validating you. Silence stretched between you, charged and deliberate.
You:
And you? Do you trust yours, always?
After a long pause, the three dots flickered, then vanished.
Baelor:
I trust my instinct most of the time. But sometimes it is influenced… by certain details.
Your pulse jumped and your fingers twitched.
You:
Details?
Baelor:
The kind that are not on a slide deck. The kind that cannot be measured.
You bit the inside of your cheek, as you replied. The screen suddenly felt closer, more intimate.
You:
I am not sure what you mean
Baelor:
You do.
Your chest tightened, your mind flailing. He’s joking, you thought. He is being professional, just joking. Keep it clean. Be calm. Focus on slides.
You:
Care to clarify?
Baelor:
I could. But… I think you like discovering some things on your own.
You did not know whether to type or just stare at the words, letting them sink in. Instead you replied:
You:
And here I thought we were talking about work
Baelor:
We are. Mostly. But… work is not just what happens on a slide deck. You have noticed, have you not?
This whole conversation had nothing to do with the pilot, nothing to do with projections or ceilings or controlled disruption anymore. It was unmistakable now, and you both knew it.
You:
I am not sure what to say…
Baelor:
Say nothing. Just think.
You blinked at the screen, his words lingering, teasing, deliberate.
Baelor:
Confidence is rare.
But restraint is rarer.
The digital glow of the screen felt like the only light in the world. Your pulse was racing now, the heat in your chest warm and insistent. This was about him, and you, and the way a single line of text could make your heart trip over itself.
You:
It is late, you should sleep
Baelor:
I could say the same to you. But I suspect neither of us will.
You forced your fingers to move.
You:
Goodnight, Baelor.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Baelor:
Goodnight, Y/n.
The next morning, Lyonel did not even bother to greet you when he sent over two images by text. It was a screenshot of your Teams’ status from last night. And another one of Baelor’s.
You:
You tracking my status?
His too?!
Lyonel:
I’m observing patterns
You:
It was about work
Lyonel:
At midnight?
You:
YES
Lyonel:
Mhmm, midnight chats with your manager
You did not respond. Because that was the problem, it was about work, and slides, and projections and risk ceilings. But it was also:
I hired you because you are capable.
I keep you because you are exceptional.
And because I like watching you work.
And those were not comments about slides, they never were.
You:
It was not like that
You did not immediately send it, because you are not sure what part you were defending. The content of the conversation from the night before, or the way you felt breathless every time when his typing bubble appeared. Or the way your body reacted before the rational part of your mind could. Or the way midnight had started to feel like something to anticipate.
But you knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity, that if tonight your screen lights up again, you would look, and you would respond.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
This meeting was not part of the routine Baelor and you had. It was sudden, adhoc, framed as performance alignment but not you knew it was not just that. He had been acting very strict in the previous two meetings, brows furrowed. He had been short with other team members, and definitely had acted differently towards you.
You joined first this time, and he entered a minute later.
“I’ve reviewed your revised projections.” Baelor jumped straight into the main topic of the call, no pleasantries. “You expanded the risk ceiling again.”
“I refined it.” You retorted.
“You escalated it.”
“Because the data supported it.”
His jaw shifted slightly. “You are comfortable increasing exposure without full predictive modeling.”
“I am comfortable recognizing momentum.” Your voice had risen an octave, and you were breathing hard.
Baelor leaned forward, forearms resting on his desk. “You interrupt me in meetings.”
“I thought you liked a challenge.”
“You assume I would allow it every single time.”
“And here I assumed you respected competence.”
His mismatched eyes sharpened, the air tight. “You enjoy testing me.” He concluded.
“And you enjoy it when I do.” You were not going to let him forget it.
That stopped him in his tracks. Not because your assessment was wrong, but because you said it outloud. He studied you, not anymore as a manager evaluating an employee, but as something else, something more deliberate.
“You are very confident in everything you do.” He tilted his head when he said that.
“Of course.” You all but huffed. “I have to be.”
“And you think that gives you liberty to do as you please?”
“I think my results so far do.”
He looked long and hard at you, before saying quietly. “You think this is about results?”
“What is it about then?” You ask, ignoring the way your hands got clammy and your voice trembled at the end.
Baelor’s nose flared, as he leaned towards the camera more.
“You push me in public.” His voice was dangerously low, sending goosebumps down your spine. “You challenge every controlled decision I make.”
“And you respond every time.” You said.
His gaze to your lips, lingering. The silence that enveloped you was no longer part of the corporate world, it was charged, dense, warm.
“If the circumstances were different-” He began, his mismatched eyes back to yours.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. But he stopped, he did not continue. Yet you did not let him get away with that.
“Different how?”
Baelor exhaled slowly, like a man choosing restraint by force.
“You are ambitious.” He said instead. “And ambition can blur lines.”
“That is not what you were going to say.” You almost whined.
His jaw tightened. “You are pushing it. You are testing boundaries now.”
“I was not aware you set them!”
Your room felt smaller, as if he was in there with you.
“Careful…” He murmured.
“Or what?”
He held your gaze steady now, another deep and slow exhale coming from him.
“Or I stop being patient.”
“You think I want you to be patient?” The words left you before you could stop them.
He inhaled sharply at that, something raw flickering in his expression. “No, I think you do not.”
And that was the closest either of you had come to naming it. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and you could see it clearly, the confession forming. The line neither of you would be unable to uncross.
But then the steel returned, and he stepped back, the distance rebuilt.
“Send me the finalised projections by six.” He said, voice restored to the executive calm. The shift was surgical.
When the call ended moments later, your hands were not steady at all. Because you finally had the confirmation that both of you were in the same boat. And that he wanted to say it. But he was choosing not to, for now.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The following Monday, an HR email went out, inviting everyone for the yearly party, to celebrate the company achieving excellence in the past year. It was mandatory attendance for leadership and selected teams to attend in person, one of them being yours.
You had no chance to digest the fact that you had to be there in person, when Lyonel called you immediately.
“No.” He said.
“Hello to you too.” You sighed. “It’s just a company event.“
“It is not just a company event.” He corrected you. “It’s weeks of unresolved tension, in a physical location.”
You tried to sound unaffected. “Everything will be professional.”
“Oh really?” He asked dryly.
Before you could reply, you heard the Teams notification sound. “I have to go.” You told him, opening the chat.
Baelor:
You will be attending.
Not a question, but not an order either. Just confirmation.
You:
Of course
Baelor:
Good.
It landed differently now, because the both of you knew that remote made it manageable, remote made it abstract. The party was going to be anything but that.
Lyonel texted you, because he knew why you had ended the call.
Lyonel:
If he lowers his voice in person, I am going to file a report to HR
His message almost made you laugh, almost. But something electric hummed under your skin.
For the first time since this what you had considered to be a harmless crush, there will be no screen, no digital barrier.
You would share the air. And the unfinished sentence would hang between you.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The party was louder than you expected. It had been organised in the restaurant on the highest floor of a glitzy hotel a town over, with rooms paid for you and anyone who travelled to attend.
It felt weird seeing people in close proximity, no screens to buffer anything, no one frame in small rectangles.
You were wearing a silk dress in your favourite colour, a cocktail in your hand as you spoke to Duncan. You told yourself you would not look for him. But you still noticed when he appeared.
You saw him before he saw you. He was across the room, wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, a black turtleneck beneath it. His hair was styled masterfully, and his beard trimmed.
He was real, so very real, real height, real presence. Not framed in a rectangle, not compressed by speakers.
Your stomach flipped in ways it had never done before, your throat seizing.
You looked away, telling yourself that you will not seek him out, even if it meant fighting against every fiber of your being. You continued to talk to Duncan, or at least tried to.
But you did not have to wait long, because within fifteen minutes you felt it. The subtle gravitational pull of someone entering your orbit. And when you turned, he was there, close. Not touching, not close to cause any scandal, but close enough.
He greeted everyone, saying your name last, his voice lower, sending shivers across your spine.
“Baelor.” You said in return, trying to keep yourself under control.
“You made it.”
“So did you.”
Something akin to amusement crossed his features. Before any of you could speak, colleagues passed around you, someone clapping Baelor on the shoulder, someone complimenting you on your pilot results.
When your eyes returned to him, a blush crept in when you saw that he had been looking at you. You stood like that for a long moment, the space between you felt separate from the rest of the room.
“So this is you outside of Teams?” He said, sipping his whiskey.
You laughed, a little breathless. “Disappointed?”
“Not even a little.”
The words settled between you, heavier than they should’ve been. He held your gaze, unflinching, like he was curious how long you would let him.
“I did not realize you were this tall.” You said before you could stop yourself.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did not realize a lot of things.” His voice had a teasing lilt.
You took a sip of your drink, trying to be calm.
“Hmm.” He made a sound after noticing your drink.
“What?”
“That’s unexpected.” He replied.
“What is?”
“That.” He pointed at your drink with his. You took a long sip, not moving your eyes from his.
“You disapprove?” You smiled a little.
His gaze drifted slowly from your eyes, to the glass and back. The corner of his mouth lifted into that almost smile.
“Not at all.”
It didn't feel like you were talking about the drink anymore.
Across the room, Lyonel was openly staring at you like he was watching a live disaster unfold. You ignored him, or at least tried to.
You were pulled into different conversations, separated. But the pattern from remote work and calls continued here too.
Every time you moved across the room, you became aware of him again. Every time he laughed at something someone else said, his eyes found yours afterward.
After a while, you slipped out to the terrace for air. Your body felt warm, your pulse unsteady, your mind hazy from being in his presence, from having to be in control. Exhaling, you press yourself against the railing, staring at the city skyline.
You heard soft footsteps trailing behind you, stopping just a little away.
“You have been avoiding me.” Baelor said softly.
You did not turn to face him, cheeks ablaze. “I was networking."
He stepped beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat emanating from him.
“Is that what you are calling it?” He asked, amused. “Well, you have been networking in the opposite direction of wherever I was.”
You fully turned towards him, a small smile on your lips. “You are imagining patterns.”
“Am I now?” He asked, voice husky.
The city lights flickered in the silence that came over you. There was no audience here, no grid of face, no corporate pretense to hide behind. Baelor stepped closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming under the light, his expression unreadable.
“I think I’ve been patient long enough, don’t you think?” He asked quietly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.
Your breath faltered, realising what he was saying. You realized that he was close, close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly more…
Baelor said your name, his voice sounding like a plea and a warning.
You did not give yourself time to think. You stepped forward, closed the distance and pressed your lips firmly upon his.
The kiss was not chaste, nor careful, nor tentative, weeks of restraint collapsed into it. Baelor’s hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, groaning in your mouth. Your hands grabbed onto the lapel of his suit, whimpering when his mouth pressed harder against yours.
His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you there as if he had already decided you were not going anywhere. The kiss deepened, his tongue prodding your mouth, and your thoughts scattered, your knees threatening to follow.
You felt the shift in him, how his control thinned at the edges, his composure gone, replaced by hunger. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand resting at the base of your neck, as if letting you go required a decision he did not want to make.
“This…” He said, his breath ghosting against your lips, voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.”
“Do you regret it?” You hated how your voice trembled, scared at his answer.
“No…” He groaned. “And I am done pretending I do not want it.”
He captured your lips in another kiss, which was slower, deeper than before. When he pulled away again, his eyes were almost black with hunger. His thumb brushed along your jaw, your lips tingling and swollen.
“Come with me.” He said, the words hovering between a plea and a command. Your heart was pounding so hard, so loud, that you were sure he could feel it, hear it. You looked at him, feeling the restraint that was barely holding, the choice sitting between you.
“Yes…”
He studied you for one final moment, making sure he heard you right. Then nodded.
You left separately. He went out first, smoothing his hair and suit as he walked away. You followed five minutes later, ignoring the way Lyonel’s eyes widened from across the room, ignoring your phone vibrating as you neared the elevators.
You were certain your heart was about to leap from its cage as the elevator doors closed, his hand wrapping around yours. The air was tense, and thick, but he did not kiss you, he did not touch you otherwise.
When you reached his floor, he all but dragged you across the corridors. And the moment the hotel room door was shut, he was on you.
This kiss was nothing like the ones before. It was deeper, hungrier, stripped of any restraints. Weeks of charged glances, sharp exchanges unravelled in seconds. He backed you against the door with a soft thud, his hands on your waist. You pushed the jacket off of his shoulders, moaning as his tongue touched yours,before he dove it deeper into your mouth.
He bit your lower lip, spurring you to grab his shoulders, pushing him towards the bed. And he let you.
“Off…” You mewled into the kiss, breaking it so you could remove his turtleneck before diving for his lips again, like a drowned man would dive for air.
His hand cupped your breast, squeezing it firmly, sending a jolt straight to your core. You moaned low, trailing hot, open-mouth kisses along his jaw and neck, tasting the salt of his skin. With a gentle shove, you pushed him to sit on the bed. He watched you with a dark, measured focus as you stepped between his knees. You continued kissing him, lips brushing against his collarbone, continuing your descent until you reached his belt, nipping at the skin above it.
“You do not have to do this.” He said, his voice in a gravely rumble. One hand rose, cupping your face as your fingers worked his belt. His thumb dragged across your lip in a slow and deliberate stroke that made your pulse race. You parted your lips and captured the thumb between them, giving it a soft, teasing, lick before sucking it. He hissed sharply at that.
“I want to…” You said, releasing his thumb with a soft pop. “I really do…”
With his help, you pulled his pants and boxers down, shoving them aside. His cock sprang up, standing proud against his stomach, precum leaking at the tip. The sight of it, the size of it, made your mouth water.
Wrapping your fingers around the base, you dragged your tongue along him before guiding him past your lips, his taste blooming on your tongue. The effect you had on him was immediate. His composure frayed just enough to show you the edge of it. His hand moved to your hair, not forcing, not controlling, just holding, steady and warm against the back of your head. His thumb stroked in silent encouragement.
You continued, taking your time with him, savouring every inch, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm. Heat spread through you like wildfire at his sounds, thighs clenching instinctively instinctively.
“That’s it…” He moaned, his head tipping back in a groan. “Take me deeper…”
You obeyed without hesitation, took him deeper until the head bumped the back of your throat, your jaw stretched. A muffled moan escaped, the sound humming along his length. He made a sound that was something between a moan and a sigh, fingers curling in your hair as he pushed you down, jaw tightening, hips shifting instinctively before he reins himself in. You felt the shift in him, the way control becomes effort.
“You look very good on your knees…” He murmurs, voice rougher now. “Have you been thinking about this?”
You did not answer directly, letting the swirl of your tongue and the hollow of your cheeks do the talking instead. The sound he made this time is lower, less controlled, his fingers flexing in your hair, not pushing, just grounding himself. Just before he lost the last of his restraint, he stopped you, tugging you off with a firm pull, his cock slipping free from your lips with a slick pop.
A glistening strand of saliva stretched between your swollen mouth and his cock. You looked up at him, eyes hazy, utterly drunk on him, his voice, his taste, his presence consuming every sense.
Using the grip on your hair as leverage, Baelor pulled you up into a kiss that was almost punishing in its intensity, his mouth claiming, his breath uneven, all teeth and tongue as he devoured you. He broke away to pull your dress off, a satisfied sigh escaping him at the sight of your dark red lingerie.
His hands cupped your breasts possessively, thumbs brushing over the lace. He dipped his head, pressing hot kisses at the top of your breasts, before he shoved the fabric down, freeing on to the cool air. You back arched as he captured your nipple between his fingers, pinching with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your throat, rolling the hardened peak until it ached deliciously.
One of your hands slid against his hair, tugging him closer, a silent demand for more. Baelor chuckled against your skin, kissing up your neck before slotting his lips against yours.
His other hand slid down your body, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it found the heat between your thighs. His palm pressed flat against you, moaning as he felt the damp fabric. With a swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged them down, you kicked them off eagerly. His middle finger delved between your thighs, parting you slowly. You moaned into his mouth as his finger coated itself in your arousal. He exhaled slowly against you, his finger circling your entrance teasingly, clearly pleased by what he felt.
Looking at you through heavy-lidded eyes, he said. “Sit on my face.”
That was not a request. It was an invitation laced with command.
Your breath got caught in your throat, not from shock, but from the certainty in his tone. He was not asking out of impulse, he was testing whether you would yield the way you had been daring him all this time. You whined softly as he removed his finger and hand from you, and he leaned back on the bed, mismatched eyes never leaving yours. Desire burned in them, tempered by a deliberate patience.
“Come here.” He adds, softer now, but still having that authoritative edge. You hesitated just long enough to let him see the effect he had on you.
Then you moved.
His hands found your hips, guiding you with a firm grip. His thumbs dug into your skin, as if etching the texture of it into his memory. The shift in power is immediate, you were above him, but he was the one in control.
“Trust me.” He murmured against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss on your inner thigh.
You did.
When he pulled you down toward him, his focus was absolute. His hands splayed across your thighs, holding you in place, while his tongue delved between your folds, parting them with a slow, deliberate stroke. A loud moan escaped your throat, your hand moving to his head, your fingers threading into his hair for support. You had thought about his tongue on you so many times over sleepless nights, but you were never prepared for it to be this divine. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue flicked against it, making you see stars.
“Oh fuck, Baelor…” Your cries filled the room, your hips grinding instinctively against his mouth.
“That’s it.” His voice was muffled, the words vibrating against your slick skin. “You don't have to hold back with me.”
With one hand he grabbed your hip ferociously, pinning you in place, exactly where he wanted, while his other hand explored and teased your folds. As his tongue circled your clit with relentless precision, his fingers prodded your entrance, one finger slipping in easily at your wetness, the second following soon after. He crooked them upward, syncing the motion with the pressure of his tongue, hitting that sensitive spot deep within. You could not help but moan brazenly. Every reaction you gave him, each gasp, each shudder, drew a quiet, satisfied sound from his chest, low, approving.
And when your fingers tightened in his hair, when your breathing turned uneven and broken, he tightened his grip more, ensuring you stayed locked against his mouth.
“That is it…” He said again, moaning. “Let me feel you…”
The control in his voice is what undid you. Your hips jerked wildly, chasing your release, his name chanted like a fervent prayer, your walls clamping hard around his thrusting fingers. He did not relent, lapping and sucking through your release, his own groans mingling with yours.
Finally, you clutched his hair, tugging him away from your throbbing core, your hips lifting away from his glistening mouth. He allowed you to move, but not before dragging his tongue along your folds one final time, pressing one last deliberate kiss to your inner thigh, slow and possessive.
Baelor sat up immediately after, pulling you into his lap. Your bodies pressed together seamlessly, skin to skin, heat to heat, his hard cock pressing insistently between your thighs. His hands trailed up your spine, then back down again, deliberate and claiming. Your eyes met his, heavy, with lingering heat, before capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“You did so well.” He whispered.
“I need more Baelor… please…” You begged, rolling your hips, seeking his length.
“Tell me what you need.” He ordered gently, his lips grazing your neck, tongue tracing the junction where it met your shoulder, sucking it gently.
“I… fuck me… Baelor, please…” You moaned, pressing your lips on his forehead in desperation.
He shifted, rolling you onto your back beneath him, reclaiming the upper hand without breaking eye contact. He settled between your thighs, his hard cock nudging against your entrance, coating itself in your wetness.
“Still confident?” He asked, trailing his mouth along your jawline.
You nodded, breathless.
“Say it.”
“Yes.”
His control finally fractured, and he claimed your mouth in a fierce kiss, like he was done waiting. Like every restrained meeting, every late-night message, every almost-confession had been building to this exact moment. And when he entered you, it was deliberate and unhurried at first, inch by inch until he buried himself fully inside you. He watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, a low groan escaping him as your walls stretched around his length.
His forehead rested against yours as he began to thrust, one arm braced beside your head. He set the rhythm, deliberate, unyielding strokes that built gradually, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You could not help but arch up to meet his thrusts, cries spilling out as you clutched his shoulders, the pace intensifying with each collision.
The sound of his hips meeting yours filled the room, his grunts accompanying your moans and whimpers like a raw harmony. His fingers dug into your hip hard and tight, and you were sure it would bruise.
