Summary: Gamophobia (noun) | /ˌɡæməˈfəʊbiə/
An extreme or irrational fear of long-term commitment or marriage, often resulting in avoidance of deep emotional intimacy despite genuine affection.
A/N: My readers are familiar with my general loathing of a fic before i post it lol. also i wish i had written a bonus scene for this one but i really couldn't think of anything so any of my more imaginative readers pls pls feel free to reblog with a bonus scene
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
You were a daughter to happily married parents.
Your childhood had been a kaleidoscope of candy-coated memories, each one shimmering like gold whenever you thought of them, forever encapsulated in the delicate snowglobe of your mind.
Birthdays smelled of warm cake and sweet frosting; Mother’s Days were spent with your father and you in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and carefully crafting bouquets out of crepe paper, rolling each strip into a rose before presenting them with proud, beaming smiles.
Summers were a blur of sun and sand, of you holding tightly to your mother’s hand as the waves pulled you deeper and deeper, her laughter mingling with yours.
Christmases were a sacred ritual: stringing lights together, hanging ornaments, and finally, the pièce de résistance—placing the star on the tree. Your father would lift you up, both of you giggling as you struggled to steady it, the soft glow of the lights reflecting in all your eyes.
You were a daughter to happily married parents.
And then, everything changed.
It was during the summer break after your third year at Hogwarts that your world fractured. Returning home, you immediately sensed the shift in the air. Your once welcoming house now felt hollow, as if someone had pulled the warmth right out of it. Your father—who had always been there to greet you at the platform—was nowhere to be found. Your mother’s response to your frantic questions was clipped, distant.
“He’s… not here.” She said, avoiding your gaze.
The house looked as if a storm had passed through—boxes scattered across the floor, furniture moved, the faint scent of dust and stale air clinging to everything. Confused and anxious, you asked if you were moving, if the life you’d known was ending. Your mother’s reply was bitter, strange, and chilling: “We’re not going anywhere.”
Later that evening, at your favorite restaurant, the truth finally landed like a punch to the gut. Between bites of food you no longer had the appetite for, they spoke of divorce. Of separation. Of things you weren’t supposed to understand, yet had to, whether you liked it or not. Words blurred as your mind raced—custody agreements, legal proceedings, the stark reality that the perfect family you had always believed in was nothing more than a fragile illusion.
You remember the look on their faces—the disgust in their eyes when they looked at each other, the sharpness in their voices that had never been there before. You remember the suffocating swirl of confusion, anger, and grief as you demanded to know why, how, what had gone wrong.
You were never able to return to that restaurant again.
The summer that followed was relentless. You were dragged through endless legal meetings, forced to witness your parents change before your eyes—their smiles gone, replaced by cold calculation and quiet resentment. Even the smallest interactions, once warm and ordinary, now carried tension and unspoken accusations. You had to navigate the shifting landscape of their lives while still clinging desperately to the remnants of your childhood—a child trying to hold together a world that no longer made sense.
They yelled so much their voices carried through the heavy wooden doors of the lawyer’s office.
Your father wanted shared custody; your mother refused to grant it. She didn’t want you staying at his place at all—just occasional visitation. He was indignant.
“She’s away at boarding school for most of the year. I want to see my daughter!”
“Are you crazy? If you force her to leave, she’ll hate you forever.”
“Oh, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? For her to hate me?”
“I’m only trying to do what’s best for her!”
“And I’m not?!”
“If you cared an ounce about her, you wouldn’t have put her in this position at all!”
You remember being comforted by the divorce lawyer’s receptionist as you cried outside the door, your sobs echoing in the sterile hallway.
And then, one afternoon, you stumbled upon the reason for it all. You weren’t supposed to hear it, weren’t supposed to know—but your father had been sloppy.
It was the first time all summer you were allowed to spend an afternoon with him, outside the chaos. You sat in the car, nervous but excited, grateful for a glimpse of normalcy—until you reached into the glove compartment for tissues and froze.
Makeup wipes. A small container of hair ties. A nail kit.
The car smelled faintly of perfume.
Had someone else been inside before you?
You turned to your father. There was a red blotch on his cheek—something that might’ve looked like sunburn on any other day, except it was smudged, as though it had been hastily wiped away. A tissue stained with faint red sat in the holder on his door.
You felt your stomach drop.
You went quiet for the rest of the day, detached, pretending to be fine. Later, you faked a stomach ache—one that neither of you believed—and asked him to take you home.
That night, you asked your mother if it was true. If he had been with another woman.
Her face thundered. “He told you?!” She spat.
It felt like the floor had fallen out from under you, like someone had hollowed your chest and left a gaping void. All those golden memories—pancake mornings, seaside summers, Christmas laughter—twisted into shards of betrayal. Every photograph became a reminder that the love you thought was untouchable had been broken from the inside.
You felt hollow. You felt angry. You felt abandoned. And most of all, you felt a seed of doubt take root in your heart—a doubt that perhaps love wasn’t forever, perhaps people changed, and perhaps you could never trust anyone the way you had once trusted your parents.
You thought they loved each other.
How could your father have done this?
Even if he didn’t love your mother anymore, how could he betray her like that—as if fifteen years of marriage meant nothing? As if he hadn’t torn the ground from beneath both your feet? How could he do this?
You couldn't believe that you'd never have another summer with your parents again.
When Harry had asked you to the Yule Ball, you had been ecstatic. You’d been asked by the Chosen One—Hogwarts’ very own champion—to be his date, and you’d happily accepted. The night had been a blur of laughter and music, the two of you spinning across the dance floor under glittering chandeliers, your cheeks sore from smiling. And when, later that night, he’d asked if it was alright to consider this a first date, you had said yes without hesitation.
From that moment on, it was official. Harry Potter was your boyfriend.
That was, until Rita Skeeter—that nosy, vile cow—decided to publish a photo of Harry and Hermione hugging on the front page of The Daily Prophet, in a column boldly titled The Daily Gossip. The image was harmless enough: Hermione’s arms thrown around him, Harry smiling, relief written all over his face. But to you, it felt like a knife twisting in your stomach.
You tried to be rational, to tell yourself they were just friends. Harry had known Hermione for years—it was only natural for her to be worried when he was about to face a dragon. If he’d liked her, surely he would’ve asked her to the ball. But he hadn’t. He’d asked you. That had to mean something… right?
Still, the thought festered. Because you’d seen this story before—different names, same heartbreak. Your father had loved your mother once, too. He’d married her. Built a life with her. And still, he’d chosen someone else.
You ended your two-month-long relationship with Harry, that very night.
After that, there was a brief but scandalous stint with Blaise Zabini. He’d casually asked if you wanted to join him on a Hogsmeade trip, and you’d agreed—because why not? He was charming, clever, and made you feel wanted again. It lasted all of three weeks before you ended it the moment you noticed how often his eyes flickered toward Pansy Parkinson. He insisted they were just friends, but you’d heard that one before.
Then came Justin Finch-Fletchley. That one barely lasted two dates. You’d realized by the end of the second that he had an uncanny habit of calling every girl love. It didn’t make you feel special—it made you feel replaceable.
After Justin came Parvati Patil, and that had been different. Softer. She was kind, patient, the kind of person who held your hand just to make sure you knew she was there. It lasted longer than any of the others—by your standards, at least. But even that fell apart once she called you out on your jealous tendencies, gently but firmly telling you that you couldn’t keep punishing people for things they hadn’t done.
You’d broken it off that same evening.
Just like that, you continued to cycle through relationships—brief, intense, and destined to burn out. Before long, you’d earned yourself a reputation as Hogwarts’ resident heartbreaker. You worried it might make people think you were easy, but considering you’d never actually slept with any of them, the whispers were only about your tendency to be a cold-hearted bitch when it came to breakups. You’d perfected the art of ending things without so much as blinking, your expression unreadable as you walked away. That, of course, earned you another title—the Ice Queen.
You kept telling yourself it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to find love. A love so strong and so pure it would leave no room for doubt. You told yourself you deserved that—that you deserved someone who would never betray you, never make you question their feelings, someone who would understand the chaos in your head and stay anyway. Someone who would reassure every single paranoia until they vanished into nothing. Someone who would never even dream of looking at anyone else.
You kept telling yourself that.
But somewhere along the way—after enough endings, enough half-hearted apologies, enough people you never really let in—you stopped looking for love at all. Or at least, for anything that lasted. You convinced yourself that real love didn’t exist. It was just a fleeting rush, a temporary high meant to make you feel alive for a little while before it left you empty again.
So you started keeping your relationships short. The longest one barely stretched past three months. You’d take every sweet word, every fleeting spark of affection, every rush of endorphins and bottle them up like a potion—just enough to keep you satisfied until the glass cracked and the illusion shattered.
Neville had once been told by his grandmother that he wasn’t a very good liar.
He’d taken her words to heart at the time — after all, he’d known it himself. His heart always beat too fast, his palms got clammy, his cheeks burned, and his voice cracked at the worst possible moments. Eye contact became impossible. His brain turned to mush.
So Neville had made a quiet promise to himself: never lie to anyone. He wasn’t built for it.
What he didn’t realize was that he was just as bad at hiding things.
“Oh, come on, Longbottom,” Seamus’s teasing voice rang out across the Gryffindor table, far louder than necessary, “You’ve been mooning over her for weeks. Just ask her out already!”
Neville froze. His spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against his bowl. Heat rushed to his face in an instant, crawling up his neck and setting his ears aflame. He hadn’t even realized he’d been looking at you that long — maybe just a second too long every morning, maybe smiling a little wider when you laughed across the table. But apparently, Seamus had noticed.
Without meaning to, his eyes darted toward you.
And, to his horror, you were already looking back — eyes wide, frozen mid-bite, clearly having heard every word.
Neville’s breath hitched. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, “I—I haven’t— I mean, that’s not—”
Dean grinned, elbowing Seamus, “Go on then, mate. What’ve you got to lose?”
Neville wanted to sink straight through the floor. Every instinct screamed at him to deny it, to laugh it off, to say it was just Seamus being Seamus. He wanted to get up and leave, pretend this never happened—but if he did, everyone would talk. They’d tease him, sure, but they might tease you too. And he didn’t want that.
Then he saw you—the way you blinked, caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, like you didn’t quite know what to do either. And before he could think twice, before he could chicken out—
“Would you—uh—would you go to Hogsmeade with me?”
The table went silent. The students between you turned their heads, watching like it was the most riveting Quidditch match they’d ever seen. Neville’s heart stuttered. The silence pressed in tight around him, broken only by the heavy thud of his pulse in his ears. His face was burning.
You looked at him for a long moment, sympathy settling low in your chest. You’d never really seen Neville like this before—in fact, it ashamed you to admit you hadn’t noticed him much at all. He was the kind of person who blended quietly into the background, steady and unassuming. But he’d always been there, hadn’t he? The boy who had won Gryffindor the House Cup in your first year because of his bravery. The one who’d gotten Harry the gillyweed two years ago for the Triwizard Tournament.
He really was sweet. Honest. The kind of boy who wore his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And you could tell, just by looking at him, that he liked you far more than you liked him.
If you said no, you’d break his heart. Embarrass him in front of everyone. Maybe even chip away at that small, fragile confidence he’d spent years building. He didn’t deserve that. He was too kind. Too good.
You took a slow breath, feeling that familiar twist of guilt tighten in your stomach.
And then you smiled—small and hesitant.
“Sure, Neville.”
For a second, Neville didn’t move. His expression froze, disbelieving, like he hadn’t heard you right. Then the realization hit, lighting up his entire face. A grin broke through, bright and boyish, and his friends immediately erupted into cheers.
The laughter and chatter of the Great Hall still echoed behind you as Neville practically stumbled out the doors, face red to the roots of his hair. You hesitated only a second before getting up, muttering a quick excuse to your friends, and jogging after him.
“Neville—hold on!”
He stopped mid-stride in the corridor, shoulders jerking like he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he turned around, his expression already looked apologetic.
“You—you changed your mind, right?” He said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush, “It’s alright, really. No hard feelings, I promise.”
You blinked, thrown off by how fast he’d jumped to that conclusion. His eyes darted to the floor, his hands wringing together nervously. There was something so painfully earnest about it—he was already letting you off the hook before you’d even said anything.
For a second, you just stared at him.
And this—this was the moment you should stop. The moment to spare him before things went too far. Before you led him on. Before you broke another heart.
But then you really looked at him. The awkward shuffle of his feet, the faint pink still dusting his cheeks, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes because he was so sure you were about to reject him. He looked like he was bracing for impact—and you suddenly hated the idea of being the one to make him flinch again.
Maybe… maybe you didn’t want to.
So instead of saying what you were supposed to, you took a small step forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Actually,” You said, keeping your tone light, almost teasing, “I just wanted to ask when we were having our date. We never agreed on a time.”
Neville’s head snapped up so fast you almost laughed. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, completely flustered.
“Oh—oh! Right! I—well, um—how about next weekend? If that’s okay? We could go to Honeydukes or—or wherever you want, really—”
His voice cracked on the last word, and you couldn’t help smiling for real this time. It felt strange on your face, unpracticed but warm.
“Next weekend sounds perfect.”
And just like that, Neville Longbottom smiled again—this time wider than before, the kind of grin that could light up an entire common room.
As he walked off, practically floating, you stood there for a moment in the quiet corridor, your heart oddly light and heavy at once.
You told yourself it was just a date.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
You’d been on enough of them to know how this went — polite smiles, surface-level chatter, a bit of handholding if things went well, a polite goodbye if they didn’t. Neville Longbottom wasn’t supposed to be any different.
So when he met you outside the Great Hall, fidgeting with his sleeves and mumbling a nervous greeting, you kept your smile light, detached. The kind of smile that said don’t get your hopes up.
He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and was too kind to let it show.
“I, um… I thought maybe we could stay on the grounds,” He said, holding up a picnic basket like it was something fragile, “I figured it might be quieter than Hogsmeade.”
You almost told him you didn’t mind Hogsmeade — that you actually preferred the noise, if only to prove the two of you didn’t have much in common — but there was something so earnest in his expression that you stopped.
“Alright,” You said instead, voice even, “The Black Lake?”
He nodded quickly, relief flooding his face, “Yeah. I thought that’d be nice.”
So you went.
The walk down was quiet. He tried to start small conversations — about Herbology, about the weather, even about some magical plant he was growing for extra credit — and you answered politely, without offering much in return. You didn’t mean to be cold; you just didn’t want him to think this was something it wasn’t.
When you reached the lake, he spread a blanket beneath one of the old willow trees. The water shimmered, reflecting sunlight like scattered glass. Neville unpacked the basket carefully, lining everything up with a kind of quiet precision — sandwiches, pumpkin pasties, two flasks of tea.
“I, uh, didn’t know what kind you liked,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “So I brought both.”
You blinked, feeling an unfamiliar flutter in your chest. He was so… thoughtful.
“Thanks.” You said, a little softer than you meant to.
You ate, talked a bit. He told you about his favourite plants, about how the Mandrakes were growing slower this year, about how Professor Sprout was letting him help breed some rare hybrids. He rambled, words tumbling over each other — but there was something genuine in the way his eyes lit up when he spoke.
It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t a whirlwind of endorphins and magic and dizziness.
But it was peaceful.
You could almost feel your defenses lowering, just a little, with every quiet laugh.
Then, about halfway through the picnic, Neville reached into the basket again and pulled something out — a small, worn box. He hesitated, glancing at you like he was second-guessing himself.
“Um,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “So, I—I brought this, but it’s probably stupid, so we don’t have to—”
He opened the box to reveal a puzzle box— a picture of a meadow full of wildflowers.
“My gran gifted it to me,” He said quickly, “I just thought… maybe we could work on it together? Only if you want to, though.”
You stared at it for a moment, caught completely off guard. You’d been on plenty of dates — too many — and not one person had ever brought a puzzle.
Oh, he was just so—
“A puzzle.” You murmured, and he instantly started to backpedal.
“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. I just thought—never mind, it was daft—”
“No,” You interrupted quickly, reaching out before he could put it away, “I like it.”
He froze, “You… do?”
You nodded, a real smile tugging at your lips for the first time that day, “Yeah. It looks like fun.”
Neville blinked, clearly taken aback, then relaxed as a shy grin spread across his face.
The two of you sat side by side, the sounds of the lake lapping gently against the shore as you pieced the puzzle together. It shouldn’t have been fun — but it was. You found yourself laughing quietly whenever he misplaced a piece, teasing him, brushing his hand accidentally (and sometimes not so accidentally).
And you realized, to your quiet horror, that you didn’t want it to end.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the castle, the puzzle was finished — a small meadow of wildflowers blooming between you on the blanket. You sat there in a comfortable silence for a while, the soft rustle of leaves and distant laughter from the castle carrying through the air.
Eventually, Neville packed everything back into the basket, careful as always, and the two of you walked back toward the castle.
It was quiet again, and while earlier the bad thoughts of worry and paranoia had sprouted in your mind despite your efforts to push them away, now you found yourself forcibly bringing them to the forefront. You were not supposed to lead Neville on. The others knew it wasn’t anything serious, but Neville seemed to have hoped something would come out of this.
When you reached the entrance to the common room, you turned to him with a small smile, “Thanks, Neville. For today. It was… nice.”
He looked at you for a moment — eyes wide, hopeful, like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it. Then, before you could say another word, he leaned forward and kissed you.
It wasn’t bad, exactly — at least you hadn’t been assaulted with tongue — but his lips were chapped, pursed awkwardly, like he had only learned kissing from cartoons. It was stagnant and uncertain. His lips brushed yours and then froze there, as if he weren’t sure what came next. You were too surprised to react, caught completely off guard by the suddenness of it all.
When he pulled back, his cheeks were bright red. “S-sorry,” He stammered, “I—I shouldn’t have—”
You blinked, still processing, and forced a smile, “Goodnight, Neville.”
Then you slipped inside before he could say anything else.
You didn’t make it three steps into the common room before the guilt hit you like a bludger.
Oh, god.
He’d probably spend the whole night replaying it in his head, kicking himself, wondering why he ever thought you’d want him to kiss you. You could already imagine it — Neville sitting on his bed, face buried in his hands, convincing himself he’d ruined everything.
And for some reason, that thought made your chest ache.
You stood frozen for a few seconds, then groaned under your breath, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you turned on your heel and bolted out of the common room. The corridors were dim, nearly empty, and your shoes echoed against the stone as you ran.
You found him halfway down the hall, still walking slowly toward the staircase, his shoulders slumped, staring at his feet. The happiness he had carried after the date had all fizzled out as he trudged forward. Perhaps on another day, when your head hadn’t been reeling, when you hadn’t been whiplashed with so many emotions, your eyes wouldn’t have pricked painfully at the sight of him like this.
“Neville!”
He turned, startled, “Y-you forgot something?”
You didn’t answer. You just ran the last few steps and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward you — and before he could say a word, you kissed him.
Properly, this time.
You placed your hand on the nape of his neck, angling him toward you, slotting your lips together, swallowing the gasp of surprise. Your other hand guided his to your waist, pulling him closer as you stood on your toes, deepening the kiss and tilting your head the other way. Neville, to his credit, was good at learning on the job, arms curling around your waist and stepping forward, following your lead to a T. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just soft, sure pressure, the faint taste of tea and pumpkin pasties still lingering between you.
When you pulled back, his eyes were wide again, but for a very different reason.
You both were short of breath.
You felt your heart beating a little too fast, your voice quieter than you intended. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” You said softly, “It was just… bad timing.”
Neville blinked, still dazed, a slow, incredulous smile tugging at his lips, “Oh.”
“Goodnight, Neville.” You murmured again — but this time, it sounded a lot less final.
And as you turned away, you caught yourself smiling too.
The second date started differently from the first.
This time, it was a proper Hogsmeade outing. Snow dusted the cobblestones, and the streets smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and peppermint from the sweet shops. You walked side by side with Neville, your scarf brushing against his, sharing quiet conversation about schoolwork and the upcoming exams. He was, as always, earnest, slightly awkward, and impossibly sweet — listening to you complain about how stressed you were and even offering to lend you his Herbology notes. The darling.
Eventually, after enough roaming to numb your toes, you decided to stop for something warm. The Three Broomsticks glowed golden in the afternoon light, laughter spilling through its frosted windows. Neville opened the door for you with a bashful little smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back as you stepped inside.
You found a booth near the corner, the table still a little sticky from the last patrons. Neville slid into the seat across from you instead of beside you, and you chuckled softly into your scarf. Of course he did.
He got your drinks, returning with two steaming mugs of butterbeer. You sighed in contentment at the first sip — the warmth slipping down your throat, the sweetness coating your tongue, your frozen fingertips thawing against the glass. When you looked up over the rim of your mug, though, Neville wasn’t looking back at you.
Your smile faltered.
His gaze was fixed somewhere past you — toward the bar, where the cute bartender stood laughing with another customer. She was all glossy hair and easy charm, and the sight of Neville’s focused eyes made your stomach twist.
Of course. There it is. The moment it starts to fall apart.
Did he think she was pretty? Did he think she was prettier than you? Did she introduce herself when she handed him your drinks? Had he smiled at her the way he smiled at you — that soft, genuine way that made your chest ache? Your heart began to pound, the familiar flood of questions and doubts screaming through your head.
You could already hear yourself later that night — lying in bed, telling yourself that it was fine, that you’d end things before he could hurt you. It was always easier to leave first.
He still wasn’t looking at you.
“Ehem.” You cleared your throat pointedly, “Something wrong?”
Neville blinked, startled, finally turning back to you. “What? Oh… sorry.” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the bar, “It’s just that flutterby bush over there — it looks a tad overwatered. The leaves aren’t even fluttering anymore.”
You blinked, thrown entirely off your mental script, “The… plant?”
Confused, you slowly followed his gaze to the admittedly miserable-looking potted plant next to the bartender. Relief washed over you, making your chest feel like it could finally breathe again.
He nodded earnestly, eyes soft with concern, “Do you think I should say something? I’d feel bad if it died and I didn’t do anything to help.”
There was a pause — and then, helplessly, you laughed. A short, breathy sound that came out half disbelieving, half relieved.
Of course. Of course Neville Longbottom wasn’t staring at a pretty girl. He was worried about a bloody plant.
“You were worried… about the plant?” You repeated, just to be sure.
Neville shrugged, his expression so guileless it almost hurt to look at, “I mean… yeah. It’s alive. Shouldn’t I care?”
“Would you like me to tell her?” You asked carefully, lifting your brows slightly. You weren’t smiling this time. Your tone was measured, almost probing, testing him. Would he be okay with me talking to her? Would he want to say something himself? Make a move? Charm her in that clumsy, sweet way he did? Or would he brush it off, like it didn’t matter at all?
Neville blinked at you for a moment, then smiled, shy and pleased, like you’d just handed him a medal, “Could you? I… I wouldn’t really know how to bring it up. I’m not very good with people, you know.”
You bit back a grin. “You’re wonderful with me.” You said softly, surprising even yourself with the sincerity of it.
Before he could answer, you stood and made your way to the bar. One short conversation later and you were making your way back to the booth, sliding into the seat beside him this time. You ignored the wide-eyed look he gave you, pressing the side of your thigh to his and resting your head lightly on his tense shoulder, feeling a rare moment of peace wash over you.
Perhaps a third date might not be a bad idea.
Today’s Herbology class had gone longer than usual, and Professor Sprout had asked a handful of students to stay back and water the seedlings in Greenhouse Three. Neville, of course, had volunteered. You’d stayed behind too, waiting just outside the glass doors.
You could see him inside through the streaky glass — sleeves rolled up, soil on his forearms, humming softly to himself as he misted a row of asphodel bushes. It was honestly… unfair how attractive he looked.
Unfortunately, it seemed like you weren't the only one who noticed.
Clara Whitby. Ravenclaw. Pretty, clever, and stepping so close to Neville you felt heat burn down your neck. You watched as she leaned just a little too close to Neville, laughing at something he said (which, knowing Neville, was probably just “hello”).
You couldn’t hear what she said, but you saw her tilt her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that deliberate way girls do when they want to be noticed. Neville blinked, utterly oblivious, smiling kindly and offering her the watering can.
You felt it — that sharp, irrational sting low in your stomach. The kind that whispered mine before you could think.
When you pushed the greenhouse door open, the hinges creaked louder than usual. Both of them turned.
“Hey,” You said, tone calm but your smile a little too tight to be natural. The air smelled of damp soil and honeysuckle, but all you could focus on was Clara’s hand resting casually on Neville’s arm.
You crossed the space between them in a few brisk steps, brushing your fingers over the shoulder she’d just touched, flicking away imaginary dirt like it personally offended you, “Do you need any help?” You asked sweetly, your eyes locked on Neville.
“Oh, no need,” Clara interrupted, smiling with just the right amount of sugar to make your teeth ache, “It’s no trouble at all.”
You turned to her, returning the smile with one of your own — yours sharper, deliberate, “That’s kind of you. But I’d feel bad watching my boyfriend do all the work and not offering.”
The word landed with satisfying precision. You didn’t miss the way Clara’s expression faltered — the way her lashes fluttered once, twice, like she’d been caught off guard.
“Oh— I— I didn’t know—”
“Mm,” You hummed, tilting your head, “Well, since it’s no trouble at all, you wouldn’t mind finishing up here, right?”
You didn’t wait for her to answer. Your hand had already found Neville’s sleeve, looping around his arm and tugging him gently but firmly toward the door. He stumbled after you, mouth opening in confused protest.
“Wait—what—?”
The second you stepped outside, you released him, crossing your arms and fixing him with a glare that could have scorched a mandrake back into its pot. The crisp air outside felt cooler than it should’ve; maybe because your pulse was running a little too hot.
Neville blinked at you, brow furrowed, “Did I… do something wrong?”
You exhaled, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out tighter than you wanted, “No. You just— Merlin, Neville, she was flirting with you.”
He blinked again, looking genuinely baffled, “She was? No, she was just asking if I needed help repotting—”
You shot him a look, the kind that said don’t test me right now.
He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth opened, then shut, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” You said dryly, rubbing your temples, “Oh.”
Neville’s ears turned pink, his voice small, “I didn’t even notice.”
You groaned, “Obviously. You never do.”
He hesitated, “You… were jealous?”
The question caught you off guard. You froze, heat crawling up your neck, “No— I wasn’t— you just can’t flirt with girls when you have a girlfriend. It’s the principle.”
Neville’s lips twitched, and you could see the bashful smile he was trying very hard to suppress, “I didn’t know you were my girlfriend.”
Your mouth dropped open, affronted, “We’ve been dating for a month!”
“Well,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, “last time I kissed you, you told me I had poor timing. I didn’t want to push and make you uncomfortable.”
You blinked, thrown off guard by how genuine he sounded. “I didn’t mean—” You huffed, folding your arms tighter, “You really have no sense when it comes to these things.”
Neville laughed quietly, that soft, shy little sound that always made it hard to stay annoyed with him, “Maybe not. But I’m learning.”
You rolled your eyes, though your voice softened despite yourself, “You’d better learn fast, Longbottom. Or next time I might actually hex someone.”
His smile widened, warm and utterly unbothered, “So… does that mean I can call you my girlfriend now?”
The word caught you off guard again — girlfriend — heavier than it had any right to be. It had been a long while since you had been anybody's girlfriend, choosing not to put labels on things, wanting to remain untied.
You opened your mouth, ready with some sarcastic deflection, but all that came out was a quiet, “Yeah.”
Neville’s grin turned brighter, boyish and disbelieving, “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.” You warned, fighting the way your lips curved upward at his reaction. He really seemed to like you.
With an essay in Herbology due next week, you’d invited Neville over to help you outline your thoughts — and maybe, if you were lucky, to make sense of the incomprehensible notes you’d taken in class.
Luckily, you’d had the sense to cast a quick Scourgify over your dorm beforehand. The challenge, of course, was finding the right balance: clean enough not to look like you lived in chaos, but not too clean — you didn’t want him to think you’d scrubbed the place spotless just for him. The line was hard to walk on.
By the time you’d finished fluffing the pillows and straightening your desk, there was a knock at the door.
He was standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a shower, a stack of Herbology notes clutched in his hands like an offering. His eyes flicked past you into the room — once, twice — uncertain.
“Come in.” You said, stepping aside.
He hovered at the threshold like the doorway was protected by ancient wards.
“Are you sure you don’t want to study in the common room instead?” He asked, voice hesitant.
“It’s far too noisy there, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” He mumbled, “But we could go to the library.”
You raised a brow, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice, “You’re acting like you’re about to walk into the Forbidden Forest, Neville.”
He flushed immediately, “I’ve just… never been in a girl’s bedroom before.”
That made you bite your lip to hide a grin, “Oh, Merlin. You make it sound scandalous.”
Neville’s blush deepened, “It is scandalous. If Gran ever found out—”
“She’d what?” You interrupted, fighting laughter.
“She’d have a cow.” He muttered, so sincerely that it nearly made you snort.
“Come on,” You said, taking pity on him and tugging him gently inside, “I promise not to tell your Gran.”
He stepped in cautiously, like the floor might give way beneath him, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, clutching his notes as though they might save him. His eyes darted toward the bed, then quickly away.
“You can sit, you know.” You said, nodding to it.
“The bed?” He looked genuinely horrified, “I can just take the chair—”
“The chair’s broken,” You lied easily, crossing your arms, “And if you keep hovering like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re scared of me.”
He blushed even harder at that, mumbling, “I’m not scared of you.”
“Then sit.” You patted the spot beside you, “Unless you want to study standing up?”
Reluctantly, Neville sat down at the very edge of the mattress, back straight, knees together, looking as stiff as if he were being interrogated by Snape. You sat beside him — comfortably close, but not too close — and opened your notebook, pretending not to notice how he froze.
“Relax, Neville,” You murmured, flipping to your essay draft, “I don’t bite.”
He smiled nervously, eyes fixed on his parchment, “You’re teasing me.”
“Only because you make it so easy.”
He laughed under his breath, and for a moment, the tension melted.
As the two of you leaned over your notes, heads nearly touching, your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t do more — didn’t hold his hand, didn’t rest your head on his shoulder, didn’t even dare to think about kissing him, because Merlin knew that either Neville or his grandmother, somewhere in England, would burst into flames.
So you stayed like that. Close, but not touching. Almost, but not quite.
You tried to focus on the essay — on sentence structure, on magical root systems, on the words in front of you — but your mind kept drifting. To how warm he felt beside you. To how gentle his breathing sounded in the quiet room. To how easy it was to just… be near him.
And as ridiculous as it was, sitting there with your quill poised over parchment and your heart thudding like you were thirteen again, you realized something that made your stomach flip.
For all your dates, for all the people you’d kissed, for all the walls you’d built — sitting beside Neville Longbottom on your bed somehow felt like the first time all over again.
You were halfway through dessert in the Great Hall, absently tracing patterns in your pudding with your spoon, when Hannah plopped down across from you with a grin that looked far too knowing.
“So,” She began, drawing out the word like she was about to deliver very important news, “How’s Neville?”
You blinked up at her, “He’s… good?”
Hannah’s grin widened. “Just good?” She tapped her spoon against the edge of her plate, “You’ve been seeing him for… three months now, hasn’t it?”
“Three months? That can’t be right.” You thought back to your first date, trying to count the weeks in your head. As you stood to be corrected, it became painfully clear—Hannah was right. Crazy how she was keeping more tabs on your relationship than you were.
“Three months and a bit, actually,” She said smugly, clearly enjoying herself, “Don’t give me that look. I remember because you said that thing after your second date about how nothing past three months ever works out for you.”
You squinted at her, “I said that about other people, not me.”
She raised a brow, unconvinced. “No, you said—and I quote—‘Three months is when the rot sets in.’” She grinned, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, “And yet… here we are. You’ve passed the expiration date.”
You frowned down at your pudding, suddenly unsure what to do with your spoon, “It doesn’t feel that long.”
“Well,” Hannah shrugged, “time flies when you actually like someone.”
You looked across the Hall then — instinctively, without meaning to — and found Neville at the Gryffindor table, laughing at something Seamus said. His head tilted back when he laughed, cheeks going pink, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that soft, familiar way. The sight of him — so happy, so relaxed, so himself — made your stomach twist in a combination of relief and panic.
A sudden flutter of pins and needles ran up your legs, tightening around your throat. The walls of the Hall felt like they were closing in. You pushed your plate away, stomach lurching, suddenly feeling sick. A bucket of cold water seemed to have been dumped over you when you realized, with a shockingly simple clarity that despite your trepidation, that all you wanted in that moment was a hug from Neville.
Hannah, apparently sensing your sudden silence, smirked knowingly, “Guess your little rule’s been broken.”
You forced a laugh, brittle and unconvincing, letting it tremble out into the air. “Yeah… miracles happen.” You murmured, your voice quieter than you intended, as your eyes lingered on Neville, feeling them begin to water.
The dorm room was quiet, the soft breathing of your friends usually enough to lull you to sleep, but tonight, sleep was impossible. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, every muscle taut, your stomach knotted with a restless energy you couldn’t shake.
Scenes rushed through your mind, a relentless reel of memories from the very first awkward conversation with Neville to last week, when you had finally coaxed him into relaxing in your dorm long enough for a kiss—albeit a brief, breathless one. He had pulled back almost immediately, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, needing a moment to catch his breath. A small, tender smile tugged at your lips at the memory. Even after three months, he was still so shy, so wonderfully nervous.
You shook your head, trying to focus.
You cataloged everything meticulously—pros and cons, tiny details, moments you had laughed, moments you had panicked. Every glance, every word, every small, earnest gesture.
You thought back to the way he had fumbled over his words when he first asked you out. A con? You glanced at the memory critically, comparing him to all the social media horror stories of supermodel influencers whose boyfriends had cheated once they got “confident enough” to try someone else. Would Neville be like that? Would he, once he no longer shied away from kissing, find someone else to put those skills to use?
But then you remembered the things he had told you about intimacy—how it was sacred, how he only shared it with people he truly cared about. He hadn’t even been comfortable stepping into your dorm at first. He wasn’t the type to just move on. He was loyal.
You shook your head again, scolding yourself. The pros list wasn’t supposed to outweigh the cons.
But then… Clara. That day in the greenhouse when someone had been flirting with him, and he had remained blissfully oblivious. That was a definite con. If he couldn’t notice someone trying to make a move, how could he protect himself from them? Someone as innocent and naive as him was likely to be seduced.
You tried to make sense of it, but your thoughts always drifted back to him: that smile, the way he laughed, the subtle nervous tugs at his hair, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
Would he ever look at anyone else? In these three months, you had never seen him treat a female friend differently than a male one. He didn’t even have many female friends to begin with.
You remembered Hermione in Herbology, discussing plants with him, both of them so engaged in conversation that you had almost panicked. Perhaps they’d have a connection… But then you remembered the way he had held your hand under the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
Your chest tightened, heart thumping wildly as the memories surged. You bit your lip, telling yourself to calm down, to stop letting him occupy so much of your head. But the harder you tried to push him away, the more present he became in your mind.
Every “pro” you listed had him at its center; every “con” circled back to him. You could almost hear his gentle, hesitant voice asking questions, sharing stories, fumbling over words with that quiet, earnest charm.
You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. Why does he have to be so… him?
The ceiling blurred as tears threatened to spill. You felt ridiculous, terrified, yet completely powerless.
And through it all, the pull toward him was undeniable. The quiet, unignorable certainty that, no matter how much you cataloged, panicked, or overthought, part of you just wanted him there—wanted to lean into him, hear his voice, feel his warmth beside you.
But you couldn’t move. Not yet. Not until you figured it all out.
You were sitting in Charms, quietly taking notes as Professor Flitwick droned on about the subtleties of non-verbal wand movements and spell trajectories, but your attention kept drifting. Neville, sitting beside you, was scribbling something on a piece of parchment. At first, you didn’t think much of it—Neville was always diligent—but then curiosity got the better of you.
You leaned just enough to catch a glimpse. His hand jerked, and he quickly turned the parchment toward his chest, eyes wide and guilty.
Your heart immediately began hammering.
Is he cheating on me? He’s writing about someone else. He doesn’t want me to see it. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Your mind spiraled. Maybe he was scribbling something sweet for someone else, doodling hearts or sketches, the kind of thing that would make your chest ache and stomach drop. He’s falling for someone else.
Or maybe—no, stop—maybe he’s jotting down all the ways you frustrate him, all the little flaws you work so hard to hide. Maybe he’s complaining to someone else about how disappointing you are. Telling her that you'd never hold a candle in comparison to her.
Your fingers drummed nervously against your desk as the lesson blurred past, the words floating over you like fog.
Finally, the bell rang. Neville began packing, oblivious to the storm raging in your head. The second his back was turned, you leaned over, snatched the piece of parchment tucked between his textbooks, and shoved it into your pocket.
You forced a polite smile when he asked if you were ready to leave and muttered something about needing the washroom, ducking into an empty stall the second you slipped away from him.
Your stomach dropped, then flooded with warmth so intense it made your knees weak. Relief crashed over you, and you let out a shaky laugh, pressing your hand over your mouth as heat crept up your neck. You wiped away the beginnings of tears, not wanting to lose a single second staring at his neat, whimsical calligraphy.
He had taken your last name. How silly.
For a long moment, you just stood there, staring at the page. Little sketches and hearts decorated the names, surrounded by playful flourishes and swirls. Every shred of doubt, every paranoid thought, every fear of him leaving or being distracted by someone else melted away.
He was so perfect.
Neville’s dorm smelled faintly of cedarwood and parchment, the soft hum of rain against the window making everything feel too gentle, too intimate. You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching as he rifled through his desk for a quill.
It was a lazy afternoon — the kind that felt suspended in time — and you hadn’t planned on staying long. But then he’d offered to help you study, and then you’d started talking, and now here you were, wrapped in a blanket that smelled suspiciously like him, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.
“Are you cold?” He asked, glancing up, concern flickering across his face.
You hesitated, “A little.”
He smiled — that soft, crooked smile that always made something flutter deep in your chest — and pointed to the trunk at the base of his bed with his chin, “You can borrow one of my cardigans, if you want.”
You opened your mouth to politely decline, but he was already holding it out to you — that heavy knit thing you’d seen him wear almost every day last week. So you took it, immediately feeling wrapped up in his warmth, so much so that you couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped your lips.
“I’ll give it back to you.” You murmured automatically.
He chuckled, “It’s alright, love. You can have it.”
You froze.
Have it?
Have it?!
Your mind went white for a second — and then the panic set in.