“You are doing so well…” Baelor praised you, his breath fanning your lips. “You are taking me so well… like you were made for me…”
Words failed you, your mind blanking as the thick drag of him filled and withdrew from your core. Baelor chuckled lightly, very pleased with your reaction, your surrender, moaning deeply when your walls clenched tight and warm around him in response. He angled his hips sharper, driving deeper to strike that hidden spot. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit in firm, circling motions that matched his deep thrusts.
Heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement, every whisper, every brush of his touch. Your breath hitched and your heart raced, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own.
“Baelor…” You gasped his name, teetering on the edge of desperation and release.
Climax ripped through you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around him, leaving you trembling and breathless.
“You are so perfect…” Baelor said, riding the wave of your release with you. “So flawless…”
His composure frayed as he pursued his own peak, his control slipping. He moaned at the tightness around him, his breath turning uneven, his rhythm faltering into erratic thrusts.
A few more powerful strokes and he came, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips. You stayed like that for a while, his body heavy and comforting atop yours, trying to catch your breath. He kissed you tenderly then, his thumb brushing your cheek, murmuring and praising you.He pulled back just enough to brush his fingers lightly over your skin, tracing the heat still lingering along your arms and shoulders.
His voice was low, grounding you when he asked. “Are you okay?”
When you nodded, he let a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The two of you drew in sharp breaths, and you moaned lowly when he eased his cock out from you, the sudden emptiness making your inner walls flutter desperately around nothing.
His fingers combed through your hair soothingly, before going to the bathroom to fetch a towel and run it under warm water. Returning, Baelor knelt beside you, dabbing the towel gently against your sensitive folds, every movement filled with deliberate care, a contrast to the fire and intensity you had just shared. He finally joined you under the covers, his heat enveloping you, your bodies shifting together, limbs entwining, tangled in sheets that would not stay in place.
He kept you close, hand resting possessively at your hip, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin.
“You are,” He said quietly into your hair. “Exceptionally dangerous.”
You smiled against his chest, pressing a kiss just above his heart. “You started it.”
A low hum of disagreement passed through him.
“No.” He replied. “You did.”
The sheets are half twisted around your legs, the air thick and warm and still humming with what you had just done. Baelor stayed exactly where he was, not rolling away, or reaching for his phone. You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His hair was a mess, his beard still slick with your release, his breathing finally steadying. But his eyes, when they met yours, are clear, focused.
“You are being very quiet.” You whispered.
“I’m thinking.”
“Hmm… dangerous.” You snuggled close to him.
A faint chuckle escaped him. “Yes.”
There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment between you. Just a charged stillness that felt almost more intimate than what came before.
He moved slightly, rolling you more fully against him. His palm slid up your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you by touch alone.
“You surprised me…” He said quietly.
“Well, that was the intention.”
His gaze sharpened, his fingers grasping your chin, making you look at him. “No. Not that.” His thumb traced your lower lip. “You trusted me.”
The weight of that landed heavier than anything else tonight.
You did not joke this time. “I would not have come upstairs if I did not.”
Something changed in his expression then, almost imperceptible. His dominance softened, not disappearing, just settling into something steadier. He brushed his nose lightly against your temple.
“You should know…” He said, voice low, “If we continue this… I will not be casual about it.”
Your pulse jumped, eyes widening a little. “That sounds suspiciously like a warning.”
“It is.”
He leaned back just enough to look at you fully.
“I do not divide my attention easily. And I don’t compete.”
“Are you staking a claim?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
The honesty in which he said it stole your breath. He kissed you then, slower, less urgent, like a seal pressed onto something neither of you intended to undo.
You slid your hand slowly up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.
“So you are not going to pretend this did not happen on Monday, are you?” You asked quietly.
A soft, amused exhale escaped him, his eyes warm. “Absolutely not.”
Your blood sang at that, at that confirmation, not knowing how much you needed it.
“You do realize…” You said lightly, though your voice was not entirely steady. “This makes work infinitely more complicated.”
“I am aware.”
“And?”
“And I have decided it is worth it.”
The certainty in that answer was almost more dangerous than his touch had been. Then his hand tightened slightly at your waist.
“Come here.” He murmured.
You were already pressed against him, but he pulled you closer anyway, tucking you beneath his chin. His fingers threaded lazily through your hair now.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Outside, somewhere below, the city moves on like nothing monumental just shifted. But it had, because this was not just physical. This was weeks of tension turned real.
“You should sleep.” He said softly.
“Is that an order?”
“It is care.”
You huffed indignant, but did not stop the wide smile that spread on your lips.
And when the lights finally dimmed and the room fell quiet, he kept one hand anchored at your waist like he expected you to stay.
You had already decided that you would.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
Come Monday morning, you were back in neat squares, screens aligned, everything professional and composed.
Baelor’s voice cut through the grid, low as he called your name. “Your thoughts?”
You held his gaze through the camera, long enough to feel the pull. You smiled at the subtle shift that came in as he leaned in and tilted his head.
“I think we should be bold.”
A faint smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I agree.”
As the meeting moved on to other topics, a notification blinked in the corner of your screen. Your stomach fluttered, every nerve alert, you could not ignore the way he seemed to unravel you with just a message.
Baelor:
We need to discuss boundaries at work.
You:
We do
Three dots lingered, before the message came.
Baelor:
Dinner tonight?
You:
Yes, I’d love that
You stared at the chat, smiling widely. Across the grid, you did not notice Lyonel’s camera had fully turned on, and he was watching you like he could read everything before you even typed it, a big grin on his face.
You did not need to pretend it was professional anymore.
Today is a really bad day for me, so my little angsty request is: how would the characters in Akotsk react when the reader bursts into tears in front of them after a rough day, because most people have always made her feel like a burden or like she was worthless no matter how hard she tried.
akotsk ─── headcanons | reader bursts into tears in front of them after a rough day
──── Aerion Brightflame
So bad at comforting someone it's not even funny.
Like freezes and don't know what the fuck to do.
'Who?'
What he can offer is getting rid of the one that made you feel like that and would gladly do so.
Gets you into bed and tries to awkwardly wipe your tears off.
'Dragon ought not to cry like ladies.'
He said that to you at some point 100%
He'd just really sit there and just listen to you cry and vent about what happened.
Not a very good listener and would probably roll his eyes for a few times but let's you cry how long you wants before you calm down at your own.
Calls maids to bring you whatever you want - tea? bath? a fireplace started again? you got it.
He will indeed try to coax from you who were the reason of it and then probably do something... bad let's say at least.
Let's you cling to him in bed - claims not to be a huge fan of it but he will let you snuggle against his chest for warmth
Yes he CLAIMS not to be a cuddler but secretly loves to play with your hair when you lay in bed together.
──── Daeron the Drunken
I think he either sucks at comforting someone or is like #3 the best at that.
Cuz hear me out - this man have so many feelings, is so miserable and hurt himself that I think you'd have a really good venting session with him.
At fist he's confused - not startled nor panicking. I think he'd simply try to grasp what is happening before reacting.
Gets you somewhere secluded - a chamber more likely and preferably.
Tells you to take deep breaths so you can ablet to at least tell him what happened, what is the cause of your tears or are you hurt.
When you finally tells him what people were saying at you he's pissed off but not surprised.
And not because he thinks they are right or you deserved it. NO!
He simply knows how cruel a court can be cruel especially to ladies but he himself hears whispers and cruel comments about him too.
Gives you wine - not to get you drunk but to hydrate you.
The only liquid he had in the chamber so that's why wine too.
Offers to listen to you while actively rubs your shoulder, back or knee to get rid of the tension - something his mother did when he was a boy.
If you want to get drunk he's not complaining but would genuinely prefer if you didn't drowned your sadness in liquor even if he does so.
Would try to make you laugh with some stupid jokes or stories about his drunkard escapades.
──── Maekar the Anvil
'Oh god not this again.'
He's so stressed already he genuinely can't handle this now too.
But he tries his best while actively trying to hold back his expressions since his face always speaks first.
Naturally he's concerned - why? what happened? why are you crying so suddenly?
Maybe not the last one cuz this man is a watcher - he saw the tension, the held back tears and wobble of your lip way before you let the tears fall.
He simply didn't know when they will come.
Demand you to tell him what happened. At once.
Oh and he IS getting this person out of the court - or at least trying to.
He isn't very good at comforting people either. Feels awkward when you seek some physical contact but doesn't push you away - even wrap his arms around you.
You simply sit in silence until you pull away - he never pulls away first.
Wants to get your comfortable and soothed.
Warm sheets, tea on the nightstand, you're tucked in bed, warm, cozy and ready to have a nice nap after so many emotions being let go off.
He has six children and all of them were passing out in his arms as kids when he was carrying them to their chamber after a tantrum. So he knows sleep is one of the best thing someone can do after something like that.
Doesn't join you in bed.
Waits until you dozed off and makes sure you're comfy before storming off to settle whatever makes you think so bad.
──── Baelor Breakspear
Number one when it comes to comforting people.
Moves the moment tears threaten to fa from your eyes and quickly pulls you into his chest.
Simply lets you cry into his chest while his hand strokes you hair.
Whispers and reassurance.
He tells you to let it all out - simply, just cry until all sadness is out or until you have no tears left.
Sits you down and ask maid to bring you some water - wants you to stay hydrated.
if you get a headache from all the crying he doesn't call for maester, simply for a medicine from him since he doesn't need nor want people interrupting you right now.
Don't let go of you all that time.
If you want to go to bed, he has no problem with that, if you want to stay by the fireplace, do as you wish.
Despite knowing he has matters at hand, he tells everybody that he must tend to them later and that now he cannot be bothered.
If you wanted he'd draw you a bath. Himself. No maids, no servants nobody.
Just him and you.
And he finds it very comforting himself - preparing you a bath.
Adding your favorite oils and lighting candles or incense.
There's simply something so calming about doing that.
Would also bathe you himself. Doesn't join you in bath but rubs your skin with the soap and water, wash the tear streaks off your face, wash your hair before combing it.
──── Valarr the Young Prince
Like second best at calming someone.
He got it from his dad ofc.
At first would be shocked, startled even by your tears before quickly guiding you to the privacy of your chamber, away from the prying eyes.
Tells you to calm down first - stroke your cheeks, plant kisses on your forehead, wipes your tears.
Then he wants you to tell him the reason.
Oh and that's when he's getting mad - he doesn't show it, doesn't need you to see his emotions while dealing with your own so he simply holds back from storming from the chamber and finding whoever did that.
He simply comforts you.
His lips on your face, his words whispered into your ear. Anything to bring you comfort.
Would probably want you to lay down - after crying it's common that one can feel a little dizzy so he doesn't wanto to risk it.
Gladly lies next to you but only when you ask. He has no problem with sitting by the side of the bed with your hand in his.
Promises you to be there when you wake up.
Trying to coax you into going to sleep to regain your strength.
'My love... you ought to sleep, it would do you good... simply rest your head on the pillow, let yourself go to sleep.'
And he actually is by your side the next morning - skipped his morning training just to keep his word.
──── Aegon the Egg (platonical)
'Is this because of Aerion?' - probably the first thing he asked.
Tries to remember what his mother did when he or his sisters were crying.
Brings you something to drink and something to sweet since sweets always helped him get better.
Would want to hear what happened even if he wouldn't understand it fully.
Egg would actually be pouting if you didn't tell him why you're crying, simply because you don't want to trouble his childish mind.
He thinks using the fact that he's a prince would make you talk.
If he got a name of whoever did that would probably tell Dunk what happened and plead he fix it somehow or his father to demand justice.
Holding your hand when you calms down cuz he's a sweet boy.
──── Duncan the Tall
Panics. Like really panics.
Poor guy would probably think he did something and that you're crying because of him.
Ser Arlan never was the one to comfort him and he most certainly did not learn it on the streets of Flea Bottom so he's unsure what he should do.
'My Lady... perhaps we go sit somewhere, I'll have my squire bring something warm to drink.'
Takes you to sit under a tree when he currently sleeps or to sit by the river so the sound of water would calm you.
He's fidgeting the whole time - praying to all gods he knows that it isn't his fault.
'My Lady... if I am the reason of your distress then know that it was never my intent to hurt you in any way.'
When you tell him what happened he frowns only, trying to understand why would someone treat you in this way.
'So dishonorable.' he mutters before handing you whatever warm drink Egg brought.
You simply sit together, letting the sound of nature calm you.
After a while you'd feel his hand sliding into yours to hold it and offer quiet comfort.
Thank you for your ask and I hope I made it at least a bit better! <333
summary: breaking up with aerion targaryen was the easy part. though nothing was truly ever easy when it came to him. it was everything after that nearly broke you, but you found out too late that it had only just began. (6k+)
pairing: aerion targaryen x fem!reader
content: modern au, dark themes, obsessive/possessive behaviour, stalking, harassment, abusive relationship, physical violence, non-con (implied/non-graphic), coercive control, threats, toxic relationship, unhealthy dynamics, drug use, alcohol use, blood mention, 18+ (MDNI)
note: please take in consideration this is a dark fic! if you aren’t comfortable with the tags (it’s aerion what do u expect), please scroll past. any hate will be blocked! i also wanted to give credits since i was inspired by a scene of one of rafe’s fic @/cherienymphes had written, for the ending of the last scene of my fic!
Nobody warned you that breaking up with someone didn’t necessarily mean they left.
You had done everything right, technically. You had the conversation, said what needed to be said, walked out when it was done. You had not cried in front of him, which you were quietly proud of. You had gone home and sat on the bathroom floor and cried there instead, which felt like a more dignified arrangement. And then you had gotten up and wash your faced, telling yourself that was the hard part over with.
What nobody mentioned was the part that came after.
Aerion had not argued when you ended it. That was the thing you kept turning over in the weeks that followed, lying awake at two in the morning while your phone lit up on the nightstand with yet another number you didn't recognise. It was probably the thirtieth number you had blocked throughout the whole month.
You understood now that his silence had not been acceptance.
It had been Aerion deciding he was going to handle this his own way, on his own timeline, and that your opinion on the matter wasn't something he particularly cared about.
The messages were the worst part. When he was high off whatever his friends put in front of him, or whatever he got from the provider he had been loyal to since college, you knew it immediately from the way the texts came in.
UNKNOWN: you're going to fucking run back to me. you always do.
UNKNOWN: you think hiding away forever is the solution. i need you. that night was a fucking mistake.
That night.
You hadn't even noticed your eyes beginning to water until they were. The memory of it arrived the way it always did, without permission. Him drinking, sniffing whatever was put in front of him after yet another argument with his father, a man who expected everything from a son who had already given up everything trying to prove he was worth it. Aerion had been wound tight all evening, looking for somewhere to put it.
And he found that somewhere.
Valarr, his cousin, your friend since you were teenagers, had called you pretty. The same way he always did, the same easy compliment he had given you a hundred times over the years. It had never meant anything. It had never been meant as anything. But Aerion had not been in the mood for context that night, and you had paid for it.
It wasn't like the other times, where his hands would find your throat until your vision spotted and then he would let go, coming back to himself, apologising over and over in that way that left you no room to do anything but accept it because of the hold he had on you even in those moments. Those times you had told yourself it was the drink, or the coke, or his father, or something outside of him that turned him into that. You had been very good at finding things to blame that weren't him.
That night he had taken you forcibly, ignoring your pleas, ignoring your apologies, and you still didn’t fully understand why you had apologised at all. Like the instinct to make yourself smaller had been so deeply worn into you by then that it came out even that, even in that. He ignored all of it. Took you over and over again, leaving bruises each time, his hand at your throat until the edges of everything went dark and you weren't sure for a moment which way it was going to go.
That night was different. That night he did not come back to himself. Or maybe he had, and that was the thought you couldn't stop sitting with.
You had never wanted to forgive him for it. You had wanted out before things got to a place there was no coming back from. So you left. And then you found out that leaving and being free were not the same thing at all.
You stared into the pool, eyes fixed on the way the sun moved across the surface of the water while your best friends Kiera and Ella talked beside you. You were not in the mood to talk but you were not in the mood to be alone either. You had been alone for the past few months, barely leaving your room, half convinced that if you went anywhere he would find you. That somehow, no matter where you went, he would already know.
Which was not as irrational a fear as it probably sounded.
He had always known things he shouldn't. Where you were, who you were with, what time you finished work on any given day. When you were still together you had told yourself it was because he paid attention, that it was a kind of love, the obsessive cataloguing of you. Now you understood it for what it was. A man who had decided a long time ago that you were something he owned, and had acted accordingly ever since.
The bruises had faded. That was the thing about bruises, they always faded, and then there was nothing left to show anyone and you were just a girl with a story that sounded worse every time you tried to say it out loud.
You had not told anyone. Not Kiera, not Ella, not a single person. They knew something had happened, you could tell from the way they looked at you, that careful soft-footed way people looked at someone they thought might shatter if they pressed too hard. They thought you were heartbroken. You let them think that because heartbroken was something they could understand and sit with, heartbroken had a shape to it, a timeline. What you were carrying did not have a shape. It just had weight.
There was another reason you hadn't said anything, one you didn't like to look at directly. Aerion had never made an explicit threat. He didn't need to. It was in the way he had looked at you once, early in the relationship, when you had mentioned offhand that you had told your mother something small and private about him. Nothing serious. Just a passing comment. The way his expression had gone very still spoke volumes.
He had told you that time that you should be more careful with what you said to people about him.
You had understood the shape of that perfectly. You had not needed it repeated. Some part of you, the part that had learned to read him the way you read weather, knew without being told what it would mean if the wrong person heard the right thing. Aerion did not make empty gestures. He did not say things he didn't mean.
So you smiled and nodded when Kiera asked if you were okay. You sat in the sun and let Ella talk and made the right noises at the right moments and kept everything that mattered locked somewhere behind your sternum where it was at least safe, even if it wasn't comfortable.
Your phone was face down on the lounger beside you. You had stopped turning it over to check it because checking it had started to feel like something he had trained you to do. Like a reflex that belonged to him rather than you. Screen lights up, stomach drops, and somewhere across the city Aerion Targaryen gets exactly what he wanted. You were trying, very deliberately, to stop giving him things he wanted.
UNKNOWN: i know where you are.
That one had come through at eleven last night. No follow up. Just that, sitting there on your screen, and you had put the phone face down and stared at the ceiling for an hour and told yourself it was a bluff. That he was just saying it to see what you would do. That he didn't actually know.
You were not entirely sure it was a bluff.
"You've gone quiet," Ella said beside you.
"I'm always quiet," you said.
She nudged your shoulder and said something about the guy across the pool and went back to talking to Kiera, and you smiled at the right moment and nodded and let the conversation wash over you like background noise.
Your phone buzzed against the lounger.
You felt it before you saw it. That specific dread, low in the stomach, that you had developed somewhere around the second week after the breakup and had not been able to shake since. You reached over and turned it face up without letting your expression change.
UNKNOWN: i'm sorry. you know i'm sorry. i just need you to talk to me, five minutes, that's all i'm asking. you can't keep doing this to me.
UNKNOWN: you're seriously going to throw away two years over one night. one night.
UNKNOWN: pick up the phone. i know you're seeing these.
UNKNOWN: i love you. why are you doing this to me.
You turned the phone back over.
One night. That was what he called it. One night, like it was a misunderstanding, like it was something that had happened to both of you equally, like you were the one being unreasonable for not getting over it. You had noticed he never said what that night actually was. Never named it. Just called it a mistake, called it one night, kept it vague in a way that made it easier for him to believe whatever version of it he had constructed for himself.
You stared at the water.
Even if you had wanted to do something about it, the thought of it was almost funny in a way that had no humour in it at all. The Targaryens had money that went back further than anyone in this city could trace, and what came with that kind of money was the kind of reach that meant things disappeared. Complaints. Records. People, sometimes, you suspected, though you had no proof of that and did not want proof of that. His father sat on the board of half the institutions in the city. His uncle had been a judge for twenty years. You had heard Aerion mention, once, casually, the name of the chief of police at a dinner like it was someone he had known since childhood.
Because it was someone he had known since childhood.