If you kept his clothes, that meant you were entering the comfortably-in-a-relationship phase. The stage where your things blend with his, where people start saying “our stuff,” where you wake up one day and you’re wearing his jumper and suddenly you’re emotionally married. And when it ended — because it always ended — you’d have to dig through drawers and closets, separating his things from yours, each piece a reminder of something you’d lost.
You forced a smile that felt dangerously close to manic, “Oh, um, no— I’ll just borrow it, it’s fine, I’ll give it back later.”
Neville blinked, surprised by your sudden rush of words, “I didn’t mean— I mean, I’ve got others, you don’t have to—”
“No really,” You said quickly, tugging the cardigan tighter around yourself and sitting very straight, like posture alone could prove how casual you were being about this, “You look great in this cardigan. I couldn’t possibly be the reason you don’t get to wear it anymore.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he sat back down beside you, “You’re very strange sometimes, you know that?”
“Mhmm.” You mumbled, burying your face in the collar. It smelled like him — like soap and something green and earthy — and you hated how much you loved it.
He looked at you for a long moment, eyes crinkling with quiet affection before turning back to his notes.
You hadn’t meant to join Neville and his friends that afternoon — you’d only stopped by the Gryffindor table to say hello before heading back to study — but somehow you’d been pulled into a conversation with Dean and Seamus that had spiraled far beyond your control.
“So,” Seamus said with a grin that was all teeth, “how long’s it been now? You two’ve been joined at the hip since Christmas, yeah?”
Neville blinked, mid-bite of shepherd’s pie, “Er—nine months?”
You froze.
Nine. Months.
That was almost a year. More than double your longest relationship.
Dean let out a low whistle, “Blimey, Longbottom, didn’t think you had it in you.”
Seamus snorted, “Yeah, we all had money on the third-date crash and burn. Guess I owe Weasley five Galleons.”
They laughed, and you forced a smile, even though your heart was racing. Nine months? That meant you’d been a we for nine months — people probably said “you and Neville” like it was one word now.
Neville just looked bashful, ducking his head, cheeks pink. “She’s easy to love.” He mumbled under his breath, and Seamus groaned dramatically while Dean nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.
Your brain short-circuited.
Easy to love.
Me?
Since when?
And suddenly, everything around you — the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of cutlery — faded into a dull hum. All you could hear was your heartbeat, thudding too fast. All you could feel was that warm, terrifying weight in your chest.
Because he said it so simply. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like it was just true.
He was okay with loving you.
You didn’t know how to respond to that. How were you supposed to respond to Neville’s quiet, unguarded affection when you were doubting it every single step of the way?
He was such a sweet soul. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized he might be the most selfless, considerate, good boy you’d ever met in your life.
He was perfect.
He truly was.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a crooked grin, “And in those nine months, a girl hasn’t so much as looked at you two blokes.”
You laughed — too high-pitched, too quick — but when you glanced at Neville, who met your gaze with that open, steady smile, your chest ached in that familiar, dizzying way.
Nine months.
You hadn’t even noticed them pass.
And that scared you more than anything.
Because for once, you weren’t counting the days until it ended.
Nine months.
He’d said it so easily. Like time didn’t scare him the way it scared you.
You could still hear his voice, low and certain — she’s easy to love.
The words kept looping in your head, echoing against every defense you’d ever built.
By the time you reached the stairs, you could feel your pulse in your throat. You stopped, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag just to buy yourself a second to breathe.
Neville turned, smiling softly, “You okay, love?”
You nodded too fast, “Yeah. Just—heavy bag.”
He didn’t question it, didn’t push. He just reached out, took the strap from your shoulder, and slung it over his own, “There. Easier now.”
And that—god, that was the thing about him. He never made a big deal of it. Never demanded gratitude. He just noticed.
As you walked beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, something in your chest began to loosen — like a knot slowly, reluctantly coming undone.
Neville never made you feel like loving you was work.
He just did it — quietly, like breathing.
You glanced at him, at the way his fringe fell into his eyes, the little crease between his brows when he concentrated on balancing your books in one arm.
Something warm and painful bloomed in your chest.
You realized, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that you couldn’t remember what life had felt like before him.
And worse — you didn’t want to.
The thought made your stomach twist. Love had always been a thing you tiptoed around, a house made of glass you refused to step inside. But now you were standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, realizing you’d already been living here without noticing.
He looked at you again, smiling that same gentle smile that never failed to undo you, “You sure you’re alright?”
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah,” You said quietly, “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You almost told him. You almost said about you.
But instead, you just smiled faintly and said, “About how time goes faster when I’m with you.”
He chuckled, his fingers brushing yours as you walked, “Guess that’s a good thing, yeah?”
You looked down at your intertwined shadows on the stone floor, your throat tightening.
“Yeah,” You whispered, “It is.”
But inside, your heart was trembling — because for the first time, the thought of falling didn’t feel like a warning.
It felt like safety.
Rain tapped softly against the window by your bed, the room washed in the pale blue light of the moon.
You couldn’t sleep.
Your mind kept circling the same set of thoughts it had been for months now. Neville Longbottom. The source of your peace — and the source of the greatest anxiety you’d ever known.
His sweet disposition. His kind eyes. His smile — soft, genuine, a little crooked. His full cheeks that hadn’t lost all their boyish roundness. The way he always put you first.
You sat up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.
Your father had seemed perfect at first, too. Hadn’t he? After all, your mother wouldn’t have married him, wouldn’t have had you, if he hadn’t put up the perfect front.
But would Neville ever commit the same atrocities? You couldn’t bring yourself to believe it. Or had he just tricked you that well? Would you look back ten years from now — when you had children of your own — and realize you’d made the same mistake your mother had?
Maybe it had been her fault, you reasoned. Maybe she hadn’t screened your father well enough. But you had been careful. You had been auditing Neville with the critical eye of someone who refused to be fooled again.
And still — he’d passed every test.
Neville hadn’t so much as looked at another girl since the day you’d started dating. Whenever doubt or paranoia clawed up your throat, he’d been there to soothe it — patient, steady, real. He remembered every date, every preference, every offhand comment you made in passing. He brought you flowers just because. He’d buy you little trinkets in Hogsmeade because he thought you might like them.
He gave you his last sip of tea, his last piece of chocolate, without complaint.
Even though he was shy, he stood up for you in front of his friends — voice trembling, ears red — but never letting them tease you too far.
Clearly, Neville was perfect.
He was perfect for you.
He’d never hurt you.
This relationship would be good for you.
You shut your eyes, trying to let the conclusion settle into your chest, willing it to quiet the ache in your ribs. You wanted to believe it. You wanted to rest in it. To trust someone for the first time in your entire life.
But then your brow twitched.
Wait.
Neville wasn’t the problem. He never had been.
He was patient, kind — the sort of person who noticed when you were about to spiral and quietly handed you an anchor before you drowned. He listened when you spoke — really listened — without trying to fix you or make it easier. He loved you without asking you to change.
And if he wasn’t the problem…
Then the problem was you.
You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, like you could hold yourself together by force.
No relationship was without flaws. No love story ended perfectly. But Neville had broken your pattern — he’d stayed.
And now, with nowhere left to direct the blame, you were left with the only truth that fit:
You would ruin him.
Because how could something this fragile, this good, possibly survive you?
You imagined it — the end.
If it happened a year from now, Neville would be crushed. He’d have loved you too deeply by then — the kind of love that doesn’t unravel easily. You’d be finishing school, talking about the future, and then you’d ruin it with a few sentences you could never take back. He’d smile through it, tell you it was okay, but the second you turned away, his heart would break.
Five years from now, it would be worse. You saw it so clearly — his face when he realized you’d stopped loving him, the disbelief in his eyes. He’d cry until his voice gave out, then find the small ring box tucked in the back of his dresser, the one he’d meant to give you someday. He’d hold it in his hands until the metal grew warm, until it hurt too much to look at.
And if it was ten years from now — if you made it that far — it would destroy him completely. You’d see it in the way his shoulders would shake when you slipped the wedding ring from your finger. He’d beg, voice cracking, for you to stay — for the children, for the life you’d built — and you, cold and hollow, would walk away anyway. Leave him standing there in the doorway, the kids asleep upstairs, and he’d raise them alone, never saying a bad word about you. Because that’s who he was.
You could see it all with sickening clarity — the look on his face, the pain in his voice, the ruin of something pure.
You’d tried so hard to protect yourself from being hurt that you’d never stopped to think about who you might hurt in the process.
Your throat ached. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. He didn’t deserve that.
He was good. Too good.
He’d be the one bleeding when this ended.
And the worst part was — you knew he’d forgive you anyway.
You stared at the thought until your vision blurred, your heart heavy with the unbearable weight of being loved so gently by someone you were convinced deserved better.
Outside, the rain softened to a hush.
You lay back, pulling the cardigan— his cardigan— tighter around your body. His scent clung to the fabric. It should have comforted you. It didn’t.
Your breaths came shallow and uneven as the truth settled like lead in your chest.
You needed to end this before you did something stupid.
You’d rehearsed it all day — in the mirror, in your head, even under your breath between classes. Every version ended the same way: with you breaking something that had only ever been gentle.
Neville opened the door to his dorm with that familiar soft smile, “Hey, love. You alright? You look—”
“Can we talk?”
Oh no. It was already going awry. In your head, you’d planned to let him finish his sentence, at least — but with the way he was looking at you, with the compliment you were sure he was about to give, you thought it might be too painful if this started on the right foot.
He froze at your tone. You were standing too straight, voice too steady. That always scared him more than tears.
“Of course.” He said quietly, stepping aside.
The room smelled faintly of soil and tea, the window cracked open to let in the cool night air. You stayed standing while he sat on the edge of his bed, looking up at you with those impossibly kind eyes that made your throat tighten.
You handed him a small paper bag — the folded cardigan inside, washed carefully to make sure none of your perfume lingered. Nothing that would remind him of you.
“I have your cardigan.” You said.
His brows furrowed, as though confused why you were handing it back at all, especially after he’d insisted you keep it, “I told you before, you could keep—”
“I think we should break up.”
Neville blinked, like he hadn’t heard you right, “What?”
You forced yourself not to flinch, “I’m— I’m breaking up with you, Neville.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, eyes wide and wounded, until finally he managed to whisper, “Why?”
“We’re not good for each other, Neville. Actually—” Your voice cracked, “I’m not good for you. And I’m sorry.”
You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your wrist, “Hold on now! You can’t just— not without telling me why— (Y/N), please, I lov—”
“Don’t say it.”
His eyes misted, and your heart broke in your chest, “Merlin, this is what I was trying to prevent, Neville. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t hurt me.” He said, voice tight.
“I don’t want to, Neville. But some things are just… inevitable.” You swallowed hard, “You’re an amazing person, and if we keep going like this, then— I’m going to marry you.”
His brow furrowed, an incredulous laugh slipping out, “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
You shut your eyes, sighing, “You don’t get it, Neville. It’s easier for us to break it off now than ten years from now.”
“Why do we have to break up ten years from now?”
Helga, why did he have so many questions? Did he not understand what was going on here?
“Because I’m a terrible person! Because I’m going to hurt you! Don’t you understand, Neville? I’m trying to protect you!”
He stood then, closing the distance between you, “You’re not a terrible person.”
“Yes, I am!” The words came out louder than you meant. You took a step back, hands shaking, “I’m mistrusting and cold-hearted and pessimistic and jealous and vile. I’m always looking for flaws, and I’ve been in this relationship with one foot out the door since day one! And if we keep doing this, then one day I’m going to break your heart, Neville — and that will tear me apart.”
For a moment, the only sound was the rain outside, soft and steady against the window.
Neville just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to piece you back together with his eyes alone. His lips parted — once, twice — but no sound came out. Then, finally, quietly:
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
You blinked, “What?”
He took a step closer, voice trembling but steadying with every word, “You’re standing there, telling me how awful you are like it’s a fact. Like it’s written somewhere. But none of that’s true. Not a single bloody thing.”
You shook your head, swallowing hard, “You don’t know me like I do, Neville.”
“Yes, I do,” He said simply, “I know you better than you think. I know you’re scared. I know you overthink until it hurts. I know you find it easier to leave first than to be left behind.”
Your breath hitched, chest tightening painfully, “Stop—”
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but certain, “You think that if you end it now, it’ll hurt less. But you’re wrong. Because I already love you.”
You blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill, “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” He smiled faintly, heartbreakingly gentle, “You can walk away if you need to. But don’t pretend it’s for my sake.”
That did it. The tears came hot and fast, your shoulders shaking as you pressed your hands to your face. Neville stepped forward again, hesitating only a moment before wrapping you in his arms.
“You deserve someone better, Neville,” You sobbed, your words muffled against his chest, “I’m sorry for making you fall in love with me.”
And yet, you didn’t push him away. Not yet.
You stood there, crying quietly against him—wishing love was something you could return as easily as a cardigan in a paper bag.
"I'm not sorry for loving you, (Y/N). Even if you break my heart, even if you ruin it. I still love you. I can't erase that. Only you can determine our future, (Y/N)."
Neville held you tighter, his warmth seeping into every trembling muscle. His thumb brushed gently along your back, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. You wanted to pull away, to stick to the narrative you’d been rehearsing all day, but his presence felt like a lifeline.
“You’ve had one foot out the door this whole time?” He murmured, voice low, full of disbelief yet tender, “Then… take a step inside. Shut the door, (Y/N).”
The words hit harder than anything else could. Take a step inside. Shut the door. Let go of your fear, your panic, your carefully maintained defenses. Let him in.
Your chest heaved, your hands still pressed against his chest as if the world might snatch him away if you loosened your grip. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you realized you were ready. Ready to stop running, to stop overthinking, to stop protecting yourself at the cost of hurting him.
“I…” Your voice wavered, trembling like leaves in a storm. You swallowed hard, letting your tears fall freely, “…I love you, Neville.”
The effect was immediate. His arms tightened around you, resting your head against his shoulder. “I know,” He whispered, almost like it was a promise, “I love you, too. Always have. Always will.”
Somewhere deep in your chest, the coil of anxiety that had lived there for months began to unravel. For the first time in your life, you let yourself trust completely. The fear, the paranoia, the endless “what ifs”—they didn’t vanish overnight, but they became background noise beneath the steady, unshakable truth of his love.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping your cheeks. His eyes—wide, earnest, filled with that infinite patience and kindness, your infallible mountain against your tumultuous river—met yours, and you felt your heart unclench in a way you hadn’t known was possible.
“Let me love you.” He whispered, voice gentle.
With a shaky laugh that felt like relief incarnate, you nodded. You stepped fully into his embrace, shutting the door to all the fears and doubts you had carried for so long.
For the first time, you didn’t worry about what might happen. For the first time, you believed in the now—and it was enough.
“I love you, Neville.” You whispered again, making sure the words held the weight they deserved.
He kissed your forehead, soft and grounding. The rain tapped against the window outside, a comforting rhythm, as if the world itself had let out a sigh of relief. You stayed there, wrapped in each other, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Blurb: Beau wants your first time to feel special, even if that means fresh sheets, your favorite candle, and a suspiciously well-planned Spotify playlist.
You knew Beau had cleaned before you even stepped through his bedroom door.
The hallway outside looked exactly as it always did, a pair of sneakers abandoned near the wall and somebody’s sweatshirt draped over the banister downstairs, but his room was suspiciously untouched. The floor had been cleared, the clothes that usually collected across the chair were gone, and the comforter lay smooth over freshly changed sheets.
Then the scent reached you.
You stopped just inside the doorway, recognizing it before you found the candle flickering on his dresser. It was the same Bath & Body Works scent you stopped to smell whenever you wandered into the store, the one Beau had once claimed was indistinguishable from every other sweet candle lining the shelves.
He nearly walked into your back before realizing you had stopped.
“You bought my candle.”
Beau followed your gaze toward the three burning wicks. He had positioned the jar in the center of the dresser, the label facing outward, which made his attempt at looking indifferent considerably less convincing.
“You made me smell it every time we passed that store,” he said, moving around you to place his phone beside the speaker. “At some point, remembering became a survival instinct.”
You stepped farther into the room and lifted the candle, warmth gathering beneath the glass. The price sticker had been scraped from the bottom badly enough that part of it remained attached.
The thought of Beau standing inside Bath & Body Works, surrounded by walls of perfume and lotion while trying to remember the name of your favorite scent, made something tender settle beneath your ribs.
“You went in there alone?”
His attention became absorbed in adjusting the volume of the music. “I’m not discussing what happened in that store.”
A soft song drifted from the speaker, one you had sent him months ago after discovering it during a late-night study session. You set the candle down and glanced toward his phone. Spotify remained open, displaying a playlist titled just music in lowercase letters.
You picked it up before Beau could stop you.
His hand reached toward yours, but one look at your face made him reconsider whatever wrestling match he had been about to begin.
The playlist was nearly two hours long. There were songs you loved, slower ones you had heard playing from his car, and a few romantic tracks that you never would have guessed Beau knew existed. The order was too deliberate to be accidental. Each song flowed naturally into the next, the tempo shifting so gradually that he must have listened through the entire thing while arranging it.
“You planned transitions.”
Beau rubbed the back of his neck, already turning pink near the collar of his shirt. “I didn’t want some awful locker room song coming on and ruining everything.”
A laugh caught in your throat. “Beau, you made a sex playlist.”
“I made a playlist for tonight.”
The distinction seemed important to him, though you suspected it existed mostly because he could not bring himself to name a playlist after the reason you were in his bedroom.
You looked around again. Fresh sheets. Your favorite candle. Two bottles of water waiting on the nightstand. Even the lamp had been dimmed low enough to soften the room without leaving you in darkness.
All afternoon, you had been imagining Beau completely at ease while you struggled not to overthink every part of the night. It had never occurred to you that he might spend hours cleaning his room and rearranging songs because he was nervous too.
The realization loosened something inside you.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
His expression changed when he looked at you. The embarrassment remained, but something more earnest moved beneath it.
“I know.” Beau took the phone from your hand and set it down without turning off the music. “I wanted to.”
He said it simply, without turning the moment into something so serious that you would lose your nerve. That was one of the things you loved most about him. Beau could make something matter without making it feel heavy.
You moved toward him, slipping your hands beneath his open jacket. “The candle is a lot.”
“It was the biggest one they had.”
Your smile brushed his mouth before you kissed him.
Beau’s hands settled on your hips, drawing you closer until the front of your body met his. The kiss began softly, familiar enough to quiet the nervous flutter in your stomach. You knew the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands. You knew the small sound he made when you caught his bottom lip between yours and the way his fingers tightened whenever you pressed against him.
There was nothing unfamiliar about wanting him.
It was everything that came next that had occupied your thoughts since you told him you were ready.
Beau seemed to sense the moment your mind began racing. He pulled back only far enough to look at you, one hand rising to smooth your hair away from your face.
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“You get this little crease right here.” His thumb passed between your eyebrows, flattening the expression he had apparently learned to recognize. “It’s like your brain is trying to go into overtime.”
You laughed, lowering your forehead against his chest. “I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
He did not tell you there was no reason to be. There were reasons, even if none of them meant you had changed your mind. You had spent years hearing that your first time would be painful or awkward or disappointing. People spoke about virginity as something to lose, something another person took from you, and no matter how much you trusted Beau, part of you had started treating tonight like a test you had forgotten to study for.
His hand moved slowly along your back.