You had nowhere to go with any of it. That was the thing nobody told you about this kind of situation, the particular helplessness of it. It wasn't just that you were scared. It was that being scared was completely rational and there was nothing you could do with that except sit with it.
It was a gathering where you saw him next.
Your parents had given you no real choice in the matter. It was Aerion's father's birthday celebration, held at the Targaryen estate the way all their events were, because the Targaryens did not go anywhere to be entertained, people came to them. Your parents had been close with them for long enough that declining was not a conversation anyone was willing to have. Not that they had asked you. They had told you, the way they told you most things, with the assumption that you would arrange yourself accordingly.
You had tried anyway.
"I don't feel well," you had said that morning, which was true in every sense that mattered.
Your mother had looked at you over her coffee with the expression she reserved for things she had already decided. "You'll feel better once you're dressed."
"Mum."
"We're not doing this today." She had set her cup down and that was the end of it.
So here you were, walking through the doors of a house that had always made you feel small, not because it was unwelcoming but because it was the kind of place that was designed to remind you of the distance between what you had and what the Targaryens had. Every room was immaculate. Every surface deliberate. You had been here before, plenty of times, and it had never stopped feeling like walking into somewhere you had to behave yourself in a dress your mother had picked out, with your back straight because she had tapped it twice and looked at you in the way that meant she was watching.
"Put a smile on your face," she said now, fixing your dress strap with brisk efficient hands. "You look miserable."
"I feel sick," you said. "I told you I didn't want to come. Maybe that's why I look miserable."
"You're here now so make the best of it." She smoothed the strap and stepped back to look at you. "You're representing this family tonight, act like it."
"I'm always representing this family," you said, quietly enough that she chose not to hear it.
Your father had already drifted toward a group of men near the bar, that particular energy he got at these things, the one where he became slightly larger than his usual size, louder, readier to laugh. He and two other men were already congratulating each other on something, the way they always did, finding new occasions to celebrate the fact of their own wealth. It made your stomach turn in a way that had nothing to do with Aerion and everything to do with the simple fact that you had been brought to this place like an accessory and were now expected to perform accordingly.
"Go and say hello to the Strongs," your mother said, already turning toward someone she recognised across the room. "And smile, for god's sake."
You smiled. It didn't reach anywhere near your eyes but it was a smile, technically, and that was what was being asked of you.
You took a glass from a passing tray and stood near the edge of the room and kept your back to the door and told yourself you were fine. That he was probably not even here yet. That you could get through one evening. That you had gotten through worse.
You had, in fact, gotten through worse.
You were still telling yourself that when you felt it. That pressure at the back of your neck. The feeling of being watched by someone who wanted you to know they were watching.
You did not turn around.
You took a sip of your drink and fixed your eyes on the middle distance and kept your face completely still and thought, very clearly, do not turn around.
Your mother reappeared at your elbow with the bright social smile she wore at these things like a second outfit. "Doesn't this look wonderful," she said, meaning the room, meaning the flowers, meaning all of it. "The Targaryens really do know how to put on an event."
"They really do," you said.
"Are you going to stand here all evening or are you going to circulate?"
"I was going to stand here for a few more minutes," you said. "Then circulate."
She gave you a look. "Your father and I didn't raise you to stand in corners."
"I'm not in a corner, I'm near a wall."
"Don't be smart." But there was a flicker of something almost amused in her face before she smoothed it away. She touched your arm briefly. "I know you didn't want to come. I know things have been hard lately." A pause, the closest she was going to get to asking. "Are you alright?"
You looked at her. Your mother, who loved you in the practical unsentimental way of someone who had never quite learned how to say it plainly.
"I'm fine," you said. "I promise."
She looked at you for a moment longer than usual. Then she nodded and someone called her name across the room and she was gone, and you were alone again with your drink and your straight back and that feeling at the back of your neck that had not gone away.
You turned around.
He was across the room, glass in hand, talking to someone you didn't recognise, and he was already looking at you. He had probably been looking at you since the moment you walked in. His expression was unreadable in the way it always was when he was being careful, and he did not look away when your eyes met his, and neither did you, for three seconds, four, and then you looked away first because you always looked away first and you hated yourself a little for it every time.
You took another sip of your drink.
You were fine.
As time passed and your mother finally stopped circling back to check on you every ten minutes, you slipped out unnoticed. No one saw you go. That was the thing about these gatherings, everyone was too busy performing for each other to notice when someone left the room.
You had always loved their garden. Even as a child coming here with your parents you had liked it, the scale of it, the way it felt like a different world from the noise inside. The lawn was immaculate the way everything the Targaryens owned was immaculate, and the pool lights cast everything in shifting blue, and the party behind you became background noise, then less than that. You sat down on one of the tanning beds beside the pool and set your drink on the stone beside you and looked at the water and let yourself just breathe for a moment.
You let yourself think about it out here, away from the performance of being fine. How he had not always been like this. As children he had been different with you than he was with everyone else, quieter, less sharp. In the years at the private academy he had looked out for you in ways that had felt, at the time, like straightforward kindness. You had thought you were special to him. You had thought it meant something.
Now you wondered if it had just been the earliest version of what came later. Control dressed up as care, years before he had anything to control. The thought sat in your chest like something cold.
He wasn't always the way he was now. You knew that. But you also knew that people who had been given everything their entire lives had a particular way of turning when something didn't go the way they expected. When the thing they wanted didn't come easily. When someone had the nerve to leave.
"Finally stopped hiding from me?"
You went rigid. The voice came from directly behind you, low and unhurried, and every muscle in your body locked at once. You could not make yourself stand. You could not make yourself turn around. You just sat there with your hands in your lap and your eyes on the water and said nothing.
He came around to the side of the tanning bed, not in front of you, beside you, and when you still would not look at him he waited. He was patient like that. He had always been patient when it served him.
"Look at me," he said.
You looked at the pool.
He made a quiet sound, not quite a laugh. He reached out and put two fingers under your chin the way he used to and turned your face toward his, and you let him because resisting felt more dangerous than not resisting, and that was the calculation you had learned to make without thinking.
He looked awful and beautiful the way he always did, pale eyes and that jaw and the specific way he held himself when he was angry and keeping it contained, which you recognised because you had seen it enough times to know what came after it. There was a muscle working in the side of his face. His eyes moved over you the way they always did, like he was taking inventory of something that belonged to him.
"You've been avoiding me all night," he said.
"I just needed some air," you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt, which was the one small mercy.
"You've been avoiding me for three months actually." His thumb pressed once against your jaw, not painful, not yet, just there, just reminding you it was there. "Did you think I was going to let that go on forever."
You said nothing.
"Answer me."
"I didn't think anything," you said. "I just needed space."
Something shifted in his face. The contained quality cracked slightly at the edges and what came through underneath it was wose than anger, it was the particular cold of someone who had already decided how this was going to go and was now just moving through the steps of it.
Without much thought, you stood up, putting distance between you too, because sitting while he stood felt like exactly the wrong position to be in, some instinct you had developed along the way you couldn’t have explained but trusted.
He was taller than you and he used it, stepping closer so you jad to tilt your head back to look at him, the pool light catching the pale of his eyes and making them look like something not quite warm.
"Space," he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it ridiculous.
"Aerion."
"Three months," he said. "You blocked my numbers. You had your mother turn me away at the door, telling me some bullshit excuse of how you're sick. You stood inside that room tonight and looked at me like I was someone you didn't know." His voice was very quiet, which was worse than if it had been loud. "And now you want to tell me you needed space."
"I want to go back inside," you said.
"No you don't."
"I'm going back inside."
You moved to step around him and his hand closed around your wrist,quite roughly, and you stopped. You both stood there in the blue light of the garden with the party a distant murmur behind the glass and his hand around your wrist and you not pulling away, your feet being stuck on the ground by some invisible force. The grip on your wrist became tighter as you tried pulling on it. Tears threatened to spill that moment, but you didn’t want him to think he still had a effect on you.
"I'm not done talking to you," he said.
"Aerion, let go."
He didn't.
"I have been patient," he said, and something in the word patient made your skin go cold, the specific way he said it, like patience was something he had extended to you as a favour and was now considering withdrawing. "Three months is patient. Most people would not have been patient."
You looked up at him and kept your face very still and said nothing.
"Nothing." He let out a short breath through his nose, something that might have been a laugh if it had any warmth in it. "After everything. After two years. You've got nothing." His voice climbed slightly on the last word, not loud enough to carry to the house, just loud enough that you felt it.
"Please let go of my wrist."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he released it, slowly, one finger at a time, watching your face the whole time he did it.
"You can hide in your room," he said, his voice dropping back down to that quiet register that was worse than the louder one. "You can ignore every number I call from, stay inside, pretend I don't exist. But we both know, princess, that I'll get my way eventually." The smile that came onto his face then did not reach his eyes at all. "I'm giving you the choice. That's me being generous. But if you make me force my hand." He tilted his head slightly. "You know how I get when you force my hand."
He raised one finger and pointed it at you, slow and deliberate, the way someone corrected a child who had done something stupid.
"You've never been dumb. Don't start now."
Your voice came out before you had decided to use it. "You think I'm going to come running back to you." It cracked on the last word. You felt it crack and hated it.
"You almost killed me." The words came out of you like something that had been sitting behind your teeth for three months waiting. "That night. Because my friend complimented me. Your own cousin said I looked pretty and you almost killed me for it."
Something moved across his face. He stepped forward and you stepped back and then his hands were on either side of your face, both of them, palms against your cheeks and fingers pressing in just past the point of comfortable, and he put his forehead against yours and looked at you from an inch away.
"I told you it was an accident." His voice was rough at the edges in a way that might have sounded like remorse if you didn't know him. "I'm sorry. I told you I was sorry. I needed you and you left me like I was nothing." His fingers pressed harder into your cheeks. "Like I was some dog you got tired of."
The pool light made strange shadows of his face this close. You could feel his breath. Your hands came up and pushed against his chest and he stepped back, one step, two, and let you create the distance, and you understood without being told that he was letting you because he was choosing to and not for any other reason.
"I said sorry." His jaw was tight. "How many times do I have to—"
"I don't care." Your voice was steady now, steadier than it had any right to be. "We're done. Leave me alone."
You turned and walked back toward the house. Even pace. Head up. You did not look back and you did not run, because if he got his hands on you again out here in the dark with nobody watching, some part of you understood very clearly that the walk back inside might not happen at all.
You were a mess.
That was the only honest way to put it. Kiera and Ella had dragged you to some college party at a house that belonged to somebody's parents, which meant every surface was sticky and the drinks were strong and nobody was being careful about anything. You had told yourself it would help. Getting out of your room, being around people, letting the noise of it drown out the noise of your own head for a few hours.
It had not helped.
It had been another month since the birthday party. Another month of the truck appearing two cars back when you drove to the store. Another month of watching Kiera's driveway from her bedroom window and seeing headlights sitting at the end of the road that didn't belong to anyone on the stree, except for a certain someone. You had started checking the bears he had given you throughout the relationship, the stuffed ones that sat on your shelf that you hadn't been able to throw out, pulling at the seams and turning them inside out looking for something small and black and electronic. You had found nothing. You didn't feel better for finding nothing.
The paranoia had weight to it now. It sat on you even when there was nothing to justify it, which maybe meant you were losing your mind, or maybe meant you had simply learned to read him well enough that your body stayed afraid even when your eyes couldn't find a reason.
Nobody at this party knew any of that. They knew you and Aerion had broken up. You had said something vague about it not working out, the kind of language that closed a conversation before it could open. Your mother even still lit up hopefully every time his name came up, convinced that whatever had happened was the kind of thing that sorted itself out with time. You had stopped correcting her. It was easier.
You sat on the porch steps with a bottle of water Kiera had pressed into your hands and tried to make the world stop tilting.
"You look ill," she said, watching you with that expression she had been wearing for months, the soft worried one she thought you didn't notice.
"I'm okay," you said, which was not true, but was the answer that ended the conversation fastest.
"Do you want anything else before I go?"
You looked up at her. Your eyes felt glassy, oversized, like they were taking up too much of your face. "Where are you going."
She caught the tone immediately. "I'm getting the car and taking you home. Ella can come too, this party's terrible anyway." She smiled. "I haven't had a drop of alcohol, I promise, scouts honour"
You nodded. Saying something that sounded like okay.
She went back inside. You sat with the water bottle and watched the dark end of the driveway and waited.
Fifteen minutes passed. More. You called her and listened to the dial tone, four rings, five, and then she picked up and behind her voice was wind and music and other voices and the specific ambient sound of a car already in motion.
"Hey, sorry," she said, slightly too loud. "I ran into that guy from the golf club and he's with some people and they're heading out, so—"
"Kiera, you were my ride."
"It's fine, it's sorted." The way she said it told you she already knew it wasn't. "I ran into Aerion inside. He said he'd take you home."
The porch went very still.
"He said you'd already talked and you said it was fine."
"I never spoke to him." Barely above a murmur now. Your eyes were already moving across the driveway, across the cars, scanning the dark between them. "I never said that."
"It'll be—"
"I'll call Valarr." You hung up.
You were already moving, off the steps and into the driveway, putting distance between yourself and the house. The music dulled behind you. The street ahead was dark and quiet and you walked fast with your phone in your hand and your bag pulled close, telling yourself that if you could just get far enough before he noticed you were gone you would be fine.
You called Valarr. It rang out.
Again. Four rings, five.
Nothing.
You tried a third time and kept walking and your fingers wouldn't stop shaking and you were still looking down at the screen trying to think of someone else, anyone else, when the headlights appeared at the far end of the road behind you.
You didn't have to look up to know. You had spent enough nights lying awake listening for that engine from your bedroom window that your body recognised it before your mind finished the thought.
And so before you could register what you were doing, you ran.
Behind you his voice came out of the open window, calling your name, and there was no urgency in it at all. It was hurried and patient, like he was calling after someone who had forgotten something and hadn't noticed yet. The engine revved once and then the car door slammed and his footsteps hit the pavement and the sound of them was already wrong, too fast, stride too long, the distance between you closing in a way that made the running feel almost pointless.
You kept going anyway because there was nothing else to do.
His hand closed around your arm and he pulled you back hard and you fought him, properly, in a way you hadn't let yourself at his father's party where there were windows and people and a whole house full of reasons to stay contained. Out here the street was empty and dark and there were no reasons left. You scratched at his hands and twisted and tried to get your weight low enough to break his grip, your bag sliding off your shoulder somewhere in the process, your phone hitting the ground behind you with a crack you felt more than heard. He got both arms around you then and you threw your elbow back as hard as you could and heard the breath go out of him and when you brought your knee up between his legs he made a sound and his hold went loose.
You ran again. It had been three steps, maybe even four.
He came down on you from behind, full weight, and the pavement came up fast and hard and the impact went through your palms, your knees and rattled your teeth together. You lay there for a moment because your body had decided that was what was happening now, the world tilting at the edges, something warm starting at your hairline and threading slow and certain down toward your temple.
You pressed your fingers to your head. Pulled them away and looked at them in the dark.
Dark, and unmistakably red.
He got up first. He stood over you breathing hard and his face had that quality you had learned to be most afraid of, the one that was worse than the loud angry version, where everything on the surface went flat and still and whatever was underneath got colder and more decided.
He didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at you on the ground.
"You forced my hand," he said. "I told you not to."
Your arms shook as you tried to push yourself up. He grabbed you before you managed it, got his hand under your arm and hauled you upright in one motion and you stumbled against him and he was already walking, his grip on your wrist locked in a way that didn't leave room for anything else.
“Aerion–no, please.” The words came out already broken and he didn't slow down.
He put you in the passenger seat himself. Reached across and did your seatbelt like it was just something that needed doing, calm and efficient, and then he closed the door and you sat there watching him through the windscreen as he walked back down the street to where your things had fallen.
He picked up your bag. He picked up your phone, or what was left of it, and turned the cracked screen toward the light.
His jaw went tight. The muscle in the side of his face moved once.
He looked up and found your eyes through the glass. You knew in that moment that Valarr's name was still on the screen. The call log open, four attempts sitting there unanswered. He held your gaze through the windscreen for a long moment and you pressed yourself back against the seat without deciding to, some reflex that no longer needed a decision attached.
He took his time walking back.
He got in. Started the engine. Put his seatbelt on slowly, deliberately, clicking it into place and then letting his hands rest on the wheel for a moment, and you understood without it being said that he was doing it slowly on purpose. That he wanted you to watch him take his time. That he wanted you to understand there was no rush. That he had all of it.
You tried your door handle, though it was to no avail as it was locked.
You tried it again, with both hands, ignoring his voice telling you quit it. Without thinking much of it, you reached across toward the centre console, though as you did that he jerked the wheel without warning. The car lurched hard into the oncoming lane and snapped back, and you hit back into your seat with your heart slamming against the inside of your chest.
"I said stop." Eyes on the road, while the speedometer continued to climb.
You pressed yourself against the door and watched the streetlights start to blur and said nothing.
He drove without speaking for a while. His silences had different volumes and you had spent two years learning to read them. This one had that quality of him organising himself, finding the shape of what he wanted before he said it. That kind had always been more frightening than the loud kind. The loud kind you could see coming.
"I told you not to be dumb." Almost conversational. Like he was reminding you of something you had both agreed on a long time ago. "I said it to your face."
He scratched his jaw, a habit he did when he was pissed.
"Valarr." He let the name sit by itself in the air for a moment. A short sound left him that was not quite a laugh. "You really thought Valarr was going to get you out of this one."
The tears spilled over and you turned your face toward the window so he couldn't see them, because crying in front of him had always felt like handing him something and you had been trying for months to stop giving him things.
"Take me home," you said, as evenly as you could manage. "Please, Aerion. Just take me home."
"Why would I do that."
He exhaled slow and heavy through his nose and when he spoke again the controlled surface of his voice had started fraying at the edges, that quality it got when he had been holding something back past the point where holding it was possible.
"I apologised. I did everything right, I said sorry, and then you stood there and ended it anyway. Right when things with my dad were the worst they've ever been." His palm came down on the wheel. The car jumped with it. "Right then. That's the moment you chose." He glanced over at you and the car drifted before he corrected it. "Do you hear me."
You nodded. Small. Just enough.
"Slow down," you said. "Please slow down."
He was not slowing down.
"I tried to talk to you at my dads party. I tried and you looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was something you'd scraped off the bottom of your shoe." Another hit on the wheel, harder. "After two years." The speedometer kept moving. "But we're talking now. Now you're listening."
"You almost killed me." The words broke out before you could catch them, two months of keeping them down and they came out thin and raw and you couldn't stop them. "That night. You almost killed me because Valarr said I looked pretty. Your own cousin." Repeating the words from the party.
"I'll kill us both right now.”
He said it quietly. Plainly. The same voice he might use for anything, no performance in it, no rise or drama, just stated like a fact, and at the same moment he pulled the wheel left and the car crossed the centre line and the headlights ahead were white and enormous and still growing and the truck's horn tore the night open and you pressed both hands flat on the dashboard and the sound that came out of you didn't sound like your voice at all.
"Say the words." Completely calm. Eyes on the light coming toward you. "You know what they are, you know i’ll kill us both if i wanted too."
You looked at him with shock, eyes widened as tears fell freely now, not caring if he saw them. You shook your head no, being stubborn, but then he started speeding even more.
“Okay– okay! I’m sorry,” You say, your voice not sounding like yours. Though you knew that wouldn’t be enough to convince him. "I'm sorry, I love you, I swear, please, Aerion, please—"
He pulled the wheel right after a couple seconds.
The truck thundered past like a wall of sound and the car shuddered hard in its wake and then there was just the road ahead, and your own crying filling the space where all that noise had been. You couldn't stop it. You had stopped trying.
The silence came back slowly, settling around you both.
Then he laughed. Low and quiet, almost to himself.
"You know I was joking," he said. "Right?"
You pressed your forehead to the cold glass of the window and closed your eyes.
You said nothing. You both knew he wasn't joking and you both knew that. The silence it the car was loud. Something had shifted in you in those few seconds of the white light and blaring horn. Some last part of you that had still been holding on, still telling itself there was a door somewhere you hadn't found yet, a way through this if you kept looking. It had gone quiet. Not broken exactly. Just still in a way that felt like it might be permanent.
“I told you not to be dumb baby, I told you…”
There was no escape from him, now you had to pay for the consequences, and let it happen.
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pinterest board | inspo tag & asks | ao3┊baelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 72k┊next update: 12.03.26┊rated: t.
summary : you survive a plane crash ... only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 23k+ ( sorry, I yap a lot )
warnings: aerion, blood and graphic violence, s-cidal thoughts, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect…
a/n : ooooookay this is lowkey embarrassing but plz hear me out 😭 I listened to the voices in my head bc I love fics where the reader ends up in a different world. that trope has me in a chokehold. and in this one, you don’t know it’s a show. I just prefer it that way … it feels more immersive, more real + terrifying.
part 1 [ masterlist ]
The first thing you remember is the sound of screaming metal.
Not the impact, not the ground, not the end. Just ... the sound.
It began as a tremor beneath your feet, a vibration that didn't belong to normal turbulence. You had flown dozens of times before; you knew the rhythm of harmless shaking, the soft dips that made stomachs lurch and strangers grip armrests. This was different, and vert wrong.
You had been half-asleep when it started. The cabin lights were dimmed to an artificial twilight. A thin blanket lay over your lap. The old person beside you had their headphones on, head tilted against the window. You remember thinking how tired you were. How, when you landed, you would call your mother. How you still hadn't answered your friend's message. How you had work waiting, responsibilities... a life.
Then the plane dropped.
Not a gentle dip, not the familiar sway of turbulence that earns nervous laughter and tight smiles.
A violent, stomach-flipping plunge that ripped a scream from the cabin, and one from you before you could stop it. Your body jerked forward against the seatbelt, your fingers instinctively clutching the back of the seat in front of you. Your hair fell into your eyes, your vision blurring as gravity seemed to lose its mind.
The overhead bins rattled like bones in a coffin. And then the oxygen masks fell.
They dropped from the ceiling with a series of mechanical pops, swinging wildly as the plane shuddered again. Training took over before thought could. You grabbed the nearest mask and pulled it down hard, securing it over your nose and mouth with shaking hands. The elastic dug painfully into your hair.
Beside you, the elderly woman fumbled with hers, her fingers trembling too violently to position it properly. Her eyes were wide : terrified and confused. You reached across, forcing your own panic down long enough to guide the mask over her face, tightening the band behind her head.
"Breathe," you told her, though you weren't sure if you were speaking to her or yourself.
Then you grabbed the seat in front of you again and bowed your head.
You began praying. To God, to science, to luck, to anything that might be listening.
Please let this pass. Please let us land.
The seatbelt sign chimed again, shrill and absurdly polite in the middle of chaos... And then came the screaming metal.
Louder than before, closer, like a tearing and shrieking roar that vibrated through the fuselage as though something massive had raked claws along the length of the aircraft. The sound burrowed into your bones. The wings groaned in protest, the entire cabin tilted sharply to one side, sending a fresh wave of screams crashing through the air.
A bag burst from an overhead compartment and slammed into the aisle. Another followed. Luggage rained down somewhere behind you. A child wailed for their mother, someone shouted a name over and over again as if repetition could anchor reality.
The baby a few rows back stopped crying for a moment, and then screamed even louder. Not the ordinary cry of discomfort, no, a high, panicked, animal sound that didn't belong to an infant.
Someone began praying loudly, voice breaking on every word. Someone else sobbed uncontrollably. A man across the aisle tried to stand and was immediately thrown back into his seat as the plane lurched again.
This is hell, you thought distantly. This cannot be real.
You remembered reading once that only one in millions of flights ended in disaster. Statistically impossible and astronomically rare.
So why yours? Why this one? Why now?
The plane shuddered again (more violently this time) so hard your teeth snapped together.
The shriek of metal rose into something unbearable, no longer a distant groan but a tortured scream that seemed to come from every direction at once. It sounded as if the aircraft itself were being ripped apart midair, its bones splintering under invisible strain. The floor trembled beneath your shoes, vibrating up through your legs, into your spine. The cabin lights flickered.
A cold draft swept through the cabin, unnatural and biting, raising goosebumps along your arms despite the heat of panic.
The woman beside you would not stop screaming. It broke and rose and broke again, high and frantic, right against your ear. Her hands were locked around the armrests so tightly her knuckles had gone white beneath the cabin lights. She kept repeating the same word over and over, though you couldn't tell if it was a name or a prayer.
The sound drilled into your skull, but you couldn't blame her. Across the aisle, someone was hyperventilating.
Then you saw her : the hostess (who had been smiling barely minutes ago as she collected plastic cups and asked if anyone wanted coffee) stumbled into the aisle again. The plane lurched forward so abruptly she lost her footing entirely and was thrown against the armrests. She hit hard, scrambling to steady herself as another violent jolt rocked the cabin.
Blood trickled down from her hairline, slicing a thin red path along her temple.
It was only then that you felt the warmth on your own brow.
You lifted your fingers shakily and touched just above your eyebrow. They came away smeared with red. You must have struck your head against the seat in front of you when the plane first dropped. You hadn't even felt it, adrenaline had swallowed the pain whole.
You remember her face clearly : blonde hair pulled into a tight, immaculate bun that was now half-fallen loose, strands sticking to her cheek with blood. Her makeup was smudged. Her composure cracked but not gone.
"Please remain seated!" she shouted, her voice straining as she gripped the backs of seats to keep from being thrown again. "Keep your seatbelts fastened!"
The plane bucked again, and she nearly fell a second time.
The overhead speakers crackled to life, the pilot's voice came through distorted, too fast, too tight. You caught fragments.
"...unexpected system failure..."
"...attempting emergency descent..."
"...please remain calm..."
Remain calm.
The plane lurched again, harder this time. A suitcase struck the ceiling and burst open mid-air, clothes scattering like frightened birds. Someone slammed into the aisle. The hostess lost her footing and hit the floor, scrambling back up as the cabin angled sickeningly downward.
You remember thinking, absurdly: This isn't how I die.
No, you weren't ready. You hadn't finished anything, you hadn't said goodbye properly to anyone, your phone was in airplane mode, your last message to your sister unsent.
You thought of your mother's laugh, of your father's pride, of your friends teasing you about overworking. Of the way the city lights looked at night from your apartment window. Of the life you had built, painstaking and imperfect and entirely yours.
And then another sound split the air — louder than the first and second. A final rupture. A violent crack like the sky itself breaking.
The plane shook so violently your teeth snapped together. The hostess screamed now, not composed or trained.
You could barely see through the blur of panic and tears. People were crying, praying, shouting names into the chaos as if their loved ones could somehow hear them through metal and cloud.
The pilot's voice again, barely audible over the roar.
"...brace — brace — brace — "
You tightened your seatbelt. Your knuckles went white around the armrests.
You remember thinking, with strange clarity: Of course. Of course it would be something like this. Of course I would be this unlucky.
You had survived exams that nearly broke you, sleepless nights in residency, survived heartbreak, failures and stupid break-ups... And now this.
The plane tilted nose-down.
The world outside the window was only cloud and blinding white.
Someone grabbed your hand. A stranger, surely. You never saw their face clearly. You squeezed back without thinking.
And then : Impact.
Not the clean finality movies promise, not the soft fade to black or the surrender of consciousness. There was nothing merciful about it.
It was violent in a way your mind still struggles to shape into memory. Bone-rattling. Organ-shaking. A catastrophic detonation of sound and force as the aircraft finally tore itself open.
You felt it before you understood it : a rupture.
A splitting crack so loud it didn't register as noise at first — only as pressure. The cabin walls buckled with a metallic scream that rose higher and higher until it stopped sounding like metal at all and became something almost alive. Something dying.
Then the plane opened.
The fuselage peeled back with a thunderous, ripping roar. Freezing air exploded inward, slamming into you like a physical blow. The pressure shift crushed your ears, the oxygen mask was torn sideways across your face. Papers, bags, plastic trays, clothing (everything not bolted down) erupted into a cyclone.
Seats wrenched free from their anchors.
You saw it happen.
You saw the row ahead of you twist at an unnatural angle. You saw bolts shear, you saw metal give way. A section of the cabin simply... disappeared, leaving a jagged mouth open to the sky.
And through that opening : People.
You saw them dragged toward it as though gravity had changed its allegiance. Hands clawed at armrests, fingernails scraped against metal. A man across the aisle reached for his daughter and missed by inches. A flight attendant vanished mid-step, her scream ripped from her throat and flung into the roaring void before it could fully form.
Their cries were not human anymore, they were torn apart by wind before they could reach your ears whole.
The sky outside was not gentle blue. It was vast and merciless and blinding.
A woman two rows ahead was ripped from her seat entirely, her hair streaming behind her like a banner as she disappeared through the fractured hull. Her scream cut off so abruptly it felt like someone had switched off the world.
Then the old woman beside you was taken.
One moment she was there : fingers digging into the armrests, eyes wide behind the plastic of the oxygen mask you had secured for her.
The next, the wind claimed her.
The decompression tore her sideways with terrifying force. Her frail body slammed against the jagged edge of torn metal where the fuselage had split open. You heard the sickening crack as her head struck steel and then the gale swallowed her entirely, dragging her into the open sky before you could even reach for her.
Her seatbelt had failed... or snapped... or simply hadn't been enough.
She was gone. Vanished into blue and white and screaming air.
Your mind refused to process it.
It rejected the image outright, like a corrupted file it could not open. There was no space in you for the reality of what you had just witnessed. No room for grief or horror. Only blank, stunned disbelief as your brain struggled to protect you from the impossible truth: You're watching people die in front of you, soon, you'll be next. This isn't happening. This cannot be happening.
But it was.
The force inside the cabin became unbearable. Air howled past your ears so violently you couldn't hear yourself think. The cold was immediate and savage, biting through your clothes, through your skin, straight into your bones.
Your shoulder slammed hard against the armrest as something heavy (maybe luggage? maybe part of the overhead panel?) struck you from the side. Pain burst down your arm. Your head snapped forward and collided with the seat in front of you. You tasted blood instantly, metallic and warm against your tongue.
You forced your eyes shut, you couldn't watch another person be swallowed by the sky.
The aircraft twisted again — harder this time. The floor tilted at an impossible angle. Your body lifted against the restraints of your seatbelt, straining forward as if the plane were trying to fling you out with the rest of its insides.
The noise became everything, metal tearing, wind screaming, people praying, you screaming, children crying, structural beams snapping like bones.
It felt as though the plane itself was being peeled apart layer by layer, like a tin can crushed in a giant's fist.
Something slammed into your shoulder again — hard enough to steal your breath. Another impact glanced off the side of your head. White light burst behind your eyelids, brilliant and blinding. Your vision fractured into shards of brightness even with your eyes closed.
For one split second, time stretched.
You thought of your mother again, of your father standing in the kitchen doorway, of your best friend laughing at something stupid you said last week, of your siblings and their stupid antics, of the unfinished emails on your laptop, of how statistically impossible this was.
One in millions.
And yet : you.
Of course it would be you, the plane lurched into what felt like a final, catastrophic roll.
Your stomach flipped, your ribs screamed, and your skull rang.
And then the white consumed everything, not darkness, not peace, no, just an all-devouring, obliterating white.
And then — silence. Not even wind, not even fire.
Just silence.
You wake with a violent, choking gasp, as though you have just been pulled up from deep water. Air floods into your lungs too quickly, and your throat burns the instant it expands. You cough hard, the sound scraping out of you, and roll onto your side, clutching at the ground beneath you as if the earth itself might shift again.
It doesn't.
The soil is cool and damp under your palms. Real and solid. Packed with roots and fallen leaves that press into your skin. You inhale again, slower this time, and the air tastes nothing like smoke or jet fuel or burned plastic. It smells green, wet, and of course ... alive.
Your eyes snap open fully, you expect chaos.
You expect twisted metal impaled into the earth at impossible angles, smoke rising in thick black columns against the sky. You expect fire. You expect the distant crackle of burning debris, the hiss of ruptured fuel lines, the groan of wreckage settling into ruin. You expect screams — injured passengers crying for help, someone calling a name over and over again.
There is none of it.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, your entire body trembling with adrenaline that hasn't yet understood it no longer has anything to fight. Your vision blurs for a moment before sharpening, and what you see makes no sense at all.
You are in a forest.
Not at the edge of one. Not near a clearing gouged into the earth by impact, not beside shattered wings lodged between tree trunks.
You are in the middle of it.
Tall trees surround you in every direction, their trunks thick and ancient, bark ridged and moss-covered. Sunlight filters down through a dense canopy of leaves, scattering in soft green shafts that move gently with the breeze. Birds flit between branches overhead, chirping as though the world is undisturbed. Insects hum somewhere in the underbrush.
You turn your head to the left, then to the right, your pulse beginning to pound harder.
No smoke, no debris, no smell of burning.
What the actual fuck ?
Your mind scrambles for something reasonable to hold onto. Perhaps you were thrown clear? Perhaps the plane crashed miles away and you were flung by force farther than seems possible? Maybe the wreckage is beyond the trees? Maybe you landed on softer ground. Maybe —
You force yourself to your feet, swaying immediately as dizziness sweeps through you. Your ribs ache when you straighten, you let out a deep groan, bruised pain that makes breathing uncomfortable. Your shoulder throbs where something struck it. There is a heavy pulse at the back of your skull, and when you raise trembling fingers to your brow, they brush against dried blood crusted along your hairline.
You turn in a slow circle.
If there had been a crash, the forest would not look like this.
There would be a path carved through trees, splintered trunks. A scar across the earth where the fuselage tore forward. There would be luggage scattered between roots, torn seats, shredded fabric caught on branches. Something.
There is nothing.
No torn seats scattered across a field, no broken windows glinting in the dirt. No black box half-buried in soil. No burning wing lodged against bark. No emergency slide tangled among the trees. No bodies lying still and terrible in the grass.
Not even a distant sound.
The silence is wrong. So, so wrong.
You step forward carefully, scanning the ground as if something might materialize if you look hard enough. The leaves are undisturbed except for where you must have fallen, the earth bears no sign of violent impact. No gouge, no crater, not even a trail of destruction.
It is as though the sky never tore open.
As though the plane never existed.
Your breathing grows uneven again, though this time it isn't from smoke or altitude. It is from the creeping, suffocating realization that there is no logical explanation for what you are seeing.
Even if you had been thrown clear of the wreckage, even if by some impossible miracle you were the only survivor, there would be proof. Physics would demand it.
Instead, the forest stands whole and indifferent around you, untouched by catastrophe.
You open your mouth and call out, your voice raw from earlier screams. "Hello?!"
The word travels through the trees and fades without resistance.
You wait, but nothing answers.
You try again, louder now, desperation creeping into your voice despite your attempt to control it.
"Is anyone there?!"
Only birds take flight from a nearby branch, startled into brief motion before settling again.
No engines in the distance, no sirens, no shouts of other survivors.
Just wind sliding softly through leaves.
Your heart begins to race in a different way now — not from imminent death, but from the unbearable impossibility of survival without context. You are standing in a place that does not match the disaster you remember.
"Help!" your sore throat rasps again, cracking under the strain. "Please... somebody help me!"
It comes out as more of a sob than a shout now, ragged and desperate, and still there is nothing — only the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds. Your voice barely carries; it feels swallowed by the air itself, broken by fear and exhaustion.
Your eyes sting, blurry from the tears and sweat, and you have to blink several times before you can even recognize the forest around you. Your ears ring, your ribs ache sharply with each breath.
With great effort, you push yourself up on shaking arms. Your palms scrape along rough bark and damp earth, the sting biting into your skin. Your clothes are torn, fabric shredded in places from the crash or the fall. You touch your hair and find dried blood crusted along your hairline and temple. A deep, pounding ache throbs behind your right ear.
Your shoulder hurts, you glance down and see it : blood has soaked through your thin, now-ruined jacket. A shard of wood protrudes from the flesh, jagged and cruel. Your fingers hover above it, trembling. Your mind (your trained, rational, doctor's mind) knows not to touch it. Any interference now could risk infection, make it worse. So you hold back, unable to do anything but watch it, wishing you had antiseptic, wishing you had scissors, wishing you weren't alone.
Even so, your instinct drives you forward. You force your voice out again, hoarse and raw, dragging it from deep in your chest. "Help... please... anyone!"
It burns. Every syllable scorches your throat as it catches on cracked vocal cords. You bite your lip to hold back tears, but they slide anyway. The damp earth under your knees makes it worse, cold and gritty, mixing with blood and sweat.
No answer comes.
Nothing but the forest. The too-green, too-alive forest.
You are utterly, and impossibly alone.
One step after another, you force yourself to move.
Part of your mind keeps whispering, maybe help is on the way, maybe someone is coming for you, but you know it's a lie your fear wants you to cling to. You can't wait, you have to keep going, hoping that if you stumble through the trees long enough, maybe you'll find someone, anyone, alive.
But no one comes.
Hours pass, though time feels fractured. The sun sinks low, bleeding red behind the branches, and when you finally emerge from the forest, night has already claimed the sky. Your legs are raw and trembling. Hunger gnaws at your stomach until it feels hollow. Your throat is raw from screaming and thirst, each swallow a burning reminder of how little you've had to sustain yourself.
You don't even know how you survived — after the crash, the terror, the running, the empty hours with nothing but your own ragged breaths. Maybe you drank from a lake along the way. Maybe you didn't. Your body doesn't care or remember. It just wants to survive.
And then, as the forest finally thins, there it is.
A village.
Thatched roofs, crooked and low, their beams dark with smoke curling lazily into the evening sky. Mud streets winding between timber-framed houses. Chimneys spewing pale tendrils of smoke. Men in rough wool tunics and patched leather boots, women in coarse linen dresses and aprons, children barefoot and darting through the dirt, laughing or crying or both.
You stop dead, your pulse spikes.
Where the fuck are you?
Where are the roads, the cars, the electricity lines, the streetlights, the convenience stores? The reality of it presses in on you like a hand around your throat.
For a brief, ridiculous second, you think maybe it's a reenactment. A film set, a medieval festival somewhere. Or a commune — maybe some strange, isolated community living like it's centuries ago. You pin the idea to the thin hope that your mind is just trying to explain this insane impossibility.
But then you step closer.
You enter the village proper, the mud streets narrowing underfoot, the smell of woodsmoke and cooking fire heavy in your nose. And immediately, people begin to look at you.
The stares are piercing, curious, judging and ... appraising.
Your modern clothes mark you instantly as out of place. Your torn jacket, your sweatshirt, your jeans — everything is wrong. Women glance at you as though they've never seen anything like you, their aprons and veils standing in stark contrast to your foreign appearance. Men eye you from head to toe, arms crossing instinctively over their chests, sizing you up with suspicion and barely disguised interest.
You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, wincing as the weight of it presses against your shoulder wound. The ache pulses sharply, reminding you of every step you've taken, every scrape, every cut you've tried to ignore.
Ignoring the stares that prickled at the back of your neck, you gather what courage you have left and reach out to stop an old man as he shuffles past, his gait slow and uneven. You catch his arm gently, careful not to startle him.
"Excuse me... sir," you say, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound firm. "Where... where are we?"
He freezes for a moment, his one good eye narrowing as he looks you over. The other socket is empty, a smooth scar where the eye should have been, giving his face a peculiar, lopsided gravity. His brows knit together, forming deep creases across his forehead, and his mouth hangs slightly open, revealing teeth that are mostly gone or worn to yellow stubs.
The smell hits you before his words do : a heavy, sour scent of sweat, smoke, and unwashed cloth that makes your stomach churn. Despite this, you hold his gaze, trying to convey that you mean no harm, that you are... simply lost.
He tilts his head, studying you in silence, his one good eye tracking every movement, every tremble in your posture. The noises of the village fade into a dull hum behind you, the clatter of boots on mud and the low murmur of voices retreating from your awareness.
"Ashford Meadow," he says gruffly.
"Where... where is this?" you ask, confusion twisting your tongue. The syllables feel foreign, awkward, even to your own ears, but you need answers.