“We can keep kissing,” he said. “We can watch a movie and let the world’s most embarrassing playlist run in the background. You didn’t sign a contract when you came over.”
The offer did not come with disappointment hidden beneath it. Beau would genuinely let you change your mind, blow out the candle, and spend the rest of the evening arguing over what to watch.
That certainty was exactly why you had chosen tonight.
You lifted your head and kissed him again.
This time, you let your hands wander beneath his shirt. The muscles of his stomach tightened under your fingertips, and Beau exhaled against your mouth before helping you pull the fabric over his head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, apparently deciding that his clean floor no longer mattered.
Your jacket followed, then your shoes. Each piece of clothing made the room feel warmer, though you knew some of that heat came from the way Beau looked at you.
He had seen you in your underwear before. You had spent enough nights tangled together for him to know how your body reacted beneath his hands, but tonight made every touch feel newly charged. When he reached for the hem of your sweater, he paused long enough for you to lift your arms.
The fabric disappeared over your head.
Beau’s gaze moved over you without rushing, lingering where the cups of your bra held your breasts. There was no exaggerated praise or dramatic speech. His hand simply settled against your waist while he kissed the curve of your shoulder, and the warmth of his mouth told you everything he had not said.
You reached behind yourself to unfasten your bra, but Beau caught your wrist.
“Let me.”
The clasp opened beneath his fingers. He eased the straps down your arms, watching the fabric fall before bringing both hands to your breasts. His palms were warm, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch.
Your breath caught when his mouth closed around one.
Beau backed you toward the bed without lifting his head, his arm circling your waist when the backs of your knees met the mattress. You sat down, and he followed, settling between your thighs while his tongue moved slowly over your nipple.
Your fingers slid into his hair. The nerves had not vanished, but they were being replaced by something stronger. Every pull of his mouth and every stroke of his hand reminded your body that this was Beau. He already knew what made your back arch and what made your thighs squeeze around him. He had never rushed you before, and he was not about to begin now.
He kissed down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt.
His eyes lifted to yours as his fingers found the zipper.
You nodded, and Beau drew it down.
The skirt slipped over your hips with your help, leaving you in the underwear you had spent far too long choosing. They were prettier than anything you normally wore, a soft scrap of lace that had made you feel bold while standing in front of your mirror and extremely exposed now that Beau could see them.
The look on his face made the effort worthwhile.
“Those are new.”
You tried not to smile. “Maybe.”
His fingertips skimmed the lace along your hip. “You bought special underwear, but I’m the one getting judged for a candle?”
Beau leaned over you, pressing a kiss to your stomach before you could continue dismantling his defense. His laughter warmed your skin.
“You’re distracting yourself again.”
The words were softened by another kiss, then another, his mouth moving lower until it hovered above the waistband of your underwear.
Your teasing faded.
Beau curled his fingers beneath the lace and drew it down your legs. You lifted your hips, watching him remove the final piece of clothing before his hands moved along your thighs.
Being completely naked beneath him should have made you feel more nervous. Instead, Beau lowered himself between your legs with such familiar hunger that embarrassment barely had time to form.
He kissed the inside of your knee, then followed the path upward.
Your fingers tightened around the comforter when his mouth reached the crease of your thigh. His breath passed over your center, warm enough to make your hips shift toward him.
Beau glanced up at you.
There was affection in his expression, but there was desire too. He did not look at you as though tonight had turned you into something delicate. He looked at you the same way he always did when he wanted you, only more intensely, as though the trust you had placed in him had deepened every part of it.
His arm hooked beneath your thigh, opening you wider before his tongue slid through you.
Your head sank into the pillows.
The first stroke was broad and slow, gathering the wetness already beginning to collect before his tongue returned to your clit. Beau had eaten you out before, enough times to know exactly how much pressure made your breath catch and how quickly your body became sensitive.
Tonight, he took even more time.
He licked you until your thighs relaxed around his shoulders, alternating soft circles with slow passes that made warmth gather low in your stomach. Each time your hips began moving against his mouth, his hand pressed gently over your abdomen, not holding you still so much as grounding you against the bed.
The music continued somewhere beyond the rush of blood in your ears.
Beau’s fingers moved over the inside of your thigh, giving you enough time to register what he was doing before one pressed slowly into you.
The sensation was familiar. He had touched you this way before, but the purpose behind it made you more aware of every inch. His finger entered gradually while his tongue stayed against your clit, and your body opened around him with less resistance than you had feared.
He worked it deeper, curling it against the spot that made your legs tighten.
“Beau.”
He answered with a low sound against you, the vibration making your stomach clench.
Your fingers threaded through his hair as he began moving his hand. The pace remained unhurried, each stroke paired with the steady movement of his mouth. Pleasure built gradually until you stopped wondering whether you were relaxed enough or doing anything correctly.
There was only his tongue, his finger, and the tightening pressure that made you lift your hips from the mattress.
Beau waited until you were slick around him before easing a second finger alongside the first.
The stretch was noticeable. Your body tightened instinctively, and his hand stilled while his mouth softened against you. He did not retreat or force you to adjust faster. He kept licking slowly, letting pleasure work through the unfamiliar fullness until your grip loosened in his hair.
His fingers pressed deeper.
You exhaled shakily, the initial pressure fading as he began curling them inside you. The sensation was fuller than what you were accustomed to, but Beau’s tongue remained focused on your clit, keeping discomfort from becoming the center of your attention.
Soon, the stretch became part of the pleasure.
Your thighs trembled around his head. Beau moved his fingers with a steady rhythm, spreading them slightly each time he drew them back before pressing them into you again. He watched your face from between your legs, adjusting whenever your breathing changed.
The orgasm gathered faster than you expected.
You felt it in the tightening of your stomach and the way your body began chasing both his hand and his mouth. Beau knew it too. His fingers curled more firmly while his tongue flicked over your clit, refusing to let the pressure fade.
Your back arched.
The climax broke through you in a rush, your fingers gripping his hair as your thighs closed around his shoulders. Beau kept his mouth against you while you came, drawing out every pulse with slow movements of his fingers until the pleasure sharpened into sensitivity.
You tugged lightly at his hair.
He lifted his head, his mouth wet and his eyes dark.
The sight of him between your thighs sent another weak contraction through you.
Beau withdrew his fingers slowly, then kissed the inside of your leg before moving back up your body. He braced himself over you, and you barely had time to notice the shine on his mouth before he kissed you.
You tasted yourself on his tongue.
The kiss was deeper than the ones before, your hands moving over his bare back while his hips settled between your thighs. His jeans were still on, the hard length of him pressing against you through the denim.
You reached down and fumbled with his belt.
Beau’s mouth curved against yours. “Still nervous?”
“Yes,” you admitted, opening the buckle. “I also want you.”
The humor left his expression, replaced by something so warm and intent that you had to kiss him before you became overwhelmed by it.
He helped you with the button, then stood long enough to remove his jeans and boxers. Your gaze dropped despite yourself.
You had felt him through his clothes before. You had touched him with your hand, had even wrapped your lips around him once, but seeing him completely naked while knowing he was about to be inside you made the reality settle differently.
Beau was thick enough to make your stomach flutter.
He noticed where you were looking and climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself beside you rather than immediately settling between your legs.
“We’re not in a hurry.”
You nodded.
He opened the nightstand and removed a condom and a small bottle of lubricant. Of course he had both waiting. Beau had apparently planned the evening down to every possible detail, though you decided not to tease him when he squeezed some lubricant onto his fingers and touched you again.
The coolness made you flinch before his fingers warmed it against your entrance.
He worked one into you, followed by the second, moving them slowly while kissing you. Your body remained loose from the orgasm, taking him more easily now. Beau stretched you with patient strokes, his thumb brushing over your clit whenever your breath caught.
When he removed his hand, the emptiness left you aching.
Beau opened the condom and rolled it down his length. His movements were steady, but you saw the tension in his jaw and realized he was holding himself together more tightly than he wanted you to know.
He settled between your legs.
The head of his cock brushed against you, slick with lubricant. Your breath stopped as he dragged it slowly through your wetness before positioning himself at your entrance.
Beau leaned down, supporting himself on one arm while his other hand rested against your hip.
“Look at me.”
You met his gaze.
“If you want me to stop, I stop. It doesn’t matter how far we get.”
You nodded again, but Beau waited.
“I’ll tell you.”
He kissed you, slow and lingering, before beginning to press inside.
The first stretch was more intense than his fingers. Your body tightened around the broad head, and Beau stopped immediately, barely inside you.
Your hands gripped his shoulders.
He stayed close, kissing the corner of your mouth while his thumb moved along your hip. The pressure burned slightly, not unbearable but sharp enough that your instincts told you to tense against it.
“Breathe for me,” Beau murmured against your cheek.
You took a slow breath. Then another.
He did not move until your thighs loosened around him. When you shifted your hips experimentally, the pressure changed, becoming fuller rather than painful.
You pulled him closer.
Beau pushed forward another inch.
The stretch returned, but this time you were ready for it. He moved slowly, pausing whenever your expression tightened, letting your body adjust around each part of him before going deeper.
His arms trembled faintly from the effort of holding himself still.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” You slid your hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck. “Keep going.”
Beau pressed his forehead against yours as he eased farther inside.
The fullness seemed endless at first. Your body resisted, then gradually yielded, opening around him until his hips finally met yours. A quiet sound escaped him when he was fully seated, his eyes closing briefly as your walls tightened around his cock.
He stayed motionless.
You felt every part of him, the thick stretch and the weight of his body held above yours. The initial sting remained, but it was fading beneath the warmth of his skin and the slow circles his thumb traced against your hip.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered.
Beau opened his eyes. “I’m trying very hard not to ruin all my excellent preparation by losing my mind.”
The laugh that left you loosened the last of the tension in your body.
His expression shifted when he felt it.
“Can I move?”
You drew him down for a kiss. “Please.”
Beau pulled back slowly, leaving only the head inside you before pressing forward again.
The first thrust made you inhale sharply. It was not painful, but the drag of him against your walls was unfamiliar enough to overwhelm every other sensation. He repeated the movement with the same measured pace, giving you time to understand the fullness rather than bracing against it.
Your hands moved along his back.
Each thrust became easier. The stretch remained, but warmth began curling around it, pleasure gathering as your body adjusted to the rhythm. Beau watched you closely, his gaze moving between your face and the place where you were joined.
He changed the angle slightly.
The next stroke brushed something deeper inside you, making your hips lift to meet his.
Beau exhaled roughly. “There?”
You nodded, pulling him closer.
His thrusts grew more confident, still controlled but no longer hesitant. He pushed deeper each time, his pelvis pressing against your clit at the bottom of the movement. The room filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the slide of his body against yours, and the playlist Beau had spent far too long arranging.
You wrapped one leg around his waist.
The change drew him deeper, and a moan slipped from you before you could soften it. Beau’s head lowered to your neck, his mouth opening against your skin as his composure began to fray.
He had been so focused on you that you almost forgot what this must feel like for him. The reminder came in the tension of his shoulders and the low sound he made each time you tightened around him.
Your nails dragged lightly down his back.
His hips snapped forward harder.
The sharper thrust sent pleasure through you, and Beau immediately slowed, lifting his head to read your expression.
“Again,” you whispered.
Something in his eyes darkened.
He gave you another deeper stroke, then another, finding a rhythm that pushed the discomfort entirely from your mind. Your body moved beneath his now, meeting each thrust instead of waiting for it.
The sweetness of the evening did not disappear. It changed shape.
Beau kissed you harder, his hand sliding beneath your thigh to hold it higher against his side. The new angle allowed him deeper, each thrust drawing a broken sound from your mouth. His restraint slipped piece by piece as you pulled him into you, until his breathing became rough and his hips moved with a desperation that made heat coil through your stomach again.
You were not sure you could come from the feeling of him alone, but Beau did not expect you to.
His hand moved between your bodies.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles while he continued thrusting into you. The combination made your walls tighten around him, and Beau’s pace faltered.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth.
Your second orgasm began building almost immediately, your body still sensitive from his tongue. Beau kept his thumb moving, matching the pressure to the rhythm of his hips until you could no longer separate one sensation from another.
The candlelight flickered behind him. Your favorite scent filled the room, sweet and warm, mixing with the heat of Beau’s body and the faint clean smell of his sheets.
You clung to him as the pressure tightened.
Beau felt it approaching. His mouth moved along your jaw, his voice low and strained near your ear.
“Let go.”
The orgasm broke through you with his next thrust.
Your body tightened around him in pulsing waves, your back lifting from the mattress as pleasure swept through you. Beau kept moving, his thumb circling your clit while you came around his cock, though the rhythm of his thrusts quickly became uneven.
He buried his face against your neck, a rough groan leaving him as your walls continued clenching around him.
His hips drove forward once, twice, then held deep inside you as he came in the condom, his entire body shuddering over yours.
Beau remained above you until his breathing steadied, his forehead resting against yours while the last tremors passed through both of you.
When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly. The movement left you tender enough to wince, and his hand immediately settled against your thigh.
“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knee before taking care of the condom.
You expected him to return to bed, but Beau disappeared into the bathroom instead. He came back moments later with a warm washcloth and sat beside you, one hand gently parting your thighs.
The first pass made you tense. His gaze lifted to your face, but he did not turn it into a worried interrogation. He simply slowed down, cleaning the dampness from your skin with soft strokes.
A faint trace of pink marked the cloth.
Beau noticed it, though his expression never changed. His thumb moved soothingly over your knee as he finished, treating you with the same tenderness as before without making you feel embarrassed by it.
Once the washcloth was gone, he handed you one of the water bottles waiting on the nightstand and climbed beneath the covers. You barely managed a sip before he drew you against his chest.
His fingers drifted lazily along your back. The playlist continued softly, and your favorite candle still warmed the room with its familiar scent.
You tucked your face beneath his chin, suddenly too tired and full of emotion to overthink the words.
“I love you,” you mumbled against his chest.
Beau’s arms tightened around you. He kissed your hair, lingering there as he whispered, “I love you too.”
You smiled into his skin and let your eyes close, held safely against him while the music played on.
summary: based on this request here! Valarr with an anxious reader
warnings: anxiousness
notes: might consider doing a modern version another time
wc: 1,516!
(Ako ning basura, ako lang ni) (Esta basura es mía, y solo mía)
this is not proofread.
Valarr who first meets you in the Red Keep's garden during a feast for King Daeron's nameday. You had hidden yourself from the court and your family who wished for you to become acquainted with others. You had been strolling and decided to finally sit on a bench to admire the flowers and the stars.
Your eyes went wide and a chill ran over you when a voice spoke aloud, "Hello, my lady." You slowly turned your head to see the prince speaking to you and a million thoughts ran through your mind. You stood up a bit too fast and tried to clear your throat quietly. "Prince Valarr." You glanced around before continuing, "I was merely.."
"Exploring?" Valarr had a witty smile and it immediately went away when you looked a bit mortified at his jape. He bowed his head as an apology while you looked flustered, "Apologies. I was only surprised to see the gardens occupied." He did his best to smooth over the awkwardness.
You nodded, "Indeed…I was exploring indeed and preferred the quietness." He winced on the inside, "Well, I apologize for interrupting your…time alone?" He watched as you tried to brush past him with your head bowed. "Good night, your grace." He merely stared after you and you disappeared back into the Keep's halls.
You thought that was enough humiliation on your end and you would go home the next morning. To your disappointment, your father extended the stay to speak more to his friends of court. You walked alongside him as he led you to the dining hall. Your steps almost faltered completely when you saw the Targaryen family sitting there.
Of course, the one time you do not pay attention to your father's words is the time he mentioned he is friends with the crown prince. You noticed three empty seats for you and your parents. With your luck, your father chose to sat in the middle one, across from prince Baelor. The other two options were to sit across from Valarr or Aerion.
You immediately moved to sit across from Aerion when you felt a tug on your arm. Your mother gave a smile and walked past you to take the spot. You inhaled deeply before sitting across from Valarr and forcing a small smile. The smile on Valarr's face was immediately taken note of by his father and yours.
A few days later was when the courting began with Baelor giving Valarr encouragement. He appeared in the gardens with a small carved box with a latch. There you were, reading alone and sat on a bench. You noticed a presence right away, but kept your eyes on your book. You stared at the boots from the corner of your eye and hoped the person would walk past.
The boots stopped right near you and that was when you finally looked up. You were a bit relieved to not see a stranger, but Valarr with a hand tucked behind him and his free one rubbing the back of his neck. "May I help you, your grace?" He cleared his throat lowly, "Valarr. You may call me Valarr." He added on, "I was wishing to speak to you, or rather, gift this to you."
He pulled the detailed box from his back and presented it to you eagerly. You set your book down and slowly grabbed the box from his hand. "For me? What is it, your grace?" He debated correcting you on the formalities again, but paid no mind as you opened the box and stared wide-eyed at the beautiful golden necklace with gems embedded. You could not muster any words while Valarr smiled a bit too pleased, "Please. Accept a token of my gratitude for becoming an acquaintance of my family."
You never heard of a man gifting a lady such grand jewelry for becoming an acquaintance before, but nonetheless, you accepted it. It was not like you could refuse it in the first place. "Thank you, your grace."
A royal feast was now hosted a week later for Queen Myriah and King Daeron's wedding anniversary. Your mother offered to get you a new gown to suit the necklace you were gifted. Your father had already purchased new gowns for you, he was extremely eager for you to attend instead of retreating into a room.
He was not so pleased when he heard your mother talk about the necklace, "And who was it that gifted you this necklace?" He rose a brow and tried to peer at the gold your mother clasped around your neck. Your mother gave him a look and fixed your hair. "Prince Valarr gifted me it."
Your father was speechless for a moment and looked between you and your mother to try and comprehend your words. "He said it was because… we have become acquainted with one another." You paused to remember the exact words and your father scoffed dramatically. He waved a hand towards you and looked to your mother, "You knew about this acquaintance gift?" His voice raised a bit and your mother told you to ignore him.
The three of you walked together for the feast and your father continued to annoy your mother by trying to agitate the answer out of her. She squeezed his arm tightly and your father made a face that made you laugh. The entrance for the feast was already open and you did not notice that Valarr was already peering past many court members to stare at you and smile at your laugh.
He immediately made his way over to your family and you immediately stopped laughing. You gave a polite smile and hoped your laugh wasn't too obnoxious. He bowed his head and your mother discreetly pushed up at your father's dropped jaw. The older man was in disbelief at the very idea that Valarr had been the one to become familiar with you.
Valarr nodded at the necklace and smiled warmly to you, "I am very glad you found the necklace to your liking, my lady." It was now for your father to close your mother's dropped jaw the same way when Valarr commented that the necklace had belonged to to the late Rhaenyra Targaryen.
You fiddled with some of your rings and walked alongside him to your seat next to his. He spoke to you all night and did not leave your side. He would quickly distract you with more conversation whenever your eyes would stray from him and become cautious of other people of the court glancing your way.
— —
When the two of you married, it was more clear than ever just how much Valarr needed to distract you from your mind wandering. He would purposely nudge you to do things and remind you of your new title to do what you wanted. He even let you stay in your chambers to do your hobbies as long as you wished.
He scrunched his nose when his father finally brought up that you should be acquainted with the ladies of Dragonstone. The crown prince had finally cornered you in Valarr's study where you and Valarr were reading, one immersed in herbs and another in history that he wished to force inside his mind.
Baelor cleared his throat and Valarr stood right away to greet him while you gave a small bow and smile. Baelor gave you a knowing look and your smile turned to reluctance and Valarr shook his head. Baelor brushed past Valarr, "It seems as though it would be a nice day for the future lady of Dragonstone to become more familiar with her ladies." Valarr tried to make an excuse for you and Baelor patted his shoulder firmly.
Now, you were stuck at a table in the gardens you love with ladies who were practically strangers. You would respond politely and make short conversations to keep up with appearances. However, you kept thinking of how you said things. You wondered if they were the right responses or if the ladies agreed with your statements to the point where they would not talk behind your back later on.
You stirred your tea and hoped for the day to come to an end already when your savior arrived. You practically beamed from the inside when Valarr casually strolled into your area of the gardens. "Ah! My ladies, I see that you and the princess are having quite the time?"
Baelor was watching from his study's window and rubbed at his temple when he saw his son sweet talk his way out of things like he normally did, "That boy…"
Valarr gave you a look and you set your spoon back down, "I do apologize, my ladies. I am afraid I will have to take my wife off your hands for the rest of the day." He carefully grabbed your hand as you bid your farewell. You almost giggled when he walked you away from them immediately. You were quite content with life now that you had such an understanding husband who wished only for your comfort over others.
Summary: In which you save the realm by fucking your husband
TW: SMUT, Voyeurism
WC: 13K
The royal box had been an exquisite torture.
All day, you had sat among the lords and ladies of the Reach, the velvet cushion beneath you doing absolutely nothing to comfort the restless ache that had taken root deep in your belly. The sun had beaten down on the tourney grounds, the air thick with the smell of trampled grass and churned earth and the distant roasting meat from the feast-fires, but you had barely noticed any of it. Your attention had been fixed entirely, hopelessly, on the black knight.
Your husband. Every time his black destrier thundered down the lists, every time his black armor caught the sunlight and gleamed like polished obsidian, every time his lance shattered against an opponent's shield in an explosion of splinters, you felt it in the pit of your stomach, a clench, a slow molten roll of heat that had nothing to do with the summer sun. Your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Your thighs pressed together beneath your gown, shifting against the wetness that had gathered there. Your breath came shallow and quick.
He had unhorsed three men before midday. Three, and each time he rode past the royal box you could have sworn he lingered just a moment longer when his eyes found yours. Blue and brown. The gods had given him one eye the color of a summer sky and the other the rich dark of freshly turned earth, and you were absolutely certain they had done it specifically to ruin you.
You shifted in your seat for the dozenth time, squeezing your thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the throbbing pressure that had built between them. Lady Webber, seated beside you, leaned over with concern in her broad, honest face.
"Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look rather flushed."
"Perfectly well," you managed, not looking away from the grounds. Valarr was circling his horse at the far end, preparing for another pass. The way he sat in the saddle, the way his thighs gripped the horse's flanks, thick muscle flexing beneath dark steel, the easy confidence in his posture, the way he tucked his helm under his arm and ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, that silver gold streak on the left side catching the light—
"The heat," you added, gripping the arm of your chair until your knuckles went white. "It is only the heat."
But it was not the heat. It was remembering how those thighs felt when they were gripping your hips instead of a saddle. It was knowing exactly what that controlled violence looked like when it was unleashed in your bedchamber, when he was buried deep inside you and that same focused intensity was bent entirely on drawing scream after scream from your lips. It was the way his armor hugged his body and the way you knew every inch of what lay beneath, the lean muscle and warm skin, the trail of dark hair below his navel that you loved to follow with your tongue, the scattering of scars from a lifetime of training, the way his stomach tensed and jumped when you dragged your nails across it. It was knowing exactly what that body could do, the sounds it could wring from you, the positions it could fold you into, the seemingly endless stamina that left you wrecked and trembling and begging for more. And being forced to sit in polite company, smiling and nodding and making idle conversation, while he displayed all that power and grace and leashed violence before half the Reach—
By the time the final tilt was called and the tourney began to wind down for the day, you were fairly vibrating out of your skin. Your smallclothes were soaked through. You had imagined, in vivid and increasingly creative detail, at least seven different ways you wanted him to fuck you—bent over the railing of the royal box, on your knees in the shadow of the stands, on your back in the trampled grass with the roar of the crowd still echoing in your ears—and you had reached the point where you no longer trusted yourself to speak to anyone without your voice cracking.
So when the crowds dispersed and the lords and ladies began drifting, you did not drift with them. You walked straight toward the black and red pennants that marked the Targaryen tents.
His squire was a boy of perhaps five and ten, all gangly limbs and anxious eyes, and he was already struggling with the straps of Valarr's vambraces when you swept through the canvas flap.
You did not break stride. "Out."
The boy's eyes went wide as saucers. "Your Grace, I was just—"
"Now."
He fled. The tent flap barely had time to settle before you turned to face your husband.
Valarr stood in the center of the pavilion, still armored, his helm already discarded on a nearby table. His odd eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, the smile of a man who knew exactly what he had been doing all day.
"My wife," he said. His voice was slightly hoarse from shouting commands over the din of the lists, and the roughness of it sent a shiver straight down your spine, straight to the aching place between your legs. "You dismissed my squire rather abruptly. Have I done something to offend?"
You crossed the space between you in four strides. The tent was warm, lit by a half-dozen candles that cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air smelled of leather and oiled metal and the faint, clean undertone of his sweat, that particular scent of him that made you want to press your nose to the base of his throat and breathe him in until you were dizzy with it.
"You have been offending me all day," you said, stopping so close that the steel of his cuirass nearly brushed your bodice. Your voice came out low and rough, barely more than a growl. "Parading around on that horse. Riding like that. Looking like that. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you have any idea how many times I had to press my thighs together just to keep from moaning aloud in front of half the nobility of the Reach?"
His brows lifted slightly, but the smile did not leave his lips. It deepened, if anything, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was positively smug. "I was competing in a tourney. It is generally what one does at a tourney."
"You know exactly what you were doing. Every time you rode past the royal box, you looked at me. You knew I was watching."
"Enlighten me," he said, his voice dropping into something darker, more dangerous. "What was I doing?"
You reached up and pressed your palms flat against his breastplate. The metal was warm from the sun and from the heat of his body beneath, and you could feel the faint vibration of his heartbeat through the steel, steady, strong, slightly faster than it should be.
"You were magnificent," you said, your voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Every pass. Every impact. When you unhorsed Lord Ashford's cousin, when that lance hit true and he went flying, I thought I might scream. Do you know what it does to a woman, watching her husband ride full tilt with a lance in his hand, fearless, perfect, everyone in the stands cheering his name? Do you know what it does to me, Valarr, watching you dominate every man who dares ride against you, knowing that same ferocity is going to be focused on me the moment we're alone?"
His mismatched eyes had gone dark, his breath had changed, grown shallower. He did not move. "Tell me."
"It makes me wet," you said, blunt and shameless, your eyes locked on his. "It makes me ache. It makes me want to drag you off that horse by your hair and have my way with you in the dirt in front of everyone. I was ready to climb over the railing and ride you right there in the royal box. In front of Lord Ashford. In front of Lady Webber. In front of the gods and every noble house of the Reach. I would have let them all watch. I was so far gone I would not have cared." His breath caught. Through his breeches, you could see the growing evidence of his arousal, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the fabric.
"You are playing a dangerous game, wife."
"I am not playing." You pressed closer, your breasts flattening against the hard steel of his cuirass, your lips nearly brushing his chin. "I have been sitting in soaked smallclothes for hours, thinking about your cock. Thinking about how it feels when you first push inside me. Thinking about how you stretch me, how you fill me so completely I forget my own name. Thinking about the sounds you make when you're close—that raw, broken groan you try to swallow. I have been thinking about it all day, Valarr. And I am done thinking."
He kissed you. It was deep, hungry and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that matched everything you had been feeling all day. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, demanding, and you moaned into the kiss as his free hand found the small of your back and pulled you hard against him. Your body pressed flush against the unyielding plane of his armored chest, the contrast of cool steel against your heated breasts making your nipples tighten to aching peaks. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was pure filthy promise.
You fisted your hands in the collar of his gambeson, pulling him impossibly closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that vibrated through his chest and into yours. You could taste the salt of his sweat, the faint sweetness of the watered wine he must have drunk between tilts, the heat of him. Your body was on fire. Every inch of your skin felt electric, alive, aching. The slick heat between your thighs had grown almost unbearable; you could feel it on your inner thighs, could feel how ready you were for him.
"Help me," you gasped against his mouth, your fingers fumbling with the buckles at his shoulders. "The pauldrons. Get them off. Get everything off. I need to feel your skin. I need your cock inside me before I lose my mind entirely."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his lips red and slightly swollen from your kisses. His eyes were blazing with a hunger that made your knees weak.
"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice a rasp that sent heat pooling low in your belly. "Exactly. Tell me every detail, and I will give it to you."
"I want you on your back in this tent." You wrenched one pauldron free and let it drop to the ground with a heavy thud. "I want to feel every inch of you against me without this damned steel in the way." The second pauldron followed. "I want to strip you bare and put my mouth on every part of you. Your throat. Your chest. Your stomach." Your fingers moved to the buckles of his cuirass as you spoke, your voice growing breathier with each word. "I want to take your cock in my mouth and feel you get harder on my tongue. I want to taste you, Valarr. I want to taste your release when you spend down my throat. And then I want you on top of me, driving into me so hard I cannot walk tomorrow. I want to feel you come inside me, hot and deep, filling me up until I can feel it dripping down my thighs. I want you to ruin me, Valarr Targaryen, until neither of us can remember our own names."
He stared at you for a long moment, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning. The bulge in his breeches was straining against the fabric now, thick and unmistakable. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"You," he said, the word barely more than a growl, "are the most infuriating, intoxicating, utterly maddening woman I have ever known."
"Less talking," you breathed, reaching for the final buckles of his cuirass. "More undressing. I want to see what I do to you. I want to see how hard you are for me."
You made quick work of the breastplate, your fingers moving with a speed born of pure, desperate need. The steel plate hit the ground with a clang that echoed through the tent, and then you were pressing yourself against his gambeson, the padded fabric still damp with his sweat, the heat of his body seeping through to meet your own. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of muscle, down his stomach, lower—
"Gods," you whispered, your forehead dropping to his chest as your palm pressed against the thick ridge of his erection through his breeches. He was hard as iron, hot even through the fabric, and he twitched against your touch. "Do you feel what you do to me? Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
His hands—still gauntleted, curse him—slid down your sides, over your hips, and settled on the curve of your backside. He pulled you flush against him, grinding his hardness against your belly, and there was no hiding what this was doing to him. The thick length of him pressed against you, and you whimpered at the feel of it, at the promise of being filled.
"I have some idea," he murmured against your hair, his voice strained. "I have been half-hard since the first tilt, watching you watch me. Do you know how difficult it is to ride with a cockstand?"
"Then why are you still wearing so many clothes?"
You dropped to your knees. His hands hovered in the air where you had been standing, and he looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts shock and raw, naked want. His cock was at eye level now, straining obscenely against his breeches, and you could see the damp spot where his arousal had already begun to leak through the fabric.
"You are kneeling in front of me." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and desperate. "In a tourney tent. Where anyone could walk in. Where anyone could hear you when I make you scream."
"Then you had better be quick about deciding what comes next." You pulled one greave free and started on the other, your fingers brushing deliberately against the inside of his thigh as you worked. He shuddered. "Though I should warn you—I'm not feeling particularly quiet tonight. And I'm not feeling particularly quick. When you finally put your cock inside me, I intend to take my time."
The second greave came off. You stayed on your knees, your hands resting on his armored thighs, your face tilted up to meet his gaze, your lips parted and your eyes heavy-lidded with want. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. And Valarr Targaryen looked down at you like you were the most terrifying, wonderful thing he had ever seen like he wanted to devour you whole.
"Stand up," he said, his voice rough as gravel.
"Make me."
He reached down and pulled you to your feet in one motion, his hands under your arms, and then his mouth was on yours again and you were being walked backward toward the cot in the corner of the tent. Your back hit the tent pole, and he pressed himself against you, one armored thigh sliding between your legs and grinding against your aching cunt through the layers of your gown. The pressure was maddening, not nearly enough, and the sound you made was absolutely shameless, a desperate, keening moan that would have been heard three tents away if anyone had been listening.
"Yes," you gasped, arching against him, rolling your hips to grind against his thigh. "Yes, please, yes, right there, gods, Valarr—"
He kissed down your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting, and you dug your fingers into his shoulders through the gambeson, your nails biting into the fabric.
"I want you," you said, the words tumbling out of you like a prayer. "I have wanted you since the first tilt. I have wanted you since I woke up this morning wet and aching from dreams of you. I want you all the time, Valarr, every moment of every day. I want your mouth on my breasts. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock so deep I can feel you in my throat. I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name, until my voice is hoarse from screaming yours, until I am so full of your seed that it takes days to stop feeling it drip out of me—"
He stopped. His mouth stilled against your collarbone. His thigh stopped its maddening pressure between your legs. His hands, which had been sliding down to the small of your back, went still.
"What—"
"My love."
The tone made you freeze. It was tender. Affectionate. Entirely too calm for a man whose cock had been pressed against your belly moments ago, hard and wanting.
You looked up. His eyes were soft now, the hunger banked, replaced by something warm and unbearably fond. And lurking in the corner of his mouth was that quirk, that maddening, insufferable little quirk that meant he was about to say something you did not want to hear.
"I am so very tired."
The words did not register at first. You blinked, your body still humming with unspent desire, your cunt still clenching around nothing, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "What?"
"The armor. You cannot imagine. I have been carrying it all day in this heat. Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My..." He gestured vaguely downward. "...everything."
"I will soothe your muscles. I will soothe every part of you. That is precisely what I am trying to do." You pressed your palm against the hard length of him through his breeches to emphasize your point. He was still rock hard. Still twitching at your touch. "This does not feel like a man who is too tired."
His smile widened. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes, the way the blue one sparkled with mischief and the brown one warmed with suppressed laughter. He was enjoying this entirely too much.
"You are very sweet," he said, and leaned down to press a kiss, soft, chaste, utterly infuriating, to your forehead. Then he gently removed your hand from his erection, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with infuriating tenderness. "But I fear I would be poor company. I can barely keep my eyes open. A man of two and twenty is not so spry as he once was. The spirit is willing, but the flesh..." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "The flesh is very, very tired."
"You are two and twenty. And your flesh is very clearly willing."
"An old two and twenty. The joints begin to protest. It is a terrible thing. The maesters have warned me about overexertion."
"Valarr Targaryen, I swear to every god in the Seven Kingdoms, if you do not put your cock inside me right now—"
"Perhaps tomorrow, my love." He stepped back, "After a proper night's rest. When my strength has returned. Then I will be able to give you the attention you deserve." His voice dropped, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face and heaving chest and the visible stiffness of your nipples through your gown. "Every. Single. Bit. Of it. I will take my time with you. Make you scream until you cannot remember your own name—wasn't that what you wanted? But I will only do it properly when I am not about to collapse from exhaustion."
He was already moving toward the armor stand, where a simple dark tunic and breeches lay waiting. You stood frozen in place, surrounded by the pieces of his discarded armor, your body still humming with unspent desire, your soaked smallclothes clinging to your heated flesh, your lips still tingling from his kiss.
"You cannot be serious."
He pulled the tunic over his head with deliberate, unhurried movements, covering the sweat-damp linen of his gambeson. He turned back to you, looking for all the world like a man without a care, his hair still tousled and that silver streak falling roguishly across his brow. The bulge in his breeches had—through what must have been monumental effort of will—begun to subside.
"I am always serious," he said, utterly failing to keep the mirth from his voice. "I shall send for wine. Something cool, to help with the heat. You look rather flushed, my love. And your breathing is quite... irregular. Have you been sitting in the sun? Perhaps you should lie down. In the cot. Alone. To recover your strength."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I have not been sitting in the sun. I have been sitting in the royal box watching my husband ride like a god of war and thinking about how much I wanted him to bend me over the railing and—"
"Careful," he said, raising a finger, his expression one of mock concern. "The canvas walls, remember? And I am so very weary I might faint at the details. Think of my delicate constitution."
You picked up the nearest object—a gauntlet—and hurled it at his head.
He caught it. One handed. Without looking away from your face. The man had been trained by knights of the Kingsguard since he could walk, and he caught it like it was a ball tossed by a child. He turned the gauntlet over in his hands, his smile widening into something that was pure, unrepentant mischief.
"Tomorrow, my love," he said, his voice dropping into something lower, something that promised and teased in equal measure. His eyes swept over you, lingering on your parted lips, on the flush that extended down your throat, on the way your hands were still clenched into fists at your sides. "I give you my word. Tomorrow, I will make you forget your own name. Tomorrow, I will have you in every way you described and several you have not yet imagined. Tomorrow, you will be so thoroughly satisfied that you will not be able to look at a tourney field without blushing for the rest of your life."
"Tomorrow," you repeated, your voice flat with disbelief and frustration and—gods help you—reluctant amusement.
"Tomorrow," he confirmed. And then he was at the tent flap, lifting the canvas, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder. His eyes raked over you one last time, and there was a flash of heat in them—a glimpse of the hunger he was so carefully restraining, a promise that he was suffering too, that every moment of this tease was costing him as much as it was costing you.
"Dream of me," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur that sent one last shiver down your spine. "Dream of what I'm going to do to you. In detail. I want a full report in the morning." And he winked.
The canvas fell closed behind him. You stood alone in the silence of the tent, surrounded by candlesmoke and the scent of him, your body still aching and your pride still smarting and your heart still racing and your cunt still throbbing with the orgasm he had denied you.
"Tomorrow," you muttered to the empty air, already beginning to smile despite yourself—a slow, predatory smile that promised retribution. "We shall see about tomorrow, my prince. You have made a grave tactical error. You have given me an entire night to plan." And somewhere outside the tent, you could have sworn you heard him laugh.
—
You woke to heat, a deep, liquid heat that was already pooling low in your belly, already drawing your thighs apart with an urgency that bordered on involuntary, already dragging you up from the depths of a dream you couldn't quite remember, a dream full of shadows and steel and a voice murmuring promises against your skin. Your body was responding before your mind could catch up, back arching slightly off the furs, fingers twisting in the linen sheets, a soft, confused sound escaping your lips that was half whimper, half question.
And then you felt it. The slow, deliberate, devastating drag of a tongue through your most intimate folds.
Your eyes flew open with a gasp that tore from somewhere deep in your chest. The world was waking up around you, ordinary and routine and utterly indifferent to the fact that beneath the furs, between your legs, was a head of brown hair with a distinctive streak of silver gold threading back from the temple like a bolt of lightning frozen in time.
"Valarr—" His name came out as a croak, half confusion, half moan, because his tongue had just circled the sensitive bud at the apex of your sex with devastating precision and your hips bucked entirely without your permission, your thighs clamping briefly against his ears before he pressed them back open with firm, unhurried hands. "What—what are you—isn't it—oh gods—"
He did not lift his head. He did not stop. He did not even acknowledge that you had spoken beyond a low, pleased hum that vibrated against your cunt and made your eyes roll back. His tongue flattened and dragged upward through your folds with a languid, unhurried thoroughness that spoke of a man who had all the time in the world and intended to use every single moment of it to reduce you to incoherence. One of his hands was splayed across your lower belly, holding you steady, pinning you to the cot with a casual possession that made your blood sing. The other was hooked under your right thigh, fingers dimpling your flesh, keeping you spread open for his attentions with an implacable gentleness that was somehow more devastating than force.