"The Reach," he replies, before adjusting the heavy pack on his back and continuing on his way.
You swallow hard, your throat raw, and glance around nervously. A few men whistle at you, their eyes lingering a little too long, but you ignore them, focusing on keeping your balance and your wits. Is this some kind of movie set? you wonder again, though the faces staring back at you (their expressions curious, wary, almost skeptical) tell a different story. You must look like a mess: dried blood in your hair, your clothes torn and muddied, your walk unsteady.
Your gaze sweeps the village quickly, searching for something familiar, something that can anchor you. And then you see it: a tavern. Its wooden sign creaks slightly in the wind, and smoke curls lazily from the chimney. The doors are open, and warm, amber light spills into the street, cutting through the cool, green gloom of the evening.
You stumble toward it, hope sparking faintly in your chest, even as every step aches, your shoulder burning and ribs throbbing. Maybe inside, you can find someone who can explain where you are, and perhaps, just perhaps, what has happened to the world you thought you knew.
You step further into the tavern, the warmth and smell of smoke and roasting meat washing over you in a strange relief. Your legs ache with every step, your shoulder throbs, and the dried blood in your hair makes your skin crawl, but the human presence, any presence, draws you forward. You reach the bar, where a barmaid wipes a mug, her hands steady despite the busy room. A few patrons glance up at you, their faces shadowed under hoods or rough hair.
The barmaid freezes slightly at your approach.
"Good evening," you say automatically, though your voice cracks on the second word. "Please — can you tell me where I am? Is this some kind of historical reenactment? A themed settlement?"
She does not answer at once. Her eyes drag over your clothes — the strange cut of your jacket, the metal teeth of the zipper, the fabric of your shirt, your sneakers. Her gaze lingers at the dried blood crusted in your hair.
"Gods preserve us," she mutters softly. "What queer raiment is this?"
A man beside you, thick-bearded and red-cheeked with drink, leans closer. "You've the look of a hedge-witch," he says. "Or some eastern courtesan gone astray."
"I'm not either," you snap, then wince at your own sharpness. "I just need to know where I am."
The barmaid sets down the cup she was polishing. "You stand in Ashford Meadow," she says carefully, as though speaking to a child or a madwoman. "In the Reach. Beneath the rule of Highgarden and our good lord."
You blink at her. "The Reach," you repeat. "Highgarden?"
"Aye." The bearded man squints at you. "Have you taken a blow to the head, girl? You speak as one fresh from fever."
"Do you have a phone?" you ask suddenly, the words tumbling over each other in rising panic. "Anything — some kind of device? I just need to call someone. Emergency services, the police—anyone who can track where I am."
You look from face to face as though one of them might finally understand, might reach into a pocket and pull out something familiar : glass screen, metal casing, signal bars in the corner.
Instead, they stare as though you have begun speaking in tongues.
"A... fone?" the bearded man repeats slowly, brow creasing. "Is that some manner of instrument?"
"Emergency," another mutters under his breath. "What lord bears that name?"
The barmaid's eyes narrow, studying you with growing certainty. "There is no such thing here," she says carefully.
Silence follows. A long, heavy silence.
Your breath quickens. "It's just a phone," you insist, gesturing helplessly with your good hand. "A small device. You can speak into it and someone far away hears you instantly. Anywhere in the world."
A ripple of uneasy murmurs moves through the room.
"Instantly?" the older patron echoes. "Across leagues?"
"That is sorcery," someone whispers.
"It's not sorcery," you snap, then drag a shaking hand through your matted hair. "It's technology. It's normal."
Your throat burns as you swallow. You feel the panic clawing higher, pressing against your ribs. You force yourself to speak more clearly, slower, as though explaining to children.
"I was in a plane crash," you say, despite the rasp in your voice. "A plane. Uh -- an aircraft. It's a machine made of metal, with wings. It flies — high above the clouds. It carries hundreds of people at once. We were traveling, and something went wrong. The engines failed... We fell."
"A craft... that flies?" the barmaid repeats slowly.
"Yes. Like a — like a metal ship with wings. Powered by engines. Fuel. It's not magic, I swear!"
The bearded man barks out a laugh. "A ship of metal that flies?" He slaps the bar. "Hear her! She speaks of dragons clad in steel!"
"It's not a dragon," you insist. "It's technology."
"Tek-nol-oh-gee," he echoes mockingly, tasting the foreign word. "And pray, what manner of sorcery is that?"
"It's not sorcery! It's fucking science. We learned how to build them, they cross oceans in hours."
The laughter fades. Not into amusement — into something else... Unease.
"One ocean is more than enough for mortal men," the barmaid says quietly. "And none cross the skies save dragons."
"Dragons aren't real," you reply automatically.
A man at a nearby table turns in his seat, eyes narrowing. "Not real?"
The bearded man snorts. "Not these hundred years, fool. Since the Dance of the dragons at least. The last dragon died in King's Landing." He looks back at you, smirking. "Though some say their bones still smoke."
You stare at him. "Dragons?"
"Aye, dragons," he says. "Winged fire made flesh. What child's tale did you grow upon, that you deny them so bold?"
Your heart begins to pound harder than it did in the forest. "What the actual fuck are you talking about?"
A few of them flinch at your language. The barmaid's brows draw tight. "Mind your tongue, youn lady."
"You speak madness," says another patron, older, thin-faced. "And you bleed through your sleeve."
You glance down. The dark stain has spread further. You're swaying slightly; you hadn't noticed.
"I told you," you say weakly. "The plane crashed. The wreckage must be somewhere in the forest. There were people, some died!"
"Metal that flies," the bearded man says again, softer now.
The barmaid steps out from behind the counter. Up close, her gaze is sharp as a blade. She reaches toward your shoulder but stops short of touching.
"That wound festers if left untended," she says. "Whatever tale you spin, you are hurt. And lost."
"I'm not spinning anything," you whisper, teary eyed. "I woke up in the woods. And now I'm here, and you're talking about dragons like it's normal."
The bearded man studies you, longer this time. "If you be some mummer's trick, you've chosen a strange hour for it," he says. "If you be mad, you are a convincing sort. And if you speak truth..." He trails off.
"If she speaks truth," the barmaid says quietly, "then the gods have cast her far from her home."
You swallow hard. "This isn't funny."
"No," the barmaid agrees. "It is not."
"Help me... please," you whisper, and this time there is no sharpness left in you, no insistence, no frustration — only something small and fraying at the edges.
The room tilts.
You don't notice it at first. Just a subtle sway beneath your feet, as though the floorboards have turned to the deck of a ship. The warmth of the tavern becomes suffocating. The smoke too thick. The faces around you blur at their edges, colors bleeding into one another.
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the bar. You feel the rough grain of the wood beneath your palm, grounding yourself in it, clinging to it as your knees threaten to give.
"I — I don't feel..." you begin, but the words dissolve on your tongue.
The barmaid steps forward quickly now, suspicion replaced with alarm.
"Gods," she mutters.
The throbbing in your shoulder surges, hot and insistent. Your ears ring again (louder this time) drowning out the murmurs rising in the tavern. Your vision tunnels, narrowing to a thin circle of flickering firelight and worried faces.
You try to steady your breathing. Try to stay upright.
But your body has endured too much—blood loss, hunger, fear, the long march through the forest. Survival carried you this far, and now it demands payment.
Your grip slips.
The world lurches violently to one side. Someone reaches for you (you think they do) but your knees buckle before you can tell. The bar rushes upward, or perhaps you fall downward; you cannot tell which.
Sound fractures.
A distant voice curses, another calls for water. Hands brush against your arms.
Then darkness closes in, thick and absolute.
And as consciousness slips through your fingers like water, one final thought drifts through you — slow, terrible, undeniable:
Maybe the plane didn't just fall... Maybe you fell somewhere else entirely.
When you wake, it is to the scent of lavender and smoke.
The ceiling above you is low and slanted, beams dark with age. Morning light spills through a small round window, pale and soft, catching dust in the air. Your body feels heavy, ached through, but cleaner. The wound at your shoulder is bandaged tightly in linen, the cloth stiff with herbs and salve.
You are lying in a narrow bed beneath roughspun blankets, not the tavern floor.
A chair scrapes softly beside you.
"You've woken, then."
It is the barmaid. In daylight she looks older than you first thought — lines at the corners of her mouth, silver threaded through her dark braid. Her gaze is steady, practical.
"My name is Clare," she says, as though that settles something. "You took a bad turn last eve. Near bled out on my floor, you did."
You swallow, throat dry. "You... helped me."
"Aye. I've seen worse than you stagger through that door." A faint huff of amusement touches her lips. "Though none dressed like some Lysene mummer with iron teeth sewn in her jerkin." She eyes the zipper of your jacket with suspicion.
You almost laugh, almost.
You don't ask how long you've been asleep. You don't ask how she carried you. You don't ask why this still feels real.
Clare pours water into a clay cup and presses it into your hands. "Best you drink slow."
You obey.
There is a pause before she speaks again, and when she does, her tone shifts — less wary now. More... resolved.
"You asked where you are."
Your fingers tighten around the cup. "Yes."
She folds her hands in her apron. "You are in Westeros."
The word means nothing to you. You wait for the punchline, it does not come.
"What is that?" you ask quietly.
She does not look at you as though you are mad this time. No narrowed eyes. No guarded distance.
"Westeros is the realm of the Seven Kingdoms," she says, patient as a mother instructing a child. "North and South alike. There is the North, vast and cold, ruled from Winterfell. The Vale of Arryn, ringed in mountains. The Riverlands, green and oft bloodied. The Westerlands, rich in gold. The Stormlands, fierce and sea-battered. Dorne, hot and proud in the south. And the Reach—" she gestures lightly toward the window " — where you now lie, beneath the rule of Highgarden."
You stare at her. "Westeros," you repeat faintly.
"Aye."
"And Ashford Meadow?"
"A village in the Reach. Not a grand one, but honest."
Your heart is hammering, but you force your face to remain composed. Do not unravel. Do not scream. She helped you, don't look mad.
She studies you for a moment before asking, "What is your name, child?"
You tell her.
She rolls the sound over her tongue once, twice.
"An uncommon name," she says at last. "I've heard stranger, mayhaps, in port towns and from passing traders — but not oft. It sits foreign on the ear."
"That's because I'm foreign," you murmur.
"So you are."
She hesitates. "Have you kin? A father? A mother?"
"Yes," you answer automatically — then the truth fractures under the weight of reality. They are not here. They cannot be here. If this is real, then they are --- " You swallow. "They're... dead," you finish instead. "Probably."
Clare's mouth tightens. "That is a hard thing to say so young."
You say nothing. She seems to read something in your silence but does not press. Stern, yes — but not unkind.
"Tell me more," you say carefully. "About... this place."
Clare shifts in her chair.
"The realm is ruled now by House Targaryen," she says. "Dragons were their sigil — and once, their strength. Silver hair and violet eyes, near unearthly in their beauty. The blood of old Valyria runs in them. Kings and queens upon the Iron Throne in King's Landing."
You feel cold despite the blankets.
"They had dragons?" you ask.
"Once," she says. "Great winged beasts of fire and shadow. Long gone now... though their name still carries flame enough."
Targaryen.
You manage a slow nod, as though absorbing simple geography instead of the collapse of everything you understood about reality.
Inside, you are spiraling. But you keep your face calm.
You cannot afford to look any more mad than you already sound. You sit propped against the pillows, hands folded tight in your lap so she does not see them tremble. The names still mean nothing to you — nothing solid, nothing real.
Clare seems to take your silence for confusion, not disbelief, and continues in the same patient tone.
"Each of the kingdoms's got its great house," she says, adjusting the blanket at your feet as though that, too, is part of the lesson. "That's how it's always been. Great lords over lesser lords, bannermen sworn and bound. In the North it's Stark — grim folk, so they say, but honorable. In the Westerlands, Lannister — rich as sin, with gold in their hills. The Vale's ruled by Arryn, high up in their mountains. Stormlands by Baratheon, fierce and loud. Dorne's Martell, sly and sun-kissed. The Riverlands... Tully. And here in the Reach, we bend the knee to House Tyrell of Highgarden."
She pauses, then adds, "Though above all of 'em sits the Iron Throne... the blood of the dragon."
You only look at her, even more confused.
"That's the Targaryens," she says, and there's a faint shift in her voice — half reverent, half wary. "They come from old Valyria, they did. Not like other folk. Hair pale as spun silver, eyes purple as a bruise at dusk. Pretty as paintings, most of 'em. Too pretty, some'd say. And proud with it."
She leans back slightly.
You stay very still.
"The king now is Daeron," she continues. "Daeron the Good, they call him. Peaceful sort, so the tales say. More book than blade—but wise, and kinder than most kings get to be."
Your pulse skips.
"He wed a Dornish princess," Clare says, nodding approvingly. "Brought Dorne into the realm proper, he did. Not by fire nor sword, but marriage. Folk grumbled at first—Dornish are... different—but peace is peace."
She leans back slightly.
"He's four sons, too. Four princes."
Your throat tightens.
"The eldest is Baelor." She smiles faintly. "Baelor Breakspear they name him. Not for breaking his own spear, mind — but for shattering others in tourney. Brave warrior that ended the Blackfyre rebellions... Strong as an ox and twice as steady. Darker than most Targaryens, on account o' his Dornish mother. Black hair, not silver. But noble through and through, they say. Honorable. The sort a smallfolk can look upon and feel safe."
You didnt know if you understood anything, but you just nod to let he know you're listening.
"The second's Prince Aerys," she goes on. "Bookish, some say. Close with his brother. Not so broad in the shoulders, but sharp in the mind."
She ticks another finger.
"Then there's Rhaegel. Quiet one. Keeps to himself. Some whisper he's... touched in the head, but court's full of whispers." She shrugs. "Hard to know truth from wine-talk."
"And the last?" you ask carefully.
"Maekar." Her expression shifts slightly. Firmer. "Maekar's iron. They call him the Anvil. Hard man. Hard face and judgments. A warrior through and through."
The room feels smaller the more she speaks.
"These princes — they ride, they train, they wed, and one day one o' them will sit the Iron Throne after their father," Clare says. "That's the way of it."
She studies you now.
"You truly never heard the name Targaryen?"
You force yourself to shake your head.
Clare studies you for a long moment, then snorts softly. "Then you're either lost beyond sense... or bonkers... or both."
A weak sound escapes you — something between a laugh and a sob. Your eyes burn, glossing over despite your effort to stay composed.
"It feels like I'm dreaming," you murmur. "Or trapped in a nightmare I can't wake from. Maybe I already died. Maybe that crash — " your throat tightens " — maybe that was it. And this is... something after."
Clare's brows draw together. She looks at you as one might look at a child claiming to see ghosts.
"Girl," she says firmly, pressing a rough but not unkind hand to your wrist, "this is as real as the floor beneath us. You're flesh and bone and stubborn breath. Dead folk don't bleed nor faint in my taproom."
She dips a cloth into a basin of water and lays it across your forehead. The coolness steadies you.
"Mayhaps the gods sent you," she adds, quieter now. "Stranger things have happened than a lost maid stumbling out o' the wood." She tilts her head. "What was it you said brought you? That thing what flies?"
You hesitate. For the first time, the thought solidifies in you—not just fear, not just shock. A theory. Alternate world? Different time?
Maybe you died in yours, maybe you crossed into this one. If so... this is the past.
"What year is it?" you ask instead of answering her.
She doesn't find the question strange. "Two-hundred and nine, after Conquest."
You almost choke. The number slams into you harder than any physical blow.
When she looks at you sharply, you force your expression to smooth out.
"Right," you manage faintly. "Of course."
You draw a slow breath. "It's called a plane," you begin again. "The thing that flies. It's... a craft. Made of metal. It carries many people at once through the sky."
Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in mockery this time — only confusion.
You stop yourself. "I'd rather you not repeat that to anyone," you say quickly. "Please. People already think I'm mad. I need... time... To uhm -- understand." Your fingers twist nervously together in your lap. "And I'm sorry," you add, shame creeping in. "I don't have any money. No coin. I must be nothing but a burden."
Clare makes a dismissive sound. "Nonsense."
She wrings out the cloth and sets it back upon your brow.
"The gods don't send burdens without cause," she says. "And the sept teaches we are to shelter the innocent, and protect women who've no shield of their own. You seem to be both."
She smiles then, a genuine one. You have no idea what a sept truly is, but you nod as though you do.
"You're welcome to stay," she continues. "As long as you've need. I've room enough. Been alone these years since my husband passed. My sons are wed and gone to their own fields, my daughter to her husband."
She gives you a sideways look. "Wouldn't mind the company... Nor the help. For a time." She winks.
Something tight in your chest loosens for the first time since the forest.
You are in 209 AC. In the Reach. Under the reign of King Daeron the Good.
And somehow... impossibly... alive.
Days pass.
You recover beneath Clare's roof.
It takes effort not to interfere. You are a neurosurgeon — years of study, of sterile rooms and surgical lights, of steady hands mapping the fragile architecture of the human brain. You know exactly what kind of trauma a blow behind the ear can cause. You know the risks of infection in a puncture wound. You know how crude linen and boiled wine are poor substitutes for antibiotics.
But you also know something far more dangerous: none of what you know exists here.
There are no cultures grown in labs, no imaging machines, no sterile theaters. Even the words would betray you. So you say nothing.
You let Clare work. She cleans the gash at your hairline with vinegar and something that smells sharply of rosemary. She packs the wound at your shoulder with poultices made of comfrey and garlic, muttering about "drawing out the rot." She binds it tight and scolds you when you try to move too much.
You grit your teeth and allow it.
And somehow... you heal. Not perfectly of course, not comfortably... but you heal.
Clare gives you clothing once you are steady on your feet — simple linen shifts, woolen kirtles, aprons sturdy enough for tavern work. Your old clothes she folds carefully and sets in a small wooden chest at the foot of your bed.
You hesitate one night, staring at them. Part of you thinks they are dangerous : proof of something unnatural. Something that could get you accused of witchcraft or worse. Burning them in the hearth would be safest. But you cannot.
They are the last thread tying you to your world.
You woke here with nothing else. No suitcase, no passport, no phone. Just those clothes. So you keep them, folded and hidden. Sacred in a way you cannot explain.
In return for shelter, you help.
You scrub tables, pour ale, carry trenchers of bread and stew. You learn how to move through the tavern without drawing too much notice, how to lower your voice into something less sharp, less modern. You practice speaking as they do, you swallow words that do not belong here.
And you listen, the tavern is a well of stories.
You learn of the Narrow Sea and the lands beyond it : the Free Cities of Braavos, Pentos, Lys, Myr. You hear of sellswords and merchant princes, of ships larger than anything Ashford has ever seen.
You learn of the Wall in the far North, though most speak of it as a distant curiosity rather than a living defense.
And always — always — the talk circles back to the royal family.
The cursed yet favored Targaryens.
Traveling hedge knights drink heavily and boast loudly. They speak of the king, Daeron the Good, as a scholar-king, gentle but shrewd. They speak of his sons with admiration, and sometimes mockery.
They speak often of the Blackfyre Rebellion.
You piece it together from fragments: Daemon Blackfyre, the king's half-brother, claiming the throne. Lords choosing sides. They speak Prince Baelor's name with particular reverence.
"Breakspear held the line at the Redgrass Field," one knight says, pounding his cup for emphasis. "Fought like the Warrior himself had taken his arm."
"And the young prince beside him," another adds. "Maekar — gods, that one fights like a hammer striking steel."
Maekar the Anvil.
You store every detail carefully.
Late one evening, after too much ale, a hedge knight leans toward you with wine-thick breath and grins. "Strange folk, dragons' blood," he says. "Keep it pure, they do."
"How?" you ask, feigning mild curiosity.
"Marry their own," he says. "Always have. Brother to sister, uncle to niece. Keeps the dragon strong."
You still. Cousins marrying cousins does not shock you; history in your own world was full of such unions among nobility. Politics above affection.
But brothers to sisters? Uncles to nieces? Something twists uneasily in your stomach.
"For the blood of the dragon," the knight repeats, as if that explains everything. "They ain't like us."
You nod slowly, hiding your reaction behind lowered lashes. You know too much about genetics to find comfort in that tradition.
The more you hear of the dragonlords, the more they take root in your thoughts.
It frightens you — how easily your mind conjures them now. Silver hair catching sunlight. Violet eyes assessing battlefields. Armor ringing beneath banners stitched with three-headed dragons.
You should be terrified. You are terrified.
But you are fascinated too.
"They've that way about them," Clare tells you one night as she plucks a chicken by the back door, feathers drifting like snow around her boots. "Targaryens. Folk fear 'em, aye—but they look twice all the same. Like staring at a flame. You know it can burn you, but still you draw close."
You say nothing, because she is right.
At night, when the tavern empties and the shutters are barred, when the last drunk has staggered home and the hearth burns low, the silence becomes unbearable. That is when your old life creeps in.
You think of your mother's voice, your father's tired jokes, your friends sending you messages you will never answer.
You picture the hospital operating room: bright, sterile, humming with focus. The years of study — undergraduate, medical school, residency, fellowship. More than a decade of sacrifice to become what you were. A neurosurgeon.
Here, you scrub ale from tables.
You turn your face into the thin pillow and let the tears come soundlessly, shoulders shaking beneath rough wool blankets. You do not want Clare to hear, you do not want her pity.
Some nights you wonder if God — your God, and not theirs — has punished you. For ambition, for pride, or neglecting faith until crisis demanded it.
Clare notices your restlessness. She begins taking you to the sept on certain mornings.
It is a modest building of pale stone, its walls limewashed and clean, the seven-pointed star carved above its wooden doors. Inside, the air smells of beeswax and incense. Light filters through colored glass in small round panes, painting the floor in muted blues and reds.
At the front stand seven carved figures:
The Father with his scales. The Mother with her outstretched arms. The Warrior armored and stern. The Maiden serene and young. The Smith strong at his forge. The Crone with her lantern raised. The Stranger, faceless and shadowed.
It unsettles you how familiar it feels. Not the shapes, but the structure, the reverence, the kneeling. It reminds you of Catholic churches : statues of saints instead of these aspects, candles lit for guidance, confession whispered in corners.
Clare shows you how to light a taper properly. How to bow your head. Which figure to pray to for protection, for guidance, for forgiveness.
"Sometimes," she says softly before the Mother's statue, "we don't need answers. Just strength enough to bear what's given."
You nod. You do not know which god — if any — has brought you here. But kneeling beside her steadies something inside you.
Late at night, when the tavern quiets, Clare talks more.
She tells you of her late husband : broad-shouldered, fond of dice, gone three winters now from a fever that took him quick. She tells you of her sons, married and settled in neighboring villages. Of her daughter, wed to a miller.
Her stories are ordinary. Human. And then she asks about you.
You tell her about your family in soft outlines. A father who worked too much, a mother who called too often. Siblings who teased. Friends who felt like siblings.
You do not tell her about surgical residencies or night shifts or conferences. You do not tell her that in your world women lead hospitals, argue in courtrooms, command armies of knowledge. You do not tell her that you studied more than twelve years to carve tumors from human brains.
It would sound like witchcraft, or arrogance. Or both.
So you let her believe you are simply a woman who lost her kin.
She (and others) ask often why you are not wed.
It happens at least twice a week. Patrons with ale-heavy breath, neighboring wives who peer too closely, even Clare herself once or twice.
"You're beautiful," one woman remarks while kneading dough beside you. "And not lame nor dim. Why's no man claimed you?"
Claimed.
The word stings.
You quickly learned that by their measure, you are... late. A woman of your age should have been married years ago, bearing children, running a household.
So you crafted a shield.
"My husband died," you say quietly whenever asked.
The word husband tastes strange on your tongue. It works. The questions stop at once, and faces soften. Some murmur condolences, others nod with that grim understanding of life's cruelty.
A widow is acceptable. An unmarried woman past her prime is suspicious. You hate the lie, but you cling to it.
It keeps them from pressing further.
And each night, as you lie in Clare's spare room, listening to the wind sweep across Ashford Meadow, you feel yourself splitting in two.
The woman you were : educated, modern, certain. And the woman you must become : quiet, cautious, shaped by a world that burns the different.
For a while, it is fine. Not good, not truly, but ... predictable. Yes, that was the word.
You wake before dawn because there is nothing else to do.
There are no alarms here, no glowing numbers on a bedside clock, no distant traffic humming beyond double-paned windows. Only the slow thinning of darkness and the cold that seeps through stone and wood alike.
Your body has learned the rhythm of this place. You rise when the air is still blue, when frost clings to the edges of the well and your breath ghosts in front of you. For a few fragile seconds each morning, suspended between sleep and waking, you forget where you are.
Then the ceiling comes into focus — low beams, smoke-stained and rough. And you remember. Oh, you remember.
You dress in layers of wool that scratch at your skin. You tie your hair back in a braid bun. You descend the narrow steps into the tavern's common room where embers glow faintly in the hearth like watchful eyes.
Clare is often already there, sleeves rolled to her elbows, flour dusting her forearms.
You knead dough beside her, your palms pressing into it rhythmically, folding and turning, building gluten without consciously thinking the word gluten. The repetition steadies your breathing. It quiets your thoughts.
Haul water, scrub tankards, sweep rushes from the floor. Wipe down tables sticky with spilled ale and old laughter.
Listen. You have become very good at listening.
Men speak freely around you now. You are furniture to them : useful, unthreatening, forgettable. They argue about crop yields and taxes and the price of grain. They whisper about lords and feasts and marriages.
You pretend not to care.
Days blur together until they are less like individual memories and more like one long stretch of endurance. Morning work, midday rush, evening exhaustion. Sleep heavy and dreamless — until it isn't.
Routine becomes a kind of mercy, routine leaves little room for panic. You almost begin to believe you could remain here. That you could build something small and steady in the shadow of someone else's story, a quiet life.
And that thought frightens you. You were not raised for invisibility.
You were raised on achievement charts and acceptance letters. On the belief that your mind was your greatest weapon. You spent more than twelve years carving your path — undergraduate degree, medical school, residency, fellowship. Nights without sleep, holidays missed, and relationships sacrificed.
You remember the first time you held a scalpel over an exposed brain. The weight and the terror of it. The precision required, the knowledge that a millimeter too far could steal someone's speech, their memory, their life.
You had power there, purpose even. Here, your hands smell of onions and yeast.
Some days you accept it with surprising calm. Other days it claws at you.
You step outside behind the tavern when it becomes too much. You brace your hands against the cold stone and breathe through the ache in your chest. You look up at a sky that feels familiar and foreign all at once.
And then the thought comes. Soft at first, tentative : What if this isn't real? What if the plane never truly crashed?
What if your body lies somewhere in a hospital bed (machines humming, nurses whispering) while your mind constructs this elaborate medieval hallucination to fill the void?
It would explain the impossibility of it all. The way history here feels both written and unwritten.
And if it is a dream — if it is a coma — then there is a way out.
The idea slithers in slowly, like something ashamed of itself.
If you died here... would you wake there? You imagine it in flashes. Cold river water filling your lungs — and then air, clean and filtered, flooding them instead. Darkness closing in, and then fluorescent lights burning your vision as your eyes snap open.
Your mother's voice breaking as she says your name. The fantasy is intoxicating in its cruelty. For a moment, you want to believe it. But then the rational part of you (the surgeon, the scientist) rises up.
What if you are wrong? What if this is not a dream but a displacement? What if whatever force tore you from your world placed you here entirely?
If you die in this body, what if you simply die?
No hospital, no second chance, no awakening.
Just nothing. Oblivion. You weigh it clinically sometimes, as if evaluating a risky procedure: probability unknown. Outcome irreversible.
You survived the crash — however impossible that survival looks now. You clawed your way through confusion and hunger and fear. You adapted and endured.
Would you truly throw all of that away on a theory born from desperation?
Another voice whispers cruelly: You're too afraid. And maybe you are. But another voice answers back: You fought too hard to live to surrender it so cheaply.
Even if living means kneading dough in a world that should not exist. Even if living means being small for now. So you choose the mundane. You choose to wake before dawn. You choose to haul water. You choose to survive.
And every morning you open your eyes beneath those smoke-darkened beams, you acknowledge the truth that frightens and steadies you all at once: If you were meant to die in that crash, you would have, but you are still here.
Which means, somehow, your story is not finished.
Until one afternoon, Clare sits across from you at the scrubbed wooden table, hands folded, eyes thoughtful in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
"I've been thinkin'," she says slowly. "I'm not as spry as I was. Winter's harder on the bones each year. My Ellyn's wrote again—her husband's done well for himself. Big house, servants and all that. She's asked me to come live with 'em proper."
The words hang in the air between you, you feel your expression change before you can stop it — your features twisting into something unguarded. Confusion first, then disbelief, then something far more fragile.
What does she mean, she's leaving?
Clare isn't just the woman who owns the tavern. She is the reason you did not lose your mind in the first week, she is routine and familiarity and the one steady voice in a world that still feels like it's made of shifting sand.
She is proof that kindness exists here.
Without her, the fragile structure you've built to keep yourself upright feels as though it might collapse. She has been your anchor, your interpreter, your quiet reassurance that you are not entirely alone in this strange place.
And now she speaks of leaving as if it is simple. As if it does not feel like the ground giving way beneath your feet.
She gives a small shrug. "I'll be closin' the tavern by harvest's end."
You hadn't realized how much of your fragile security rested on these walls.
She watches your face, then reaches across the table and pats your hand. "You can come with me, if you like. There'd be space. Ellyn's good-hearted. Or — " she hesitates, " — there's Lord Ashford."
You blink. "Lord Ashford?"
"Aye. The lord of these lands. His sons come drink here often enough. I know the family. Decent folk, for nobles." She snorts lightly. "If you go to the castle and tell him you're sent by me, with a letter in hand, he'll not turn you away. They'll always have need of another maid."
A maid.
From neurosurgeon to tavern girl to a fucking maid in a medieval castle.
Your pride stirs, then you crush it. Pride is useless here, pride does not feed you.
That night you lie awake long after the hearth goes cold. You weigh your options carefully. Go with Clare? Live out your days under another woman's roof, dependent again. Safe — but small.
Or go to the castle. Risk the unknown, place yourself closer to power, closer to the currents of this world that still feel like a story unfolding around you. Maybe you could find help, to go back where you came from?
By morning, you have decided.
"I'll go to the castle," you tell her quietly.
Clare's smile is soft, but there is sadness behind it. "Thought you might." She cups your cheek briefly, like a mother might. "I'd have liked you with me, truth be told. But you've never been one to settle where you don't mean to."
You wonder if she sees more than you think.
She presses a small pouch of coins into your palm. "For a proper gown. Can't have you showin' up lookin' like you've slept in my flour sacks."
Your throat tightens. "Clare, I — "
"Hush." She waves you off. "You've worked hard enough for your keep. Let an old woman feel generous."
The last morning comes too quickly.
You stand outside the tavern with a small bundle of your belongings — two dresses, your old clothes, a comb, the worn shoes you've grown used to, and Clare's folded letter sealed with wax.
The air smells of damp earth and distant hay.
You throw your arms around her, unable to hold back the tears now. "Thank you. For everything."
She stiffens for half a second (unused to such open affection) then pats your back awkwardly. "Oh, off with you. You'll make me weep, and I've no patience for that." Her voice wobbles despite her attempt at gruffness. "It's been a pleasure, girl. Truly."
You step back, wiping your face.
As you walk away down the road toward Ashford Castle rising pale against the hills, a realization settles heavily over you. You were lucky. So impossibly lucky.
You could have woken in a ditch, in the hands of cruel men, sold, accused of witchcraft. Left to starve.
Instead, you found Clare. A widow with flour and ale on her hands and kindness in her bones.
You glance back once more. She is still standing there, small against the tavern door, watching until you round the bend.
Then you face forward.
The castle looms closer with every step — stone walls high and unyielding, banners snapping in the wind.
Your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your throat, another life ending, another beginning waiting. And you walk toward it alone.
The road stretches ahead in a pale ribbon of packed earth, damp from the night's mist. Your bundle feels heavier than it should, though it carries little more than spare clothing and Clare's sealed letter. Each step takes you farther from the tavern — the only place in this world that has ever felt remotely safe.
You've never really ventured beyond it before.
Not properly.
You told yourself it was because there was too much work to be done. Because Clare needed you. Because the village was small enough and the world beyond it irrelevant.
But the truth is simpler... You were afraid.
Afraid of being asked questions you couldn't answer. Afraid someone sharper than a drunken farmer would notice the way you hesitate before speaking, the way you choose your words too carefully. Afraid of slipping — of referencing something impossible, of revealing how little you truly understand.
So you stayed small.
You stayed within the tavern's walls, where you knew the rhythm of the day and the measure of each man's temper. Where invisibility protected you.
The castle had always existed at the edge of your vision.
You'd seen it from afar : its pale stone towers rising above the trees, banners fluttering against the sky. A distant shape against the horizon, more storybook than real. You never let yourself think about it too deeply.
But now, as the structure grows larger with every step, it is no longer a distant silhouette. The battlements carved in clean lines, the guards posted at the gates, the gleam of sunlight against arrow slits and iron-bound doors.
It is real. Terrifyingly real. And you are walking straight toward it.
There is no tavern wall to hide behind now. No Clare to answer for you, no familiar faces to soften the edges of this world.
Just you, alone.
Your heart pounds — not only from fear, but from something else too. A reluctant awareness that this is movement. That you are no longer merely surviving inside borrowed safety. You are stepping into the wider world. Whatever it does to you next, it will not be because you stayed hidden.
The gates rise above you like something carved from judgment itself.
Two guards stand at attention, mail glinting softly in the afternoon light, spears grounded but ready. They look bored more than anything else, until they see you.
A lone woman, simply dressed... with no escort. Their eyes immediately narrow in polite suspicion.
You force your shoulders to stay relaxed. To look small, harmless. You lower your gaze just enough — not submissive, but respectful. You have learned the balance.
"I beg your pardon, ser," you begin carefully, smoothing your accent, sanding down the sharper edges of your speech. "I've come seekin' Lord Ashford." She says adds quickly. "If it please you."
One guard shifts his weight. "For what purpose?"
Your pulse flutters, this is where tone matters, word choice matters. Too bold and you are insolent... Too educated and you are strange.
"I've heard there be need of a maid in the castle," you say softly shielding the sun from your face with the back of your hand. "I was sent by Mistress Clare — the tavern keeper at Ashford Meadow. She bid me bring a letter to his lordship."
At the mention of Clare, something eases in the older guard's expression. Recognition, perhaps or familiarity.
"The widow who keeps the alehouse by the crossroads?" he asks.
"Aye, ser."
They exchange a glance.
You keep your hands folded loosely before you, heart hammering but face composed. You are acutely aware of every movement — how you stand, how you breathe, how long you hold eye contact. You cannot afford to appear odd.
After a moment, the older guard nods. "Wait here."
He disappears through the gates, leaving you alone beneath the weight of stone and sky. You resist the urge to fidget. This is nothing like walking into a hospital administrator's office. There, you belonged. Here, you are asking to be tolerated.
The guard returns sooner than you expect.
"You'll come," he says simply.
The gates open. The sound alone (iron and wood shifting) makes something inside you jolt. You step through into the castle yard.
It is larger than it ever seemed from afar. Stable boys hurry past leading horses, servants cross with baskets of linens. The smell of hay, smoke, and damp stone fills the air. The keep rises ahead, windows narrow and watchful.
You are led through corridors cooler than the outside air, torchlight flickering along the walls. Tapestries hang between stone columns — hunting scenes, battles, the Ashford sigil, a sun in orange back, worked in careful thread.
Your shoes echo faintly on the floor. You remind yourself to walk neither too quickly nor too slowly.
At last, the guard stops before a wooden door banded with iron. He knocks once, then pushes it open.
"The girl from the tavern, m'lord."
You step inside. The solar is warmer than the corridors, sunlight filtering through arched windows. Shelves lined with ledgers and scrolls. A heavy desk near the far wall.
Lord Ashford stands beside it.
He is older than you expected — hair threaded with gray, beard neatly kept. His tunic is finely made but not ostentatious. He looks like a man accustomed to command without needing to shout.
His gaze settles on you, assessing but not cruel. You drop into a small, practiced curtsey, like Clar told you to do if you see nobility.
"My lord," you say, careful, respectful. "I thank you for granting me audience."
He gestures faintly. "You're sent by Clare?"
"Yes, m'lord." You step forward just enough to offer the sealed letter with both hands. "She asked that I place this in your care."
He takes it, breaks the wax, and reads in silence.
You keep your eyes lowered, but not to the floor entirely — focused somewhere near the edge of his desk. Submissive enough, not suspicious. At last, he folds the letter.
"She speaks well of you," he says. "Says you've worked honest these past months. That you're steady."
Relief flickers through you, but you keep your expression modest. "I do my best, m'lord."
"And you seek a place in my household?"
"Yes, m'lord. As a maid, if it please you. I've experience keepin' house, tendin' tables, seein' to chores as needed." All true.
His eyes linger on you a moment longer. You fight the instinct to fill the silence. In this world, silence belongs to the powerful.
At last, he nods.
"There is always work to be done. You'll report to the housekeeper. She'll judge your usefulness better than I."
Your lungs loosen for the first time since you reached the gates.
"Thank you, my lord," you say, despite the tremor in your chest. "You'll not find me idle."
He studies you once more, as if committing your face to memory.
"We shall see," he replies evenly.
And just like that, another door opens in this strange, impossible life of yours.
The woman waiting for you in the hallway is nothing like Clare. She is older, posture rigid, shoulders squared, and the smell of old wood clings to her like a second skin. Her grey hair is pulled back in a tight knot, gray streaked with stubborn black. Her eyes assess you, and her yellowed teeth glint faintly when she murmurs a greeting.
"You must be the girl from the tavern," she says, each word precise. "Esthis, the housekeeper. Do not waste my time, girl. You are to learn quickly, or you will not last here."
You bow your head. "Yes, Mistress Esthis. I shall do my best."
"Your best will not suffice," she mutters, inspecting you as though you were a piece of furniture she was considering keeping or discarding. "But perhaps it will do until you prove otherwise."
She leads you through a series of corridors, the walls lined with tapestries and shields, the air smelling faintly of incense and wax polish. You keep your head down, careful not to stumble, careful not to breathe too loudly.
"You are to serve the youngest of Lady Ashford's charges," she continues. "Lady Gwyn. The boy-knights are rarely home; they are off gallivanting, showing themselves in tournaments and jousts. Your attention is to be entirely on the girl."
Lady Gwyn. You've heard the name before, from the village gossip, from overheard tales of minor nobility. Twelve years old, soon to be thirteen.
"She turns thirteen soon," Esthis adds, as though noting it for the record, "and you are now her maid. You will anticipate her needs. You will serve without complaint. Do not fail."
You nod again, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I understand."
She grunts, apparently satisfied, and guides you to a small chamber tucked beneath the eaves. The room is modest — bare walls of oak, a narrow bed with a rough woolen blanket, a small chest at the foot. There is a single window that lets in pale sunlight and a draft that chills your shoulders despite your layered clothing.
"This is where you will stay," Esthis says. She gestures to the chest. "Place your things there, and othing more. Keep it tidy, keep it neat. This is not your home, girl. Remember that."
You step inside and lay your bag upon the chest. The room feels impossibly small compared to the open space of Clare's tavern. But it is yours, for now.
Esthis leaves, the door clicking behind her with the kind of authority that leaves no room for argument. You exhale, leaning against the rough wall, feeling the first true weight of your new life settle on your shoulders.
Late at night, when the castle has quieted and the echoes of the day have faded into the thick stone walls, you find yourself in the small, shared quarters with the other maids. They sit cross-legged on worn floorboards, hushed whispers weaving between the shadows of the room. A candle flickers in the corner, throwing dancing light across their faces, and you instinctively smooth your hands over your lap, careful to remain composed.
The conversation drifts from spilled ink to errands and laundry, until, inevitably, it circles back to you.