"Good morrow," he murmured against your cunt, the words shaped directly into your slick, heated flesh, and the vibration of his voice made you gasp and clutch at the furs beneath you.
"Isn't it—" You lost the words entirely as his tongue slipped inside you, just briefly, a teasing thrust that curled upward and made your hips roll in a helpless, seeking rhythm. "Isn't it a jousting day? The—the lists—you should be—you should be preparing—"
He hummed against you, a low sound of consideration, and the vibration coupled with the slow circle his tongue was tracing around your pearl nearly made you forget your own name, let alone your question. "The jousts have been suspended."
Your mind, hazy with pleasure and sleep and the insistent, expert pressure of his mouth, struggled to process this information with anything resembling coherence. "Suspended? Why would they—oh, right there, don't stop, please don't stop—why would they suspend the jousts?"
"The Bright Prince," Valarr said, pausing just long enough to press a hot, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin and leaving a trail of pleasant friction in its wake, "has demanded a trial of seven."
"Who—Aerion?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him through the disheveled curtain of your hair. His mismatched eyes gleamed up at you from between your thighs, one the deep blue of sapphires, one the warm brown of aged whisky, both filled with a lazy, predatory satisfaction that made your stomach flip and your cunt clench around nothing. "Aerion demanded a trial of seven? Against whom? Why? What in the seven hells happened while I was asleep?"
Valarr sighed, a warm exhale against your slick, swollen folds that made you shiver from your crown to your toes. "A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall. He struck Aerion to defend a puppeteer girl, and now my dear cousin demands blood and calls it justice." He pressed another kiss to your mound, the tip of his nose nudging against the thatch of curls there. "He has accused the hedge knight of assault and the knight has demanded a trial by combat. Aerion, being Aerion, has escalated it to a trial of seven."
"That's—that's absurd, Aerion is—" You gasped sharply as his tongue dipped back into you, long and slow and curling, cutting off your outrage with a wave of pleasure that made your elbows tremble. "Valarr, I'm trying to—to care about this, it's important, you must let me—"
"I am between your legs," he said, his voice muffled against your cunt, his tongue tracing idle patterns through your folds that made rational thought nearly impossible, "with my tongue inside my wife, and she is asking about my cousin."
"You cannot simply—wake me up like this and expect me not to—to have questions about a trial of seven when—oh, gods—"
He had found your pearl again, circling it with the very tip of his tongue, a feather light touch that somehow managed to be devastating in its precision. Your elbows gave out. You collapsed back against the pillows with a moan that was frankly indecent, one hand flying to his hair, your fingers threading through the brown strands and brushing against that distinctive silver streak that marked him as surely as a banner marked an army. He made a sound of deep, masculine approval against your flesh and redoubled his efforts, his tongue working you with a rhythm that was devastatingly precise, alternating between broad, flat strokes that covered your entire cunt and focused, pointed flicks against your pearl that made sparks dance behind your closed eyelids.
"I am trying," he said between strokes, his voice low and rough with satisfaction, "to apologize for yesterday. For my behavior. For my cruelty."
"You are trying," you managed, your voice breathless and trembling and utterly lacking the sharp edge you wanted it to have, "to distract me from being angry with you. You're trying to lick your way out of the trouble you caused."
He paused, just for a moment, and looked up at you with an expression of mock-innocence that was entirely undermined by the slickness glistening on his lips and chin. "Is it working?"
Your hips were rolling against his mouth now, your body chasing its pleasure without any input from your pride, without any regard for your dignity. "No. Absolutely not. I am still—I am still furious with you—"
He sucked your pearl between his lips, gentle at first and then not, a sudden increase in pressure that bordered on overwhelming, and the sound you made was absolutely humiliating, a keening, desperate cry that you would deny to your dying day.
"You sound furious," he agreed, releasing you with a wet, obscene pop, his voice dripping with satisfaction and something deeper, something hungrier.
"You left me," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss. "You left me aching and desperate and so wet I was dripping down my own thighs, and you winked at me like it was a game, like I was a piece on a cyvasse board you'd already captured—"
"It was a game." He dragged his tongue through your folds again, slow and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your pearl, savoring you like a man savoring the finest vintage. "A very enjoyable game. One I intend to play again."
"For you."
"For both of us." He pressed a kiss to your mound, then another just below your navel, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensation. "I believe the terms of our game included a promise for tomorrow. And tomorrow, my sweet wife, has arrived. I woke before dawn thinking about this. Thinking about you. Thinking about how you looked when I left you—flushed and furious and so gods-damned beautiful I nearly turned around and took you right there on the floor of my tent."
You yanked his hair. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to pull his mouth away from where you desperately, desperately wanted it. He looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his chin wet, his eyes dark and amused and slightly reproachful at being denied his prize.
"I have not forgiven you," you informed him, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the fact that your thighs were trembling and your cunt was clenching around nothing and every nerve in your body was screaming for him to put his mouth back where it belonged.
"So you've said." He tried to lower his head again, but you tightened your grip, keeping him in place. A flash of something dangerous crossed his features, annoyance, yes, but also interest. He liked this. He liked you fighting back. It was, after all, why he had married you.
"You teased me," you said, and now your voice was steadier, fueled by the righteous indignation that had kept you awake half the night. "You worked me up until I was practically begging—until I was saying please and Valarr and I need you—until I would have done anything, anything you asked, just to feel you inside me. And then you patted my head like a well-behaved hound and sent me to bed alone, aching and empty and so frustrated I thought I might scream."
"I kissed your forehead."
"Worse." You glared down at him, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that you were still flushed and panting and spread open beneath him, your slickness still visible on his face, your nipples peaked and visible through the thin linen of your shift. "It was a forehead kiss. The forehead kiss of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and is enjoying it far, far too much." You leaned up slightly, your grip still tight in his hair. "Do you have any idea how long I lay awake last night after you left me? Do you have any idea what I did, alone in your tent, thinking about you?"
His smile widened, slow and wolfish. "Tell me."
"Hours." You released his hair, letting your hand trail down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the proud cheekbones, the slightly too full lips that were still wet with you. "Hours, Valarr. Thinking about what I was going to do to you today. Planning. Scheming. Touching myself in the dark while I imagined all the ways I would make you pay for your cruelty."
His eyes darkened further, the pupils swallowing the irises. "You touched yourself."
"I did. Twice. It wasn't enough." You let your hand drop back to the furs. "Nothing I did to myself was enough. That's what you did to me. You ruined me for my own fingers, and then you left me alone."
"Planning and scheming," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hip bone that was almost reverent. "And touching yourself in the dark. That sounds very industrious. What did you decide? What punishment have you devised for your wicked husband?"
"I decided you need to suffer the way I suffered." You watched his face carefully, saw the flicker of interest, of anticipation. "I decided I would make you want me so badly you couldn't think straight, and then I would deny you. I decided I would tie you to this cot and touch myself in front of you and let you watch, and watch, and watch, and never once let you inside me. I decided I would make you beg the way you made me beg."
He was very still now, his breath warm against your hip, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made your heart race. "That would be a cruel punishment indeed."
"You taught me cruelty. You should be proud."
"I am." He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your hip bone, hard enough to make you jump and gasp. "I am so very proud. My wife, a quick study in vengeance." His tongue soothed the sting of his teeth. "But I notice you are not tying me to the cot. You are not touching yourself. You are not denying me anything. You are lying here, spread open, wet and wanting, letting me taste you."
You smiled. It was not a sweet smile. "Where is your armor?" you asked.
Valarr blinked. The question was so incongruous, so utterly unrelated to the situation at hand, his face still wet with you, your thighs still spread, his cock visibly straining against his smallclothes, that for a moment he simply stared at you.
"What?"
"Your armor. The black plate. The gauntlets. The gorget. All of it. Where is it?"
"In the tourney tent, I imagine." He spoke slowly, warily, as if you were a strange beast that might bite him. "My squire would have cleaned and laid it out for inspection, as he does every morning before a day of—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed with suspicion and something that might have been dawning comprehension. "Why?"
You released his hair and sat up slowly, pushing yourself back against the pillows, drawing your knees together with a deliberate, pointed movement that made his eyes flick down to your thighs with undisguised regret. You looked at him with an expression you had been perfecting since last night, sweet on the surface, sharp beneath, like honey hiding a blade.
"Take me there."
"To the tourney tent?" His voice had gone very careful, very controlled.
"To the tourney tent. Where your armor is. Where your squire has laid it out so carefully."
His brows drew together, a furrow appearing between them. "You want me to stop—" he glanced meaningfully at your thighs, at the evidence of his attentions still glistening on your skin, at the obvious, aching hard on tenting his smallclothes— "this, and walk across the tourney grounds in full view of half the realm, to my tent, because you want to see my armor?"
"I want you to put it on."
The words hung in the air between you like a challenge, like a thrown gauntlet.
Something flickered in his eyes. "You want me to put on my armor."
"Not all of it." You let your voice drop into something lower, something darker, something that made his pupils dilate and his breath catch almost imperceptibly. "Just enough. Just the pieces I want."
He was silent for a long moment, studying your face, reading the intention there. Then he sat back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes had gone very dark.
"You want me to fuck you in my armor." It was not a question.
"I want you to finish what you started yesterday." You sat up fully, drawing your knees together, letting the shift fall down over your thighs, letting him see that you were still in control of this situation despite the fact that your thighs were still slick and your heart was still racing and your cunt was still aching with the emptiness he had left. "You were in your armor yesterday. Every time I looked at you—on the field, in the tent, standing over me with your gauntlets dripping water—you were in your armor. Every fantasy I had last night, alone in this bed with my fingers between my legs, you were wearing your armor. I imagined the sound you would make when you walked toward me. I imagined the cold of the metal against my bare skin. I imagined you taking me in your armor, still sweating from the tourney, still smelling of leather and victory." She paused, watching his face, watching the way his jaw had tightened and his hands had curled into fists against his thighs. "And then you took it off piece by piece and left me standing in the wreckage of it while you walked away in a plain linen tunic like a common hedge knight."
"Like a hedge knight." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpening.
"A hedge knight would have stayed and finished what he started. A hedge knight would have put his mouth to better use. A hedge knight would have fucked me until I couldn't walk straight instead of patting me on the head and sending me to bed." You raised an eyebrow at him, letting the challenge hang in the air. "So yes. I want you in your armor. I want to feel the steel against my bare skin. I want to hear it creak and clank while you move inside me. I want to remember exactly who I married—the prince who rides like a god of war and fucks like one too, not the man who is too tired and too smug and too busy playing games to bed his wife properly." You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift pointedly to the obvious bulge in his smallclothes. "Unless, of course, you are still tired. Unless yesterday's exertions were too much for you. In which case, I am sure there is a cot somewhere you can nap on while I find other, more satisfying ways to amuse myself at this trial of seven."
The threat landed exactly as intended.
His jaw tightened until you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hands flexed against his thighs, the knuckles whitening. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin linen of his tunic. And when he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you, a sound that sent a shiver straight to your core and made your nipples tighten to aching points.
"Get dressed."
You smiled. Sweetly. Innocently. The smile of a woman who had just won the first tilt of the day and was already planning the second.
"As my prince commands," you murmured, and swung your legs over the side of the cot with deliberate, unhurried grace.
He caught your wrist before you could stand. The movement was so fast you barely saw it—one moment he was kneeling on the bed, the next he was pressed against your back, his chest against your spine, his mouth at your ear, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like a manacle of warm, living steel. You could feel every inch of him through the thin linen of his tunic, the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscles of his abdomen, and pressing insistently against the curve of your lower back, the hot, rigid length of his cock, still trapped in his smallclothes, still achingly hard.
"You are going to regret this," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his breath warm and uneven, his voice a promise and a threat and a prayer all tangled together. "When I get you in that tent, surrounded by my armor, with no one to hear you scream and nowhere to run and nothing between us but steel and need—you are going to regret every single moment of bratty defiance you have given me this morning. Every sharp word. Every wicked look. Every time you pulled my hair and stopped my tongue and denied me what is mine."
His free hand slid around your waist, palm flat against your belly, fingers splayed wide, pulling you back against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, exactly how much he wanted you.
"I am going to bend you over my shield," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout, "and fuck you until you cannot remember your own name. I am going to take you against the armor stand and let the whole camp hear you scream. I am going to put you on your knees in the middle of my war gear and use that clever mouth until tears are running down your cheeks and you are begging me—begging me, the way you made me beg with your eyes yesterday—to let you come. And I am not going to let you. Not until you have apologized. Not until you have taken back every insolent word. Not until you have admitted, out loud, that you are mine and that no one else—no hedge knight, no high lord, no god on earth or in the heavens—could ever satisfy you the way I do."
His teeth grazed your earlobe, a sharp, bright spark of sensation that made you gasp and arch against him involuntarily.
"Do you understand me?"
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. Blue and brown. Burning with a fire that matched your own. The dragon's eyes, you thought, and felt a thrill of something that was half fear and half desperate, aching want.
"Prove it," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your thighs. "Put on the armor. Show me the prince I married. And then maybe—maybe—I'll let you have what you want."
You pulled your wrist free with a sharp twist, stood, and began to dress with hands that only trembled a little. Behind you, you heard him exhale, a long, slow breath, the breath of a man steadying himself for battle.
—
Valarr walked a half-step behind you the entire way, close enough that the heat radiating from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your gown like a fever you couldn't shake, close enough that when you passed through a narrow gap between two pavilions his hand found the curve of your backside and squeezed hard enough to make you stumble mid stride, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with proprietary confidence before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the confined space. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, heat flooding your cheeks. He smiled back, utterly unrepentant, his eyes glittering with dark promise and the kind of smug satisfaction that made you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
The camp churned with the news of the trial of seven like a kicked anthill. Everywhere you looked, men and women clustered in tight knots, speaking in low, urgent voices that hummed with equal parts dread and morbid fascination. You caught fragments as you passed, snippets of conversation that floated past your ears barely registered—"Aerion Brightflame," spoken with the particular revulsion reserved for mad dogs, and "the hedge knight, seven feet if he's an inch, and the Reachmen have flocked to his banner," and "who in the Seven Hells will stand for the accuser against a prince of the blood?"—but the words washed over you like water over stone. Your focus had narrowed to a single point, a lodestone pulling you inexorably forward: the black and red pennants of the Targaryen tourney tent, snapping and twisting in the morning breeze ahead, their fabric tongues of dragonfire against the pale blue sky.
His squire was waiting outside, a gangly boy of perhaps fifteen with anxious eyes that darted about like startled sparrows and a perpetually worried expression etched into the soft planes of a face still waiting for its first proper shave. He straightened so abruptly when he saw you both approaching that he nearly tripped over his own feet, relief flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Your Grace—"
"Leave us," Valarr said, not breaking stride, not sparing the boy so much as a glance. "Stand guard. No one enters this tent. Not the hand himself. Not the High Septon. Not the Stranger incarnate. Do you understand?"
The boy's eyes went very wide, the whites showing all around the dark irises. He swallowed audibly, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, my prince. No one. Absolutely no one. I will guard the tent with my life. I swear it on my mother's—"
"See that you do."
Valarr held the tent flap open for you, the heavy canvas lifted high on his forearm, and you stepped inside, the cooler shadows of the interior washing over your flushed skin like a balm.
The space within was exactly as you remembered it from yesterday, you walked to the center of the tent, the trampled grass soft beneath your slippers, and turned to face him with deliberate slowness, letting him see the curve of your smile, the arch of your brow.
"Well, my prince," you said, your voice pitched light and teasing, a silk-wrapped needle, "shall we begin?"
He was already reaching for the gambeson draped over the stand, the padded linen garment rustling as he lifted it. "You wanted to put me in my armor. Put me in my armor. Every piece. Every buckle. Every strap."
"I want you to tell me," you said, stepping close enough that the hem of your gown brushed against his boots, taking the padded garment from his hands with deliberate slowness, your fingers dragging across his knuckles, "what you're going to do to me. Every detail. Every moment. While I dress you piece by piece."
His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the violet and the black alike. "You want a story?"
"I want a promise." You shook out the gambeson, holding it open for him. "I want to hear exactly what's waiting for me. Consider it... motivation to survive the day."
He slid his arms into the padded sleeves, and you stepped behind him to help guide the garment over the broad expanse of his shoulders, your fingers brushing the bare, warm skin of his arms, the corded muscle that flexed beneath your touch like a living thing. The gambeson was still cool from the night air, but beneath it, his skin was furnace-hot, radiating warmth through the padded linen. You moved around to his front and began to lace the garment closed, starting at his sternum and working your way down with excruciating slowness, your knuckles pressing against his chest with every pass of the cord, feeling the steady, accelerating thunder of his heartbeat beneath your touch.
"When I have you," he began, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that vibrated in your bones, "the first thing I am going to do is put you on your knees."
You sank down before him, not in obedience but to reach for the sabatons, kneeling at his feet to fasten the articulated steel shoes around his boots. The position was not lost on him; you watched his hands flex at his sides, the tendons standing out against the skin, watched his jaw tighten as he looked down at you kneeling before him with your hair spilling over your shoulders and your face level with his hips. "On my knees," you repeated, your voice soft and feigned innocent. "And then?"
"And then I am going to watch you take my cock out of my breeches. Slowly. No rushing, no tearing at the laces like you're unwrapping a gift. I want to see your hands on me—both hands, your fingers wrapping around my length, your thumbs tracing the ridge of the head. I want to see your face when you first feel how hard I am for you, how much I've been aching for you since I opened my eyes this morning." His voice dropped to something barely above a growl. "I've been half-hard since I woke up thinking about the sounds you made last night. Since I tasted you on my tongue. Gods, I can still taste you—salt and sweet and something I can't name but can't forget. It's been driving me mad all morning."
You fastened the second sabaton, your fingers steady despite the molten heat building low in your belly, spreading outward like wine spilled on silk. You reached for the first greave, the shaped steel plate cool against your palms. "Go on," you said, and your voice emerged steadier than you felt. "Tell me more."
"Then I'm going to put my hand in your hair—" he reached down and suited the gesture to the word, his fingers threading through the hair at your crown, tightening just enough to tilt your head back, to force your gaze up to meet his, "—and guide your mouth to me. And you are going to take me as deep as you can, until your lips meet the base of my shaft and your nose presses against my belly. I want to feel the back of your throat. I want to feel you swallow around me. I want to see tears in your eyes—not from pain, but from the effort, from wanting to take all of me, from being so full of me you can barely breathe." He paused while you buckled the first greave around his shin, your fingers working the leather straps through the buckles, pulling them snug against the padded linen beneath. "But I'm not going to let you finish me that way. Not today."
"No?" You looked up at him through your lashes, your hands pausing on the second greave.
"No." The word was a growl that seemed to originate somewhere deep in his chest, rumbling through the air between you. "Today, I want to be inside you when I spend. I want to feel you come around my cock, feel you clench and pulse and cry out my name so loudly that the whole Red Keep knows who you belong to. I want to fill you up until it drips down your thighs, the way you said you wanted yesterday, the way you whispered in my ear when you thought you were being scandalous. Every word you said to me yesterday—I remember all of it. Every filthy, beautiful, desperate word. And I intend to make every single one of them come true before the sun sets."