"You look so young," one whispers, voice tinged with curiosity and something like envy. "So... beautiful. How comes a maiden such as you is not wed? Nor with child yet?"
The question hits with a peculiar weight. It is not asked with malice, but with the casual certainty of those for whom such questions are ordinary, unavoidable truths of life. In this world, it is taken as strange for a woman of your apparent age not to be promised, married, or expecting.
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, the memory of your modern world pressed beneath the folds of this strange one. You were never expected to marry at twelve, thirteen, fifteen — not when ambition and knowledge drove you. And yet, here, in this stone chamber with flickering candlelight, it feels as if your very existence contradicts the order of things.
"I..." you begin carefully, forcing a calmness into your tone, steadying it against the strange ache that has lodged in your chest. "...My husband... he is dead."
A pause ripples through the room, like a soft wind through cobwebs. Their eyes widen slightly. It is enough to silence further questions, though curiosity lingers in the air. You let it.
"And... that is all I shall say of it," you continue, with the faintest tilt of your chin, enough to signal finality without arrogance. Your fingers play lightly in your lap, knotting and unknotting in the candlelight. "It is not for me to speak more."
It is strange (achingly strange) not to speak the way you once did.
In your old life, your words were quick, precise by education and habit. You debated colleagues., you issued instructions in operating rooms without lowering your eyes to anyone.
Here, a misplaced word can mark you as odd. Or worse : arrogant. Or worse still : dangerous.
So you trim your speech carefully. You soften consonants the way the peasants of the Reach do. You round your vowels. You replace perhaps with mayhap, yes with aye, I understand with as you say, my lady.
At first it feels like acting in a play that never ends. You stumble and overcorrect. You lie awake at night replaying conversations, wincing at phrases that may have sounded too polished, too foreign.
But you learn.
You listen the way you always have : absorbing cadence, rhythm, slang. You let it seep into you until it becomes second nature. Now when you speak, it no longer feels entirely borrowed.
Your life settles into routine again, and you are grateful for it.
You scrub floors until your hands crack and bleed in the colder months. You carry water up narrow staircases until your shoulders burn and tremble. You air linens, mend small tears, brush out tangles from silks more expensive than anything you once owned.
You learn to curtsy properly : deep enough to show respect, not so deep as to seem theatrical. You learn when to speak and when silence is safer. You say "My lady" and "My lord" with the right balance of humility and steadiness.
You lower your eyes when addressed.
It is stricter than the tavern ever was. Cleaner, and more controlled. There are no drunken men grabbing at sleeves here — but there are expectations heavier than ale-stained hands.
And then there is Lady Gwyn Ashford. Soon to be thirteen, and painfully aware of it.
She takes a liking to you faster than you expect.
Perhaps it is because you are not cowed by her in the way some of the younger maids are. Perhaps it is because, despite your careful speech, something in you still feels different. Or perhaps she simply senses kindness.
She reminds you, painfully, of girls you once knew. Of nervous patients before minor procedures. Of your friend's daughter who used to sit in hospital waiting rooms swinging her legs. Of nieces who asked too many questions and laughed too loudly.
Lady Gwyn is curious in a way that borders on restless. She is clever — though not always encouraged to be. Bored, often. She speaks constantly of marriage prospects, of what sort of knight or lord she might one day wed, of the duties of a lady, of how she must represent House Ashford well.
Sometimes you see the tension beneath it, the awareness that childhood is slipping from her like sand through fingers.
She asks questions when no one else is near. "What was it like, before you came here?"
"Do smallfolk truly wed for love?"
"Are boys in the villages handsome?"
You answer carefully, always carefully.
And sometimes (when the door is closed and no one important lingers) you let your old self slip through the cracks.
She once described a boy who strutted through the courtyard, boasting of future glory.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. "In my... village, we'd call that peacockin'. All feathers and noise."
She blinked at you. Then laughed—bright and delighted.
"You are strange," she declared. "But funny."
She says you are very pretty, too. That one unsettles you more.
Because here, beauty is not curated the way it was in your world. Peasant women work until sun and wind harden their skin. They do not have the time (or luxury) for careful grooming. In your old life, appearance was maintenance. Skincare, haircare, fitness. It was expected, almost clinical in its routine.
Here, it stands out.
You keep clean because you must. You tie your hair neatly because it is habit. You hold yourself straight because years of professional posture never left you.
And she notices.
"You do not look like the other maids," she once said bluntly, studying you. "You look... finer."
You laughed it off. "Hard work will mend that soon enough, my lady."
But you see it in her eyes : curiosity. Surprise that someone who claims to be smallfolk carries herself differently. And then, inevitably, she asks the question that seems to haunt this world.
"Why are you not wed?"
It is not accusation, it is confusion. You smooth her hair as you've done a hundred times before, fingers gentle as you braid it for the evening.
"My husband died," you say softly, the words practiced and steady.
She goes still. "Oh."
And then her face shifts (not to gossip, not to suspicion) but to genuine sorrow. "I am sorry," she says earnestly. "Truly."
And you believe her.
Lady Gwyn is a truly lovely girl, not yet hardened by politics, not yet burdened by expectation.
You dip your head slightly. "It was some years past, my lady. I have made my peace."
It is easier now to tell the lie. It rolls from your tongue with less resistance. Because in a way, you have lost something. An entire life, a future, people who will never know what became of you.
She leans into your touch as you finish her braid.
"I hope," she says thoughtfully, "that I wed a good man. Not one who boasts like a peacock."
You smile despite yourself.
"I hope so too, my lady."
She smiles at you then, the kind of smile that belongs to a girl and not yet a lady trained for court. Through the mirror, her eyes meet yours.
"I really like your necklace."
Instinctively, your fingers rise to your collarbone, brushing the thin chain. You rarely think of it during the day (it has become part of you) but now it feels suddenly heavy.
It is small. A delicate golden heart, no larger than the pad of your thumb, engraved with your initials. The chain is fine, almost fragile. In your old world it would have been ordinary.
Here, it feels dangerously precious.
You had removed your watch the first week — its glass face, its ticking hands, its impossible design too strange for this place. You keep it wrapped in cloth at the bottom of your chest.
But the necklace... you could not part with it. It was your mother's gift. A graduation present. "So you'll always carry home with you," she had said, fastening it at your neck.
You swallow gently. "Thank you, my lady. My mother gifted it to me."
Gwyn nods, studying it with approval. She does not ask more. For that, you are grateful.
You notice the books at first only because your eyes are starved for printed words. Leather spines line the shelves of her chamber. Some cracked with age, others newer, their bindings still stiff. Titles stamped in gold leaf. Pages edged in faint red or blue.
You try not to stare.
One afternoon, while braiding her hair, you let yourself glance too long at a stack near the window.
"You look at them as if they might speak," she observes.
You nearly flinch.
"I only think they're handsome things," you reply, cautious.
She tilts her head. "Can you read?"
The question lands heavier than it should. Most smallfolk cannot.
You measure your answer like you once measured incision depth. "Aye, my lady. I was fortunate. A nobleman once passed through our village. Taught a few of us letters in the evenings."
It sounds plausible.
Her brows lift slightly — not in suspicion, but mild surprise. "That is rare."
"I know," you say, lowering your eyes just enough.
There is a pause. Then, gently: "You may borrow one, if you like. I have more than I care to finish. It is expected I read them, but I confess I do not always enjoy it."
You bow your head, hiding the rush of relief and hunger. "You are most kind, my lady."
Kind does not begin to cover it. You devour them. You read in your small chamber by candlelight until wax pools dangerously close to the holder. You read in stolen moments between duties. You read as if the pages themselves might reveal a map home.
At first it is simple histories.
Dragons long dead : Balerion the Black Dread, whose shadow once swallowed cities. Vhagar. Meraxes. Names that feel mythic and yet are recorded with dates and witnesses.
You read of Aegon's Conquest : of fire made flesh, of Harrenhal melting like wax, of kingdoms bending or burning.
You read of the Dance of the Dragons, civil war tearing a dynasty apart. Brother against sister. Dragon against dragon. Skies black with ash.
Then the Blackfyre Rebellion : bastards claiming crowns, legitimacy questioned, blood spilled over lineage and pride.
And always, threading through it, the Targaryens.
Daeron II Targaryen : called the Good. The king who did not conquer Dorne with flame, but bound it through marriage. A political union that reshaped the realm more effectively than war. So it is true.
The drunken man in the tavern had not exaggerated.
You are living in the reign of a king whose name you now trace with your fingertip across parchment. You turn pages faster.
His sons, that you know with you many stores you've read already.
Baelor Targaryen. Breakspear. Widower. Warrior. Diplomat. The text praises his honor, his measured temperament, his ability to bridge divides between regions long hostile to one another.
You pause over his description longer than necessary. The other sons too, but not much is known in text, more in rumors.
Maekar Targaryen, stern, rigid, unyielding. Also widower with many children.
"His children are said to be fierce," Gwyn murmurs one afternoon as you fasten the small pearl buttons at her sleeves, her voice lowered as though the stone walls themselves might carry tales. "But they have a poor reputation as well. Mother says the eldest is oft in his cups, and the second... cruel."
She hesitates, then adds with a small shrug, "I heard he has sent one of them to the Citadel to forge a chain and become a maester. I know little of the others, though. Only whispers."
That is not written in the book. But it feels true.
You read of the coin the gods are said to flip at a Targaryen's birth, madness or greatness. As if divinity itself cannot decide what it has created. You read of the Wall in the far North, ancient and impossibly vast. Of creatures scholars dismiss with careful language, but never entirely deny.
White walkers. Giants. Things that do not fit within your old understanding of biology.
You close the book slowly. It was absurd, all of it.
The announcement comes like a thunderclap: the royal family will attend Gwyn's name day.
Even Lord Ashford looks stunned.
You overhear Lady Ashford murmuring to her companions that the Targaryens no longer soar as they once did, not without dragons. That Prince Baelor seeks closeness with lesser houses, to strengthen loyalty.
"They must remind the realm they are still flame," she says.
You polish the silver until your fingers ache and the metal gleams like still water. You work the cloth in small, patient circles, watching your distorted reflection waver in the curve of a goblet. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself — your face stretched thin by the bowl of the cup, eyes darker than you remember, older somehow.
You were not in the courtyard when Lord Ashford rode out to greet them, but you heard the trumpets. You did not see the formal bows, nor Lady Gwyn's carefully practiced curtsey, nor the way the household must have gathered in subtle clusters to witness dragon-blood stepping through their gates.
You only hear about it afterward in fragments from the stable boys.
Now you stand inside the solar, tray balanced carefully in your hands, breath measured and posture exact. The room has been prepared meticulously — rushes refreshed, fire stoked, wine decanted.
Brinna stands beside you, barely fifteen, gentle as pressed linen and twice as obedient. She clutches her own tray with white-knuckled fingers.
Then the door opens.
You feel it before you see them — the subtle shift in the air, the awareness that something important has entered the room.
Prince Baelor steps inside first.
He is broad-shouldered, yes, but not in the brutish way of men who rely solely on strength. There is composure in him. Control. The sunlight that follows through the open door catches in his dark hair — Dornish blood unmistakable in the tone of his olive skin, in the shape of his features. Truly handsome.
Behind him comes Prince Maekar.
If Baelor is tempered steel, Maekar is iron left in the forge too long — hard and severe. His jaw is set tight, his gaze sharp and restless. There is no warmth in the way he surveys the room. If anything, there is impatience.
You sense immediately that he finds this tourney tiresome. Beneath him. A duty to endure rather than enjoy.
They cross the threshold with Lord Ashford speaking between them, voice diplomatic, eager but measured.
Baelor came in front of you... and oh, he was handsome — truly, unfairly handsome.
Not in the fragile, ethereal way of the silver-haired princes sung about in taverns, but in something steadier. Baelor Targaryen entered the solar like a man accustomed to being watched and yet uninterested in the watching. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, sun-browned by Dornish blood rather than pale Valyrian frost. Strength without ostentation, authority without noise.
His brother was the opposite in coloring if not in bearing. Hair white as bleached bone, eyes pale and sharp — the first time you saw a man like that, in your old world, you would have assumed albinism. Here, it marked him clearly: Targaryen. Or Lyseni. But no one mistook him. This was Prince Maekar : rigid, hawk-faced, coiled with restrained impatience.
And yet it was Baelor you looked at.
You were not present at the gates when Lord Ashford welcomed them. You did not see the formal bows, nor hear the words exchanged in the courtyard. But you heard later that the prince had greeted his host warmly — no arrogance, no lazy disdain. The rumors were true, then. Both that he was honorable... and that he was striking.
You met them inside, when they were shown into the solar.
Brinna, sweet and obedient Brinna, barely fifteen and already trained into quiet invisibility, carried one wine bocal. You slipped smoothly beside her and relieved her of it before she could protest. She blinked at you but said nothing. You were older; you moved with more certainty. Or perhaps more habit.
And then they entered.
Baelor first, accompanied by Lord Ashford, who spoke in a tone of careful optimism. Behind him came Maekar, tension drawn across his shoulders like a bowstring.
Maekar's eyes moved unkindly around the chamber.
He muttered curses under his breath — not the performative kind meant to shock, but the habitual sort of a man already displeased before the day has begun.
You would have snorted once, in another life. The reflex rose in your throat before you strangled it. You were not that woman here, you were a maid.
You stepped forward. Baelor's eyes found you immediately. Not in hunger like most men, or in dismissal. Simply — awareness.
You lowered yours at once and moved to help him remove his cloak, fingers careful, deferential. And then the trembling began.
This was no minor lord. This was the heir to the Iron Throne. Descendant of dragonriders. A man whose ancestors had conquered kingdoms with flame.
You had heard of him in taverns — in gossip thick with ale and envy. Breakspear. The warrior who split shields. The widower prince. The good one.
And now he stood before you, smelling of leather, steel oil, and something clean... early rain, perhaps, caught in wool.
"Spring rains have swollen many of our streams," Lord Ashford was saying gently. "Perhaps the young princess has merely been delayed."
"Fuck me," Maekar muttered flatly. "Delayed," he repeated with disdain. "They are not delayed."
Your hands faltered at one stubborn clasp near Baelor's shoulder. You dared, foolishly, to glance up. He was not looking at you, but at his brother.
Faster, you tell yourself.
"Do not curse our gracious host," Baelor said quietly.
His voice was low, and you felt it more than heard it — a faint vibration beneath your fingers where the cloak still rested against his chest.
The clasp refused you.
Your fingers fumbled. Shit, shit, shit.
His gaze shifted.
For one terrifying second you thought he would rebuke you — a mean correction, a prince's impatience. Instead, something else crossed his face. Amusement? Understanding?
He covered your hands with his. And oh... They were so calloused in a way no court-bred dandy would ever be. The hands of a man who had actually wielded a weapon rather than merely posed with one.
"I have it," he murmured, not unkindly.
You withdrew at once, stepping back as though burned, eyes dropping to the floor. He unfastened the clasp himself and lifted the cloak from his shoulders in one smooth motion, handing it to you rather than letting it fall.
"Thank you," he said.
To you. Not past you. Not through you. To you.
This should have been ordinary — once, in another life, it would not have unsettled you at all. But here, in a world where rank carved distance between souls and nobles rarely wasted gentleness on those beneath them, kindness felt almost unnatural. So rare, so unexpected, that you found yourself stunned by it.
Behind him, Maekar tore off his own cloak and let it fall carelessly to the floor.
"I said fuck me, not fuck him," he grumbled, pacing toward the window. "It is not his fault Father bade us attend this miserable circus."
Lord Ashford's smile tightened. Just barely.
You saw it, and you felt a strange flicker of protectiveness toward him. He was kind. You knew that much. He did not deserve open contempt in his own hall.
Baelor sensed it too.
"Might we discuss this another time?" he suggested, already taking a seat with deliberate calm — not commanding, not pleading, simply redirecting.
The conversation shifted, politics, appearances. The expected arrival of other nobles.
You did not hear most of it, no, you were too busy memorizing him.
Oh, damn it — why did you have to feel this sudden, traitorous heat when he was the very portrait of the realm itself? The embodiment of honor, of duty, of everything sung about in halls and whispered about in awe. It was absurd, mortifyingly predictable. A foolish, girlish cliché you would have mocked in anyone else.
And yet, you couldn't help it.
The way he leaned back but never slouched, eating his grapes. The way his attention sharpened when someone spoke. The way Maekar's agitation seemed to orbit him rather than disturb him.
And then the interruption came.
A large, awkward young knight (broad as an ox and twice as uncertain) was discovered hovering too near the doorway, clearly listening. He looked as though he regretted being born.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
He stammered something about entering the lists. About having once served a certain Ser Arlan of Pennytree. About a joust sixteen years prior.
To your astonishment, Baelor remembered.
You poured more wine as they spoke, careful not to spill a drop. Maekar rolled his eyes openly when Duncan praised Baelor's skill. But Baelor waved it away with almost embarrassed humility.
"No harm done," he told the knight. "You may enter the lists."
The gamemaster shifted uneasily, and Baelor reminded the young man he would require a sigil if he were to compete — he was not Ser Arlan's son.
You felt something twist unexpectedly in your chest. Like you, he had no banner to claim. No father to stand behind. No clear place in this world that insisted upon lineage as proof of worth.
He bowed awkwardly, nearly tripping over himself as he withdrew.
When the door closed behind him, the room felt different somehow.
You linger at the edge of the solar while the princes, the maester of the games and Lord Ashford continue their discussion of the morrow's lists — which banners will ride, which rivalries must be carefully managed, which slight from ten years past might reignite beneath the guise of sport. It is a dance of pride disguised as chivalry.
You move when needed. Refill wine, replace a cup, answer when spoken to.
"Yes, my lord." "At once, Your Grace."
Invisible, efficient, and forgettable. Yet you feel his presence in the room like a second hearth-fire.
It is well past midnight when you see him again.
Lady Gwyn had fussed longer than usual before sleep, restless with anticipation of the tourney, whispering about which knight might crown her Queen of Love and Beauty. You stayed until her breathing softened and evened, until her fingers loosened their hold on your hand.
Only then do you retreat to your small chamber.
You hesitate before putting on the dark cloak. This is foolish, you tell yourself. But the air in the castle feels too thick tonight. You need distance from polished floors and noble tempers.
The lists are quiet now, the great pavilions stand like sleeping beasts beneath the moon. You only want to walk between them. To feel something that is yours.
You step into the corridor, fastening the clasp at your throat — and walk straight into someone.
You hit something solid, and a hand grips your upper arm to steady you before you can lose balance.
"Shit — oh my God—" you breathe automatically, the old words slipping out before you can catch them.
The hand stills, and you look up.
Prince Baelor. Your heart slams so violently you're certain he must feel it through your sleeve.
You drop at once into a curtsy, mortification flushing your skin. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not see — I wasn't looking — "
"It is quite all right," he says, and there is no irritation in it.
He releases your arm, though his touch lingers in your awareness. His cloak is gone now; he wears only a simple dark doublet, unlaced slightly at the throat. Less princely. More man.
"And where are you going," he asks, tilting his head slightly, looking at your cloak, "at such an hour?"
The question is gentle, not accusatory. Still, you feel suddenly aware of how improper this might appear — a servant wandering alone at night.
"I wished for some air, my prince," you answer carefully. "The halls grow close after a long day."
His gaze rests on you longer than it should.
"The grounds are not entirely empty," he says. "Knights drink deeply after a day in the lists."
"I can take care of myself," you reply before you can stop yourself. Shit. Too bold. You lower your eyes quickly. "Forgive me. I only meant — I will be cautious."
A faint smile touches his mouth — not mocking. "I do not doubt you can," he says. "But caution is no insult to strength."
Silence stretches between you, you don't know what to say.
He seems kind — more than kind. A man who listens before he speaks and does not wield his rank like a cudgel. There is nothing cruel in him, nothing careless. And that, somehow, makes this worse. Because you are not merely speaking to a courteous knight.
You are speaking to the heir to the Iron Throne.
To the son of a king, to the grandson of dragonriders. To a man whose blood has ruled the Seven Kingdoms since Aegon's Conquest... In your other life, men like him existed only in books and on screens, safe behind glass and fiction.
And yet here he stands in the flickering torchlight, close enough that you can see the faint scar near his jaw, close enough to hear the cadence of his breathing. It should terrify you... and it does, a little.
"You are not from these lands," he observes suddenly.
Your breath catches.
"My prince?"
"Your speech," he clarifies. "It is careful. As though chosen."
Your thoughts scatter at once. Holy shit. You cannot afford to be examined too closely. Not by anyone — and certainly not by him. Another realization follows swiftly on the first: he is not merely honorable, nor simply kind. He is observant, attentive in ways that unsettle. The sort of man who notices small fractures in a polished surface.
That is certainly a danger to you.
You are meant to be forgettable, another quiet maid in a borrowed apron. A bowed head, a pair of hands that pour wine and vanish. You have worked diligently to smooth away the sharper edges of your old yourself — the cadence of another world, the posture of someone accustomed to being seen.
And yet here you stand, caught beneath the gaze of a prince who has already noticed too much.
"I was fortunate, growing up," you say evenly. "A nobleman once allowed me access to letters. I learned to speak properly in service."
"Fortunate indeed," he murmurs. "Few are granted such opportunity."
He studies you again — and this time it feels as though he is not looking at a maid, but at a person trying very hard to remain small.
"And yet," he continues quietly, "you do not seem small."
The words strike deeper than they should.
You swallow. "It is not my place to seem otherwise."
"For what it is worth," he says after a moment, "place and worth are not always the same thing."
You dare to meet his mismatched eyes then.
They are warmer up close than you expected. Purple and blue, flecked with gold in the torchlight.
"Thank you, Your Grace," you say softly.
He inclines his head, as though you have offered him something equal in return.
"If you must walk," he says, stepping slightly aside to allow you passage, "remain near the larger pavilions. The guards patrol there."
"I will."
You hesitate. "And if you require anything — "
He shakes his head gently. "No. But I thank you."
Another pause, the corridor feels narrower now.
"You said 'God,'" he adds suddenly.
Your stomach drops. Fuck.
"My prince?"
"When you stumbled," he says mildly. "You did not say 'gods.'"
Your thoughts tangle over themselves, searching desperately for something plausible.
"I -- I was startled," you manage at last. "An old habit."
A soft, nervous laugh slips from you, an attempt to thin whatever tension has gathered between you. It sounds too light in the narrow corridor, too fragile.
Your hands have begun trembling again — traitorous things. You hide them in the folds of your gown, fingers curling into the fabric as if you might anchor yourself there.
He watches you for a heartbeat longer. Then, unexpectedly, he lets it go. "As you say."
Relief floods you so suddenly your knees almost weaken. You incline your head, meaning to take your leave at last.
The corridor is dim, lit only by guttering torches that paint the stone in restless gold. Your slippers make scarcely a sound upon the rush-strewn floor. You have almost reached the turn when his voice rangs again.
"What is your name again?" the prince asks.
Again? As if the loss of it pricks him.
Your pulse stumbles, names are dangerous things. In this world they carry lineage, allegiance, memory. You have forged yours carefully, stitched it into the fabric of your lie until it sits comfortably on your shoulders. Even so, for a moment you consider giving him another.
But he is waiting.
His thumb rests lightly against your sleeve, warm through the wool. His gaze is searching your face in the half-light.
You hesitate for only a heartbeat. It is enough for him to notice.
A faint line appears between his brows — not anger, not suspicion, but thought. As though he senses there is more beneath your silence than shyness.
"My name, Your Grace?" you echo softly, buying time you do not possess.
"Yes," he says. "I would not forget it twice."
There is no command in the words, so you give it to him. The sound of it feels strange in your own mouth tonight.
He repeats it, lower, tasting the syllables. Not mockery. Not correction. Memory. He nods once, committing it somewhere behind those steady brown eyes.
"It suits you," he says, almost absently.
You don't know what that means. He releases your arm then, though slowly, as if reluctant to surrender the contact.
"Good night," he says at last.
The corridor seems smaller somehow.
"Good night, Your Grace."
You curtsy again, deeper this time. When you rise, his gaze has not left you. You step past him, acutely aware of his proximity — the warmth, the faint scent of leather and steel that clings to him.
You walk steadily until you turn the corner. Only then do you press your hand to your chest.
Oh, this is dangerous.
You were present in the solar when Aerion made his declaration.
The chamber felt smaller that day, though the great carved beams and high windows had not shifted an inch. Lord Ashford sat at the head of the heavy wooden table carved with his house's sunburst crest. Beside him, stern and watchful, was his liege lord from the house of Tyrell. The king's sons occupied the opposite side — Prince Baelor composed, Prince Maekar tight-jawed.
Ser Duncan the Tall stood before them, flanked by royal guards, looking as though he had wandered into a tale far larger than himself. When the knight requested trial by combat, Aerion refused. He sat half-sprawled in his chair, a dagger in hand, cracking nuts against the tabletop with idle flicks of the blade. Shells scattered like splinters around his plate. His pale hair caught the light; his eyes did not.
"A trial of seven," he announced, as if suggesting a change in weather.
It was excess, spectacle even! It was cruelty wrapped in ceremony.
You felt the shift in the room — the tightening of jaws, the quick exchange of glances. A trial of seven meant blood would not be contained to two men. It would draw others in. Escalate pride into ruin. You moved quietly around the table, pouring wine into cups that did not need refilling. Your hands were steady by habit now. Your face carefully blank.
But inside, something twisted.
You pitied Ser Duncan. You had already pitied him long before this moment.
You had taken him food in the dungeons when no one was looking — crusts of bread, a heel of cheese, whatever you could slip past the guards under the pretense of cleaning. You should not have done it. It was not your place, but he had looked so bewildered in his chains, so alone.
And you had been there the day Aerion snapped the puppeteer girl's fingers.
The memory still made your stomach turn.
The girl had been part of a troupe traveling through the grounds, performing an old tale with painted wooden figures. You did not understand at first what had angered the prince so deeply. The maids whispered that the puppets had mocked the three-headed dragon, that the story made light of Targaryen power. That was why he had seized the girl's hand and bent her fingers back until they broke.
But in the kitchens, the cook had cut those whispers short.
"Fool talk," he had said slamming a cleaver into bone. "That tale is older than the dragons in this land. Older than their crowns. The prince needed no insult to do what he did. Some men are just born cruel."
Mad, others murmured later.
You did not know if it was madness, you only knew the sound the girl made.
And now here he was again, cracking nuts with his dagger, demanding seven men bleed for his pride, while Ser Duncan stood alone beneath banners that did not belong to him.
You poured more wine, and wondered how many more bones would break before this tourney was done.
When Ser Duncan was taken below (beneath the stone belly of Ashford Castle where the air turns damp and smells of iron and old straw) you told yourself it was none of your affair.
You lasted less than an hour.
Bread and cheese are easy enough to pocket if one knows when the kitchens are busiest. A heel gone missing raises fewer questions than a loaf. Water, easier still. You wrapped both in cloth and made your way down the narrow steps, heart hammering with every echo of your own footfall.
He could not have been more than nineteen, you thought when you saw him properly in the torchlight. Broad as an ox, yes. Calloused hands, yes... but young. Startlingly young when stripped of armor and pride.
He looked up when you approached the bars, confusion first — then recognition.
"You," he said, too loudly.
"Quiet," you hissed at once, glancing over your shoulder. "Do you want us both dead?"
That silenced him.
You passed the bread through the gap and the cup of water after. His fingers brushed yours, rough and shaking.
"You shouldn't — " he began.
"I know."
It was dangerous. Perhaps even treasonous, depending on how one wished to frame it. You had seen men hanged for less — for theft, for insolence, for merely being inconvenient to someone with power. A maid consorting with a prisoner accused of striking a prince? That rope would not hesitate.
Still, you could not unsee the puppeteer girl's broken fingers. You could not forget the sound.
"This does not leave this cell," you told him firmly. "You do not speak of me. If anyone asks, you found it on the floor. Understood?"
He nodded quickly. "I won't tell. I swear it."
He thanked you more times than necessary. You cut him off each time.
"Eat," you said. "You'll need your strength."
You did not stay long, could not afford to.
And so that night, they brought him back to the solar.
You stood once more with the wine pitcher in hand as the great men of the realm resumed their seats.
Prince Aerion Targaryen lounged in his chair as though none of this concerned him. His lip was still split where Duncan had struck him; dried blood traced the edge of his mouth.
He cracked nuts against the table again with the flat of his dagger. Again. Again.
The sharp report echoed in the chamber. If it pained him, he did not show it. If anything, the blood only sharpened his delight.
Prince Maekar looked as though he wished the stone floor would open and swallow him whole. Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell shared a glance — discomfort poorly disguised as diplomacy.
Prince Baelor, meanwhile, might have been carved from marble, but you saw it.
The tightening at his jaw when you poured his wine. The faint flex of muscle beneath stillness. He did not speak out of turn, did not even interrupt.
When Aerion refused single combat and declared he would have a trial of seven, the air itself seemed to recoil, even Prince Baelor and Maekar stiffened, well Maekar was more confusing having never heard of a trial of seven.
Baelor was the one who explained the custom : seven champions for the accused. Seven for the accuser. Judgment decided by blood and survival.
As he spoke, you watched Ser Duncan's face, you watched the light leave it.
Six other knights? He was a hedge knight — no house, no banner of note, no father's name to rally behind him. Large and awkward and earnest, a man who could barely afford decent armor. And now he was expected to find six others willing to stake their lives on his cause.
It was absurd! Cruel, even.
Your knuckles whitened around the neck of the wine pitcher before you realized how tightly you were gripping it, you couldn't help it.
The doctor in you (the part that once swore oaths about preserving life) recoiled at the spectacle of it. But even beyond that, simply the human in you balked. You caught Duncan's eye for a fleeting second.
He looked as though the ground had vanished beneath him.
Prince Maekar seized his son by the arm and all but dragged him from the chamber, annoyance radiating from him like heat from forge iron.
When the door shut behind them, the room felt drained.
Ser Duncan asked to be dismissed so he might seek his champions, voice lacking conviction. Already he sounded defeated.
Prince Baelor did not even look at him fully — only gave a curt tilt of the head.
Dismissed.
And just like that, the fate of a nineteen-year-old hedge knight was set loose into the night, expected to gather six men willing to bleed for him.
Soon enough, Lord Ashford withdrew with stiff courtesy, and Lord Tyrell followed, murmuring something about the hour and the morrow's arrangements. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, their voices swallowed by stone.
The fire had burned low, embers pulsing red and gold beneath settling ash. Shadows stretched long across the carved table bearing Ashford's crest. The air smelled faintly of smoke and spilled wine.
Prince Baelor did not leave.
He remained seated for a time, then rose and turned toward the hearth, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His posture was straight, but no longer ceremonial. Thoughtful now, almost burdened.
You were still there... Not dismissed.
The wine pitcher rested in your hands, heavier than it should have been. You did not dare set it down without instruction. Etiquette was clear: a servant speaks only when addressed. A servant does not intrude upon noble contemplation.
So you lowered your gaze and waited.
It startled you when he spoke.
"Were you present," he asked without turning, "during the... incident?"
You blinked, uncertain.
"My prince?"
He shifted slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. The firelight traced the line of his cheek, softened the severity of his profile.
"You walk the grounds at night," he said evenly. "You said so. I thought perhaps you might have seen what occurred."
Understanding dawned slowly.
"Yes," you answered carefully. "I was there."
Silence lingered a moment.
"And," he continued, now facing you fully, "do you believe it just?"
The question struck you harder than any reprimand might have. You hesitated.
"May I speak freely, Your Grace?" you asked, pulse quickening.
A faint flicker of something (amusement, perhaps) touched his mouth. "You are already doing so."
You swallowed.
"I think it unjust," you said at last. "Your nephew was... out of line." You chose the phrase carefully, but the truth pressed harder behind it.
"It was cruelty," you added, more firmly than intended.
His jaw tightened.
"He was struck," Baelor replied. "Ser Duncan laid hands upon a grandson of the king."
"And breaking a girl's fingers shows strength?" you answered before caution could catch you.
The words came sharper than they should have. Too quick and honest.
You realized only then that your speech had shifted — less careful, less polished. Something of your other self slipping through.
You steadied your tone. "If I may, my prince... if such acts are meant to remind smallfolk of royal authority, they do not succeed."
His brows lifted slightly.
"How so?"
You set the wine pitcher down on the table, your hands suddenly free, folding them behind your back to still their trembling.
"I am smallfolk," you said plainly. "People talk. In kitchens, in stables, in the yards." You met his eyes now. "They have not spoken kindly of House Targaryen since that day."
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face — a gesture so weary, so human, it startled you. For a moment he did not look like the heir to a throne forged in dragonfire. He looked like a man carrying the weight of other men's sins.
The firelight caught in his eyes — one warm blue, the other purple, almost amber in certain angles. They fixed on you with unsettling intensity.
"You presume much," he said quietly.
"I report what I hear," you replied. "Fear is not loyalty... and well, cruelty does not inspire devotion. It inspires resentment."
He did not rebuke you.Instead, he looked... tired.
"I know," he admitted at last, voice low. "What my nephew did was not noble." A pause. "But I cannot publicly condemn him. He is my blood."
There it was. The line drawn not by morality, but by lineage.
He turned slightly away again, staring into the fire.
"I am a son of the dragon," he continued. "And dragons do not devour their own before the realm."
The statement was not prideful. It was resigned.
You felt something twist in your chest.
"And what of the realm?" you asked softly.
He did not answer immediately.
The embers shifted, a log collapsed inward with a quiet hiss.
When he looked back at you, there was something rawer in his expression now — something less princely.
"The realm," he said, "is rarely as simple as right and wrong."
You did not answer.
The fire shifted between you, collapsing inward with a soft sigh of sparks. You thought the conversation had ended there — that he would dismiss you, retreat back behind the careful walls of diplomacy and blood.
Instead, he turned fully toward you. "If you stood in my place," he asked, voice quieter now, stripped of ceremony, "what would you do?"
The question unsettled you more than any rebuke could have.
"My prince — "
"If you wore my name. My burden. What would you have done?"
You hesitated only briefly.
"I would have taught my nephew a lesson or two," you said lightly, attempting humor to soften the boldness.
His mouth twitched — barely. A faint distortion at the corner of his lips. Not quite a smile, but close enough to prove he understood.
Then you grew serious. "And I would have helped the knight," you added. "If not publicly, then quietly. Found men willing to stand beside him."
He interrupted you before you could continue. "And would you have stood beside him yourself?"
You blinked.
"If I were a man?" you asked.
"Yes."
"Then yes," you said without hesitation. "I would."
The answer surprised neither of you.
"And now?" he pressed.
You huffed softly. "Now they would not allow it. I lack the proper anatomy for their chivalry."
A startled sound escaped him — softer than laughter, but real.
He tilted his head slightly. "If you were in my place."
You stared at him as though he had sprouted a second head.
"Are you mad?" you blurted before you could stop yourself, finally realizing what he meant. Horror struck you a heartbeat later. You clapped a hand over your own mouth.
"My prince — forgive me — I did not mean—"
He shook his head, dismissing the apology. "I asked for honesty."
You lowered your hand slowly.
"If I were in your place," you said more carefully, "I would be furious. At my nephew, at the position... the choice between blood and justice."
His gaze sharpened.
"And what would you choose?"
You studied him now, truly studied him — the weight in his shoulders, the tension that had not left him since Aerion's declaration.
"You are contemplating it," you said quietly, finally putting the piece one by one. He wanted to side with Duncan, be one of his knights.
He did not deny it.
"The thought has crossed my mind," he admitted. "More than once."
"To stand for Ser Duncan?"
"Yes..." A pause. "The more I turn it over," he continued, "the more it seems the thing to do. The honorable thing."
The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the conflict there : duty to blood, duty to justice, duty to the realm. You felt a chill that had nothing to do with the hour.
"My prince," you said carefully, "you are the heir to the Iron Throne."
"I am aware."
"It is dangerous."
"All things worth doing are."
You stepped closer without realizing it, lowering your voice instinctively though no one else remained in the chamber.
"I have seen the lists these past days," you said. "The broken bones. The blood in the sand. A trial of seven will not be sport. It will be slaughter."
He did not flinch. "I know."
"You are not some wandering knight with nothing to lose," you pressed. "You carry a kingdom's future on your shoulders."
"And what is that future worth," he asked quietly, "if it cannot defend what is just?"
The question struck deep. You searched for an answer and found none that did not wound.
"I agree with you," you admitted softly. "It would be right." A pause. "But right does not mean safe."
A faint breath escaped him... almost a laugh, though without humor.
"You sound as though you would rather I remain behind the walls."
"I would rather you live," you replied before you could temper it.
His eyes held yours — long, searching.
"My mind is not yet settled," he said at last. "But it leans."
You felt it then — that terrible, unmistakable clarity of who he was, a man who would bleed for principle, and perhaps that was the most frightening thing of all.
Targaryens were not known for goodness. If history allowed a few bright names, they were rare exceptions swallowed by the madness and ruin that followed most of the line. The books you had read about them were filled with dragons who burned too hot, kings who mistook cruelty for strength, princes undone by pride. And even in your own world, the good ones never seemed to last. The politicians who tried to stand upright in crooked systems were outmaneuvered, discredited, erased. Power had a way of devouring decency.
You found yourself worrying for Baelor in that same quiet, unreasonable way. You were not a monarchist. You never had been. In your world, crowns were symbols and relics, not necessities. But here (in this brutal, rigid land) there was no parliament to petition, no constitution to lean upon. The realm was its royal family. Their virtues and their failures shaped everything.
And perhaps Baelor could have shaped it differently. He listened, he had asked for your thoughts when he could have dismissed you without consequence. That alone set him apart from nearly every noble you had served under these stone ceilings. It should not have been remarkable — and yet it was.
You only hoped that kind of goodness would not cost him more than this world was willing to spare.
A/N: part 2 ( bc Tumblr didn't let me post the whole thing ....) PLZ COMMENT, I need thoughts and even ideas :)
modern!aerion who owns a motorcycle he is embarrassingly proud of. treats the thing like his first born son and refuses to go anywhere unless it's with it.
modern!aerion who terrorizes you with said motorcycle. will take-off with unnecessary speed after every red light just to make you squeal and wrap your arms more tightly around his waist. you'll arrive at your destination with wobbly legs and hair that looks like a rat's nest. he'll laugh maniacally when you grumble: "you're a fucking menace to society."
modern!aerion who has a massive dragon tattooed across his back and shivers every time you trace your fingers through it. also has a bunch of other tattoos that he got mostly to spite his father. would probably tattoo your name on him if you begged pretty enough.
modern!aerion who picks you up from college and embarrasses you in front of all your friends. will turn what was supposed to be a simple peck on the lips into a full makeout session just to see the mortified expressions on their faces.
you'll see it coming every single time, but still not have the time to think fast enough before he's shoving his tongue inside your mouth. if you try to push him away he'll only grab a fistful of your ass to embarrass you further.
modern!aerion who has fucked you on every possible surface of the targaryen estate. daeron caught you in the game room once, on top of a very expensive pool table.
after that, every meeting with his brother is a mortifying experience. aerion will only pretend he's trying to conceal his massive grin while you pray the floor will swallow you whole. daeron will probably manage to endure a few minutes of awkward silence before turning around to leave while mumbling "i need some fucking vodka" despite it being 10 am.
modern!aerion who personally hates everyone that gives you bullshit. will loudly say "so that's the bitch you told me about huh" when you're near a girl you don't like and shamelessly glare at her until you have to physically drag him away like a naughty dog.
modern!aerion who will pick up a fight with your ex every time you two happen to run into the poor guy. will also demand you to patch up his injuries later and kiss them better, looking up at you with big, apologetic eyes as if he's the victim somehow.
modern!aerion who often self-sabotages with the thought that you could obviously do much better than him. has broken up with you at least three times for that reason, but only managed a few days of no contact before blowing up your phone in the middle of the night.