You rose, your body humming with anticipation like a plucked harp string, and reached for the cuirass. The black steel was cool and heavy against your palms as you lifted it from the table, the three-headed dragon crest seeming to watch you with knowing ruby eyes. You pressed the breastplate into place against his chest, and he held it there while you moved around behind him to begin fastening the side buckles. His eyes tracked you in the polished reflection of the armor, never leaving your face as your fingers worked methodically down his sides, pulling each strap through its buckle, testing each fastening with a sharp tug.
"Then I'm going to bend you over the armor stand," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble that vibrated through the steel beneath your hands, through your fingertips, into the marrow of your bones. "And I'm going to push your skirts up around your waist—slowly, so I can watch the fabric slide up the backs of your thighs, so I can see the curve of your arse inch by inch before I bare you completely. And I'm going to take you from behind, standing up, with my armor still on. You'll feel the cold steel of my cuirass against your back, hard and unyielding. You'll feel the chill of my greaves against your calves. You'll smell the metal and the leather mixed with the scent of us. But inside you, I'll be hot. Hot and hard and so deep you'll feel me in your throat, in your chest, in the very core of you."
Your breath caught in your chest like a trapped bird. Your fingers fumbled on the last buckle, the leather slipping through your grasp before you caught it again, and you heard him exhale, not quite a laugh, but something darkly satisfied, something that said he knew exactly what his words were doing to you.
"Then," he continued, relentless, merciless, "when I've had my fill of watching myself disappear inside you from behind, I'm going to carry you to the cot and put you on your back. And I'm going to take off my gauntlets so I can feel your skin with my bare hands. I'm going to hold you down, one hand between your breasts, pinning you to the mattress. And I'm going to fuck you slowly. So slowly you'll feel every inch of me, every ridge, every pulse. So slowly you'll beg me to go faster. And I won't. Not until you apologize for every bratty, insolent, maddening thing you said to me this morning."
You finished the last buckle of the cuirass with hands that trembled ever so slightly—you knew he could see it, could feel it in the minute vibrations transmitted through the steel—and reached for the gorget. The throat armor was shaped to cradle his neck, to protect the vulnerable hollow where his pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. "Apologize?" you managed, your voice emerging breathier than you intended, a half-octave higher than your usual register. "For what, precisely?"
"For pulling my hair when you knew it would drive me to distraction. For denying me what we both wanted because you were enjoying the game too much to end it. For threatening to find satisfaction elsewhere." His eyes burned into yours, twin flames of violet and shadow, and his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, something that was somehow more commanding than any shout could be. "You are going to say 'I am yours, Valarr, and no one else's. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours.' And then, and only then, will I let you come. Not a moment before. No matter how much you plead."
You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry as parchment left in the sun. "And if I refuse? If I'm stubborn and willful and refuse to give you the satisfaction?"
His smile was slow and wolfish and altogether dangerous, the kind of smile that would have made a lesser woman run for the hills. "Then I'll keep going until you don't. I can do this all day, sweetheart. I can bring you to the edge again and again and again until you forget your own name, until you forget why you were resisting in the first place, until the only word left in your vocabulary is 'please.' And then I'll make you wait a little longer, just because I can."
The gorget was in place, the final buckle secured beneath his left ear. Only the gauntlets remained on the table, and the helm—a sculpted thing of black steel with a dragon crest sweeping back from the crown like frozen fire. You reached for the gauntlets, the articulated steel fingers clicking softly against each other, but he caught your wrists in his bare hands before you could lift them.
"Leave them," he said, his voice rough as stone dragged over gravel. "I want to feel you. I've been waiting all morning to feel you."
And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was a conquest and surrender woven together into a single act. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat before his mouth descended. His tongue swept into your mouth with a hunger that bordered on violence, tasting of the wine he'd drunk before you arrived, tasting of want and need and barely leashed desperation. The steel of his cuirass pressed cold and unyielding against your breasts through the thin fabric of your gown, and the contrast of sensations, cold metal against your front, hot mouth against your lips, hard steel against your soft flesh, soft tongue sliding against yours, made your head spin like you'd drunk an entire flagon of the Arbor gold on the table.
You kissed him back with everything you had, with every ounce of frustration and desire and desperate wanting that had been building since yesterday, since this morning, since the moment you'd first laid eyes on him. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his gambeson where it showed above the cuirass, pulling him closer, closer, until the steel was pressed so tight against you that you could feel the steel imprinting on your skin through your dress.
"Gods," you gasped against his mouth, pulling back just far enough to drag air into your burning lungs, "I want you. I want you now. Right now."
"Then have me."
He walked you backward with the steady, unstoppable momentum of a tide, his armored body a wall of heat and steel pushing against your softness, until your spine hit the armor stand. The wooden frame rattled violently, a pauldron clattering to the trampled grass with a dull thud, a vambrace following it a moment later, and then his hands were on your hips, the heat of his bare palms searing through your gown, lifting you onto the edge of the campaign table with effortless strength. Your skirts bunched around your thighs, the fabric rucking up past your knees, past midthigh, until the cool morning air kissed skin that was already flushed and feverish. His armored body pressed between your legs, the steel of his cuirass shockingly cold against the heated, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a desperation that surprised you, pulling him closer, the ridges of the armor pressing into your soft flesh in ways that would leave marks, and you didn't care, you didn't care at all.
"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice ragged, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants that mingled with your own. "Tell me you want me. I need to hear you say it. I need to know this isn't just—I need to know you want this as much as I do."
"I want you," you breathed, the words spilling out of you like water from a cracked dam, unstoppable and honest and raw. "I want you all the time, every moment of every day, until it drives me to distraction. I am yours, Valarr Targaryen. I am yours and no one else's, now and always, today and tomorrow and every day after. My body is yours. My pleasure is yours. Everything I am is yours."
He kissed you again, harder, more desperately, the careful control he'd maintained all morning finally snapping like an overwound harp string. One hand left your hip and you felt him fumbling between your bodies, working at the laces of his breeches with urgent, unsteady fingers, and then he was free, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your inner thigh, leaving a trail of slick moisture against your skin.
The first press of him against your entrance made you gasp into his mouth. You were still slick from his attentions this morning, your body still aching and empty from the interrupted promise of the night before, still desperate and ready despite—or perhaps because of—everything. And when he pushed inside you—one long, slow, relentless thrust that filled you completely, that stretched you in ways that walked the perfect line between pleasure and exquisite ache—you cried out so loudly you were certain the entire camp must have heard, certain the squire outside the tent must be blushing to the roots of his hair, certain the news would spread through the tourney grounds faster than word of the trial itself.
"Yes," you sobbed, your head falling back, your nails digging into the back of his neck hard enough to leave crescents in his skin, your inner muscles clenching around the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. "Yes, yes, yes—"
He took you with a ferocity that drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out cries, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your vision blur at the edges. His bare hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto him with every driving thrust, meeting your body with his own in a rhythm that was more storm than song. The armor stand rattled and creaked beneath you with the force of his movements, the remaining pieces of armor clanking against each other like discordant bells, and you had to brace one hand behind you on the table to keep from being driven backward onto the scattered steel.
The sound of it was utterly obscene, and you were past caring. The clank of steel against steel. The creak of leather straps straining. The wet, rhythmic slide of your bodies joining and parting and joining again. The raw, desperate, animal sounds tearing from your throat with every thrust, moans and gasps and half-formed words that might have been his name or might have been prayers. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your ankles locking behind the small of his back, and the slight shift in angle made him hit a spot deep inside you that sent white lightning arcing up your spine, that made you scream, that made your inner muscles flutter and clench around him in involuntary spasm.
"That's it," he growled against your ear, his voice dark with satisfaction and unspent hunger. "Let them hear you. Let the whole camp hear who you belong to. Let the gods hear. I don't care. I want everyone to know."
"Valarr—Valarr—I'm going to—I'm so close, I'm going to—"
"Come for me." The command was a growl, a plea, a demand all at once. "Now. I want to feel you."
The command shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave in a storm, white-hot and blinding, starting somewhere deep in your core and radiating outward in pulses of pure, incandescent pleasure. You screamed his name so loudly your voice cracked and broke on the second syllable, your head thrown back, your spine arching, your body convulsing around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that drew a guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest. The world went white at the edges, then gray, then nothing at all for a suspended moment of pure, perfect oblivion.
He followed you over the edge moments later, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a final, deep thrust, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-damp skin, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You felt him pulse inside you—once, twice, three times, four—felt the hot, flooding spill of his seed filling you, felt it begin to drip down your thighs even before he pulled out, a slow, warm trickle that traced paths down your trembling skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tent was filled with the sound of ragged, desperate breathing, yours, his, indistinguishable from each other, two sets of lungs working in tandem. The armor stand creaked beneath you with a final, settling groan. The fallen pauldron gleamed on the grass, its polished surface now smudged with fingerprints. Somewhere in the distance, a crier was calling something about the trial of seven, his voice high and thin and utterly irrelevant, a fly buzzing at the edge of a world that had shrunk to the space between your bodies.
Valarr lifted his head from your shoulder slowly, as if it weighed more than his helm, and looked at you with those eyes still hazy with the remnants of pleasure, still dark with hunger despite everything you'd just done, still burning with something that looked terrifyingly like devotion and his lips were kiss-swollen, and there was a mark on his neck where your nails had raked across the skin, and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
"I believe," he said, his voice hoarse and scraped-raw, the words emerging between still-labored breaths, "that I owed you a proper apology. For my behavior. For my presumption. For everything."
You laughed, a breathless, exhausted, utterly satisfied sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest and emerged as something between a giggle and a sigh. The movement made him shift inside you, still half-hard, and you gasped at the oversensitive friction. "Accepted," you managed, your own voice barely more than a whisper. "Though I should warn you—if that's how you apologize, I may need to find reasons to be cross with you more often."
—
Outside the tent, the squire stood at rigid attention, his spine so straight it was on the verge of snapping, his face the color of curdled milk, his eyes fixed on the distant treeline with the desperate intensity of a man who was trying very, very hard to be somewhere else entirely. His name was Edric, he was fifteen years old, he had been in Prince Valarr's service for exactly eight months, and he was fairly certain that nothing in his life had prepared him for this.
He had heard everything. Everything. The first moan had been bad enough, a high, breathy sound that had made his ears turn pink and his gaze drop to his boots. The second moan had been worse, drawn out and trembling, followed by a rhythmic creaking that could only be the armor stand, the armor stand, gods preserve him, the very armor stand he had polished that morning, taking a structural battering it had never been designed to withstand. And then there had been words. Words. The princess had said things—things he was fairly certain he should not repeat even under threat of torture—and the prince had responded in a voice so low and rough and possessive that Edric had actually taken three involuntary steps away from the tent flap.
Now there was screaming. Not the bad kind of screaming but the kind of screaming that made his entire body flush with heat and his throat go dry and his brain very pointedly refuse to form coherent thoughts.
He was going to die. He was going to die of embarrassment right here, outside his prince's tent, and the maesters would have to invent an entirely new category of death to explain what had happened to him.
Maybe I should have become a septon, he thought miserably. Septons don't have to stand outside tents listening to—
A particularly sharp cry rang out from within, followed by the unmistakable sound of something wooden and structural creaking in rhythmic protest. Edric squeezed his eyes shut and began mentally reciting the names of all seven aspects of the Seven. Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, Stranger—
The Stranger, he felt, was particularly appropriate. He was fairly certain he was about to die of embarrassment.
"VALARR—yes—right THERE—"
Edric opened his eyes and fixed them on a cloud that was drifting lazily across the morning sky. That was a nice cloud. Clouds were safe. Clouds did not make sounds that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his natural life.
He was so focused on the cloud—and on mentally reciting every prayer he knew, and on wondering whether it was possible to un-hear something through sheer force of will—that he did not notice the approach of the man until a shadow fell across him and a voice spoke from approximately two feet away.
"Where is my son's armor?"
Edric jumped approximately three feet into the air and spun around with a strangled yelp that he would deny to his dying day.
Prince Baelor Breakspear stood before him.
"Y-y-your Grace." Edric's voice cracked on every syllable, pitching upward like a boy of twelve instead of a squire of fifteen. "Prince Valarr's armor is—ah—it is—it is inside the tent. Yes. Inside. The tent. Where the armor is."
Baelor's eyes, the same deep blue as his son's left eye, narrowed slightly. "Are you quite well, lad? You look rather flushed."
"I am perfectly well, Your Grace. Perfectly. It is only the—the heat. The morning heat. Very hot this morning. Unusually hot. I was just—standing here. Guarding. As one does."
Baelor studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then seemed to decide that squires were simply peculiar creatures and not worth further investigation. "Good. I have need of the armor before—"
His hand was already reaching for the tent flap and Edric's soul departed his body.
"Your Grace, wait—"
Baelor stopped, his fingers an inch from the canvas. He had heard something.
A sound. A distinctly human sound. "Oh, Valarr—" The voice from within was high and breathy and unmistakably feminine, stretched taut with something between ecstasy and desperation. "Right THERE—don't stop—gods, don't you DARE stop—"
Baelor Breakspear's hand froze in midair. His fingers curled inward, retreating from the canvas as though it had suddenly burst into flame.
Edric wanted to die. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms—the Wall, the deserts of Dorne, the smoking ruins of Valyria itself—anywhere but standing next to his prince's father while said prince was audibly, enthusiastically, thoroughly fucking his wife twenty feet away.
"I—Your Grace, I am under—under very strict orders—" Edric's voice was barely a whisper, his face now achieving a shade of crimson that would have impressed a painter. "No one is to enter the tent. Not anyone. Not for any reason. Those were—those were Prince Valarr's exact words. His very exact words. He was quite specific."
Another sound from within, a rhythmic creaking, the unmistakable clank of steel against something wooden, a low, rough, guttural male groan that was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically Prince Valarr's voice.
Baelor stood frozen outside his son's tent with his mouth slightly open and his cheeks slowly, inexorably turning the color of a summer rose.
"Valarr! VALARR—I'm—I'm going to—I'm—"
A scream. Female. Ecstatic. Utterly, comprehensively unmistakable. It was the kind of scream that left nothing to the imagination—the kind of scream that painted a very detailed picture of exactly what was happening inside that tent, a picture that Edric desperately, desperately did not want to be seeing in his mind's eye.
And then, as if the scream had not been damning enough:
"VALARR! YES! YES, RIGHT THERE—FILL ME UP—DON'T STOP—"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Baelor Breakspear stared at the tent flap as though it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. His hand, still raised, slowly lowered to his side. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment—opening, closing, opening again—like a fish that had been unexpectedly yanked from the water and was still trying to process its new reality.
"I..." He cleared his throat. "I... see."
"The armor," Edric whispered miserably, staring at the ground as though it might offer him salvation, "is... occupied, Your Grace."
Baelor's voice, when he finally found it, was remarkably steady for a man who had just been forced to confront the fact that his son was, at present, engaged in activities that would make a Dornish courtesan blush. "Occupied."
"Very occupied."
"Yes—like that—exactly like that—oh, gods, I can feel you so deep—"
"Extremely occupied," Edric amended, his voice barely audible. "Thoroughly occupied. Could not be more occupied if they tried."
A long, agonizing pause. From within the tent came the unmistakable sound of bodies shifting, the creak of the cot—the cot, gods, they had moved to the cot—and a low, breathy laugh that was definitely the princess.
"Well," Baelor said, and his voice had acquired a slightly strangled quality, as though someone had their hands wrapped around his throat, "it is... it is good that they are... that the marriage is... that they are clearly very..." He paused, searching for a word that would not make this situation worse. "...compatible.""
"Harder—HARDER—I want to feel you for DAYS—"
Baelor closed his eyes. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose. He opened his eyes again and looked at the sky as though beseeching the Seven themselves for intervention.
"Right," he said, to no one in particular. "Right. Well. I suppose... I suppose I shall find armor elsewhere. Ser Humfrey Hardyng may have something suitable. He is roughly my same proportions. Give or take. Or perhaps Lord Ashford keeps spares in the armory. For... for emergencies." He paused.
"VALARR, I'M GOING TO COME AGAIN—"
Baelor turned on his heel with the rigid, mechanical dignity of a man who had decided that the only way to survive this encounter was to pretend it had never happened. His movements were stiff, precise, the movements of a soldier retreating in good order from a battle that could not be won.
"I shall go now," he announced to the world at large. He took three long strides toward the main thoroughfare of the camp.
"Your Grace!" Edric called after him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shall I—should I—do you want me to tell Prince Valarr that you came looking for him? When he is—when he is finished with his—with the armor?"
Baelor did not break stride. He did not slow down. He did not look back. If anything, he appeared to walk faster.
"You may tell my son," he said, his voice carrying back over his shoulder with a strained composure that was honestly quite heroic under the circumstances, "that I wish him joy of his morning. That I am pleased—very pleased—that his marriage is so... vigorous. That I am profoundly, deeply, inexpressibly glad that I did not walk into that tent. And that if either of them ever—ever—speaks of this in my presence, I shall deny it happened until my dying breath."
He paused, just for a moment, and added in a tone of immense, bone-deep exhaustion: "The Seven give me strength."
And then Prince Baelor Breakspear, the finest knight of the realm, disappeared around the corner of a supply tent with the speed of a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of the known world.
Edric stood alone, staring at the spot where his prince's father had been, listening to the sounds still emerging from within the tent—a rhythmic thumping now, another rising moan, and something that sounded distressingly like the cot beginning to splinter—and wondered if it was physically possible to die of embarrassment.
It was, he concluded, probably not possible. Which meant he would have to live with this memory for the rest of his natural life.
"Oh—oh—VALARR—"
The rest of his natural life was looking to be very, very long indeed.
Warnings: incest, infidelity (we feel for Kiera), angst
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Sometimes you thought that you and Valarr were born in the wrong era.
If you and your brother had been born earlier, if you had been the children of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne Targaryen, then you wouldn't have to feel ashamed and guilty about the love between you.
But you aren't.
Your parents had tried to prevent this when you and Valarr were little and discovered you kissed each other whenever you played pretend: he was a knight rescuing you from the monster, or you played King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssane. You'd never forget how ashamed you felt when your father spoke to you in his chambers. He wasn't harsh, nor did he seem angry; instead, he explained that you shouldn't do those kinds of things, that brothers and sisters didn't love each other that way. You cried and apologized. You felt so guilty that you didn't protest when they stopped allowing you and Valarr to be alone together. There was always a guard, a septa, someone between you.
Innocently, your parents believed they had nothing more to worry about when the years passed, and there was no further physical contact between you and Valarr that seemed out of the ordinary. But kisses weren't necessary for the feelings between you to continue growing. You couldn't stop your heart from racing whenever you and Valarr danced together, nor could you stop your heart from feeling warm when your brother helped you plant in your garden. And Valarr couldn't help but want to make you smile all the time, nor could he stop thinking about you at night before falling asleep.
But the night that changed everything was the night before Valarr's wedding. Your brother came drunk to your chambers and confessed his love. He told you that although he couldn't marry you, he didn't want to give Kiera something that should belong to you. You should have thrown him out, told him he wasn't thinking straight, pushed him away when he kissed you. But you didn't. You kissed him back.
That night, you and your brother forgot about guilt and duty. Everything faded away as you kissed and explored each other's bodies; all that mattered was giving each other pleasure and showing each other how much you loved one another. Valarr kept whispering "I love you" as he entered you, his fingers intertwined with yours.
The next day, you had to watch him get married. You smiled and had to fight back tears when Valarr looked you straight in the eyes as he recited his vows. Your father must have suspected something, or some servant must have seen your brother leaving your chambers that morning, because just the next day, your father announced that you were getting married.
Like a good daughter, you didn't complain, not even when they wouldn't allow you a long betrothal. In less than a month, you were a married woman. But that didn't stop you and Valarr from sinning again. It was supposed to be a one-time thing for that night, but once you and your brother tasted the forbidden fruit, you couldn't stop.
The bliss you felt every time Valarr kissed you, every time you were in his arms, every time he was inside you, was immense. Just as immense as the guilt you felt once Valarr left you alone with your thoughts.
There are days when you can't look Kiera in the eye. The guilt you feel is so overwhelming it makes you nauseous, and you can barely eat. You can't even look at Valarr; you feel dirty and sick. Those were the days you spent most of your time in the sept, praying until your knees ached. Hoping the gods would forgive you, have mercy on you, and free you from your feelings.
No matter how much you prayed, how much you begged the gods, you couldn't stay away from your brother for long. You couldn't refuse his kisses, you couldn't resist his touch. You loved Valarr more than anything in the world. But if you could, you would change it. You longed to love him like a normal sister. You longed to live without feeling guilty and disgusted all the time; you longed not to have disappointed your father.
You would never forget your father's face when he saw that your son had the same eyes as Valarr and himself. Your father's eyes, which used to look at you with so much love, were at that moment filled with cold fury and disappointment. You hate that you became a burden to him. How he had to rush to create a narrative where his heterochromia must have skipped a generation with you, to try to silence any rumors of bastardy about his grandson.
Sometimes you wonder if Kiera knows the truth. If she hates you, not just for being your brother's lover, but for giving him a child while her own children are stillborn. At none of the funerals were you able to look at her without feeling nauseous. In the days that followed, you couldn't bear to be in the same room, especially when you saw how she gazed longingly as Valarr played with your son.
People thought Valarr was just a loving uncle, trying to fill the void of his losses with your son. No one suspected the real reason they spent so much time together, why Valarr played and sang to him, why he bought him so many toys, why he walked down the halls with him in his arms. Just as no one suspected the real reason your brother looked so upset, his jaw and his fists clenched, when he heard your son call your husband "Papa" for the first time. People thought Valarr was just envious, wishing he had children of his own, when in reality, he was furious that his son was calling another man "Papa." You felt guilty because behind the annoyance, you saw the pain in his eyes.
That's why you didn't think twice; you interrupted dinner, announcing you were pregnant again. You felt your heart warm when you saw Valarr smile again, and for a brief moment, you felt good as he hugged you. Until you saw your father's serious expression, and your heart skipped a beat.
Will you ever stop feeling guilty all the time?
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summary: after a full day of teasing his feline secretary, valko finally gets her all to himself
wc: 2.7k
content: smut, unprotected sex, scenting, breeding, knotting, does it still count as semi-public if everyone has gone home, employer/employee
an: give him back infold
The rapid clacking of keyboards and dry rustling of papers filled the bullpen, occasionally punctuated by bits of idle chatter. You kept your focus on the thick stack of documents in front of you. Near your desk, the heavy office door swung open.
Your cat ears perked, instantly tracking the distinct, heavy rhythm of his leather shoes as he approached. He came to a halt right at your side, his massive frame towering over your seated figure. The sharp, intoxicating scent of his cologne flooded your senses.
“Good morning, Mr. Chairman,” you said, keeping your voice strictly neutral. If you gave him even a sliver of friendly opening, he had a terrible habit of derailing the entire morning.
“Good morning, Ms. Secretary,” he greeted jovially. Valko leaned one large hand on the polished wood of your desk, his tailored suit shifting with the movement. He looked every bit the impressive wolf hybrid who ran an entire tech company. When you finally looked up, he locked eyes with you. A wicked smirk pulled at his lips, his heavy tail giving a slow swish behind him.
With a slow, deliberate nudge, he pushed a stray pen off the desk’s edge. Before it could drop more than a few inches, your feline reflexes snapped. Your hand blurred through the air, catching the pen mid-fall. You halted its descent perfectly, giving your boss exactly the show he had been looking for.
Your ears flattened sideways as your tail flicked with agitation. You fixed him with a sharp glare, but his blatant amusement was written all over his face.
“Sir, please,” you hissed under your breath, trying not to draw the attention of your coworkers. “I’m trying to concentrate, and I know for a fact you have a meeting later today to prepare for.”
He ignored the protest entirely. Instead, he leaned down closer into your space, his ears pulled backwards, almost flat against his head, like a dog waiting to be given affection. “Excellent reflexes, kitty. Keep up the good work,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
He straightened up, turning on his heel to saunter back into his private office. He had clearly walked out with the sole purpose of disrupting your day, entirely for his own enjoyment.
By mid-afternoon, your nerves were frayed from a constant awareness of the office door behind you. You needed a breather, and, more importantly, you needed fifty copies of the third-quarter financial portfolio organized and stapled.
You escaped to the copy room, a narrow, windowless shoebox of a space that perpetually smelled of ink and dust. The massive industrial printer took up most of the room, leaving only a narrow corridor between the machine and the supply shelves.
You loaded the master files into the machine, pressed start, and let out a sigh as it began its rhythmic whirring.
The heavy door clicked open behind you. Your ears twitched backward, pinning flat to your hair as that familiar cologne filled the cramped room. You didn't even have to turn to know Valko had followed you. The already-small space suddenly seemed even smaller now that you were sharing it with his bulky figure.
“Need something, Mr. Chairman?” you asked, making it a point not to look at him as you watched the machine spit out copies.
“Just looking for some extra staples,” he answered, his voice entirely too close. Before you could offer to find it for him, he stepped directly into your space. His large hand landed on your waist as he maneuvered himself behind you, his solid chest brushing against your shoulder blades. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. He leaned over you, reaching one long arm to blindly grope at the top shelf above the printer. The movement pinned you between the warm machine and his even warmer body. Heat radiated off of him, contrasting with the cool metal of his belt buckle pressing into your lower back.
“I can't seem to find it,” Valko murmured right against the extra-sensitive shell of your fluffy ear. His warm breath made your tail give an involuntary, hard twitch. “Are you sure we aren't all out, Ms. Secretary?”
He was completely blocking you in, using the excuse of a tight space to fully engulf you in his scent and to breathe yours in. Your claws instinctively pricked against your palms, desperately wanting to dig into his expensive suit just to ground yourself.
“It’s on the supply shelf, sir,” you choked out, your voice tighter than you intended.
“Ah.” You felt the smirk in his voice. He twisted to look behind him, but still didn't release you, keeping you fully pinned to his broad chest. Keeping you trapped between his body and the machine, he slid his thigh deliberately between yours to keep his balance as he contorted his body to scan the shelves. “So it is,” he confirmed, reaching toward the half-empty box of staple refills. He finally left with the staples you were certain he didn't actually need, his fingers brushing against your hip as he slipped out behind you.
By 3:00 PM, the meeting room was full of executives intently listening to Valko speak about an upcoming project for the company. There was always something so captivating about watching him in his element at the head of the long mahogany table, and you found yourself paying more attention to how good he looked with his glasses and wanting to feel those sharp fangs sink into your skin than taking notes and keeping minutes.
“If you look here,” Valko directed, pulling a laser pointer from his pocket and clicking it on. A bright, ruby-red dot appeared on the screen. He continued speaking, using it to trace along line graphs and emphasize certain figures. He dropped it down when it was no longer needed, but it remained on, the red dot darting around the floor as Valko, to the humans gathered around the table, merely twiddled with it.
Your pupils dilated, expanding until the irises of your eyes were practically swallowed by black. Your cat ears snapped forward, and your gaze locked onto the pesky pinprick of light as it zigzagged over the carpet.
Every single feline instinct screamed at you to pounce. Your right hand twitched, desperate to swat the light from existence. Your tail gave a hard, violent flick. You forced your eyes away from the hypnotic pull of the dot to look at the man having the time of his life toying with you despite being in a professional setting. Not that that little detail had ever stopped him before.
Valko was already looking at you, still explaining costs and financial logistics. With a subtle movement of his thumb, the dot darted just to the side of one of your shoes, and you couldn't stop your foot from attempting to stomp it out, only for it to reappear on your shoe.
You scowled, annoyed that you had fallen victim to your own instincts. From the head of the table, you heard Valko chuckle through his words, his golden eyes flicking over to you, making it very clear that you were the source of his laughter. With a final, mocking twirl of the pointer, he clicked it off, pocketing the device as if nothing had happened, and all you could do was sit in silent, exasperated rage.
The clock finally struck 5:00 PM, the workday coming to a close. The bullpen filled with a chorus of zippers, rustling coats, and goodnights as the employees filed towards the elevators.
You were walking down one of the hallways, returning from the break room after taking a brief water break, when you saw that Valko had exited his office. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his shirt was undone, exposing the thick column of his neck. The suit jacket had been discarded, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His ears swiveled forward, immediately locking onto the sound of your approaching footsteps.
When you passed each other, he didn’t stop you in your path, but he didn’t let you simply pass by him, either. With a deliberate sweep of his heavy, maroon tail, he brushed the furry appendage against your thigh. The thick fur brushed over your skirt and briefly against the fur of your own tail, sending sparks shooting up your spine.
You gasped, your ears pinning flat against your head as you whirled around. “Valko!”
He continued to walk, barely sparing you a glance over his shoulder, but it was enough to see the wide smile on his face, his sharp fangs showing as he laughed.
You huffed, practically stomping back to your desk. Ordinarily, you’d preen under his attention, but what didn’t he understand about “time and place?”
When Valko returned, seeing you practically pouting at your desk, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to hear his kitty purr for him.
“I need to see you in my office,” he said curtly, expending a tremendous amount of effort to keep his tail from wagging.
You sighed, but followed him into his office. As soon as you were over the threshold and the door shut behind you, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his solid arms around you as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply.
“Why won’t you let me do this during the day?” he complained. It was his turn to pout, but it didn’t stop the excited wagging of his tail at having you pressed against him without putting on the charade of a respectful employer-employee relationship.
You rolled your eyes, but melted into his warmth anyway, wrapping your arms snugly around his waist. You didn’t struggle keeping your hands to yourself as much as he did during the workday, but he made his struggle yours with all his teasing. You nuzzled your nose into his chest, and he did the same against the top of your head.
The pair of you stayed that way for a long while, savoring the proximity of the other, tails winding together.
It was sweet, until it wasn’t enough for the canine hybrid. His hands began to wander, groping everywhere he could reach, paying special attention to where your tail was attached to your body. It was highly sensitive, and he knew that, using it to his advantage.
You gripped onto his shirt, claws catching at the material. He tugged at your silk blouse. “Take it off?” he whispered, his voice raspy with want.
— — —
“Valko!” you yowled, the ridges of his cock hitting every crevice inside you. Bent over his desk like this, there was nothing you could do but take every powerful thrust, your claws leaving shallow grooves in the wood of his desk as you scrambled for purchase.
“My pretty kitty,” he babbled. “Won’t let me show everyone you’re mine. Are you embarrassed of me?”
“No- ah!- ‘m not embarrassed,” you denied.
“Prove it, then. I gave you that mark so- hng!- everyone would know you’ve already been claimed. Use it like intended. Don’t- so tight- don't hide it tomorrow.”
You nodded mindlessly. You’d have agreed to anything if it meant he kept fucking into you like he had a score to settle.
Valko let out a low, triumphant chuckle. A fierce warmth spread through him, utterly thrilled that everyone would soon know you were his and he was yours.
He continued pounding into your weeping pussy, his thick tip prodding at your cervix and grunts and whines spilling from his lips. You were a pliant puddle beneath him, unable to focus on anything except his hips rutting into you with a predatory precision.
His hands were on your hips, pulling you back into him as he pummeled your insides. Your tail was curled around his thigh, and he relished the way your body subconsciously sought him out, even when he was already buried hilt deep inside of your pretty pussy. “Doin’ so good. Mmm, squeezing down so hard.” His voice is jagged, nearly a growl.
“S-so deep! Oh!” you cried out. The drag of his thick cock against your sensitive walls, coupled with the sinful sounds of your lover and the wet squelching between your bodies, had you right on the edge, and he could feel it.
You could feel the swelling bulge at the base of him, knocking into the tight resistance of your already stretched-out hole. Your breathing was coming in shallow pants, and Valko wasn’t much better, his deep grunts morphing into whimpers with every clench of your cunt around his length.
“Gonna take my knot, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?” he rasped, his head swimming just thinking about plugging his seed deep inside you.
You nodded feverishly, a weak “uh-huh” the most you could enunciate through the mind-numbing pleasure.
He thrusted into you deeply, pressing his hips flush against your ass, and his knot popped inside of you with a strangled gasp. The new stretch sent you reeling, every muscle tightening as your poor abused hole clamped around him, shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your body.
His heavy cock twitched inside you, spilling ropes of hot cum inside of you. He moaned freely, his golden eyes transfixed at the point where your spasming cunt swallowed him to the base, his knot keeping you connected. Valko didn't stop rutting into you, pushing his cum deep inside of you, willing it to take.
Only when he couldn’t take the overstimulation did he collapse on top of your panting figure, careful to brace himself not to hurt you. He peppered the side of your face, your neck, everywhere he could reach with sweet kisses, praising you all the while, telling you how perfect you were for him.
He gathered you in his arms as best he could, pulling you with him to sit on his lap in his desk chair. He smoothed your hair down, paying special attention to where your fuzzy ears attached to your head. You purred in his hold, content to have your mate dote on you while he was still buried deep inside of you.
Valko, never one to be able to resist you, nuzzled his nose into your hair. “Did you mean it? When you said you’d stop covering the mark?”
You pulled back just enough to look into his earnest eyes, wide with anticipation of your answer, a spark of fear in them that you would take it back. You flushed, but nodded shyly.
He laughed loudly and unabashedly, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. The sound of his glee was infectious, your own giggles joining the merriment. He pressed a kiss to your lips, overjoyed. “Can I scent you before work, too?”
You rolled your eyes in mock exasperation, but your smile gave Valko all the permission he needed. “On one condition,” you said.
Valko’s eyebrows raised, curious as to what condition you could have.
“You have to promise me the same,” you smirked, leaning in close until your nose brushed his. Your fingers traced the line of his collarbones to the junction of his neck, where a matching bite mark was scarred into his skin. “Maybe then that annoying pomeranian in accounting will get the hint that you're taken.”
Valko’s eyes widened in surprise before a slow, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. His tail began to thump wildly against the leather of the desk chair. “Are you jealous, sweetheart?"
“I don’t like the way she looks at you and stands too close,” you sniffed, tilting your head up in a way that reminded Valko you were no exception to feline haughtiness.
He laughed again, the sound full of utter adoration, and squeezed your waist. “There’s no reason to be jealous. I’m yours, from the tips of my ears to the soles of my feet. I’ll let you scent me as much as you want. I’ll even make sure she smells you on me if it makes you happy.”
He gave you one more firm, possessive kiss, his ears twitching happily as he finally began to shift beneath you. “Now, c’mon, let’s get dressed. We’re going home, and I’m gonna cook whatever my sweet mate wants for supper.”
Summary: Alicent's youngest daughter was raised beneath the strict gaze of the Faith, growing up surrounded by prayers. But behind the walls of the Red Keep lies a secret capable of destroying kingdoms, for the little princess is not King Viserys' daughter, but the child born of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole.
Pairing: [Future Aemond x Reader]
Words: 3.8k words
Warnings: slight mentions of colourism (Alicent wants a pale skin daughter)
Authors note: Little one shot in honour of HOTD coming back, thinking about making it a series.
Disclamer: (I do NOT allow anyone stealing, translating or imitating this work)
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The labour began before dawn.
By midday, every candle in Queen Alicent's chambers had burned halfway down. By nightfall, they had all been replaced.
The screams never stopped.
They echoed through Maegor's Holdfast until even the servants walking the corridors lowered their voices. Every cry was followed by another prayer, spoken through clenched teeth until Alicent no longer knew whether she begged the Seven for mercy... or forgiveness.
"Mother Above," she gasped as another wave of agony tore through her body, "have mercy on me."
The pain answered before heaven did.
She folded over herself with another cry, fingers digging so deeply into the linen sheets that her nails tore the fabric.
The Grand Maester remained at the foot of the bed, calm despite the mounting tension inside the room.
"Again, Your Grace."
She obeyed.
She had obeyed her entire life.
Her father.
Her husband.
Her duty.
The Faith.
Another push, another scream, another whispered prayer.
"Forgive me." She did not dare speak the reason aloud. She had not dared for months now.
Not since the quiet, stolen moments that had begun years earlier, when the weight of the crown and the slow decay of her husband had left her lonelier than she had ever been.
It had not happened all at once. There had been no single night to mark the beginning. Only glances that lingered too long and silences that stretched between them.
By now, she was no longer a girl. She was a queen. A mother. A woman who had learned how to endure.
And yet, somewhere between duty and exhaustion, between grief and the desperate need to be seen, she had allowed herself to forget.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
Until forgetting became something she could no longer undo.
Each morning she had knelt before the Seven, praying never to bear the consequence of her weakness. And tonight, she feared the gods had finally answered.
Another contraction ripped through her.
"My Queen!" the midwives gathered around once more. "I can see the babe!"
Alicent cried out so loudly that her throat burned raw.
Everything hurt—her back, her hips, her chest. Even breathing felt like punishment. She had given birth four times before, yet it had never been this painful. Nothing had prepared her for this.
"This is justice," a cruel voice whispered somewhere inside her own mind. "This is what sinners deserve."
One final scream.
One final push.
Then—
The cry of an infant filled the chamber. Tiny, fagile and alive.
Alicent collapsed back against the pillows, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. For several blissful seconds, she simply breathed. It was over. She had survived.
"...Is the baby well?" she whispered.
Silence, complete silence.
The relief vanished immediately. Her brows furrowed as she looked from one midwife to another.
No one smiled. No one dared congratulate her, The Queen. No one dared move an inch.
The only sound in the room was the newborn's cries echoing through the chamber.
"Why..." Alicent's voice trembled. "...why is no one speaking?"
The youngest midwife had gone completely pale. One of the older women quietly made the sign of the Seven across her chest. The Grand Maester stared down at the infant for far longer than was proper.
The colour slowly drained from his face.
Alicent felt her heartbeat quicken.
"...Is she breathing?"
"Perfectly, Your Grace."
"...Then bring her to me," Alicent commanded, her voice carrying all the authority of a queen.
No one moved.
Despite the protests of her aching body, the Queen pushed herself upright on her elbows.
"I said..." she repeated, more slowly this time, "...bring me my child."
The Grand Maester swallowed.
"It is... a daughter."
Relief flickered across Alicent's face.
"A daughter..." Another daughter. She smiled weakly. "Helaena will be delighted to have a new girl to play with."
The old man's lips parted before closing once more.
"There is... something else."
Alicent's smile disappeared. "What?"
He searched desperately for words that did not seem to exist. "...She resembles you greatly, Your Grace."
For one confused heartbeat, Alicent almost laughed before extending her trembling arms.
"My daughter, Maester. Now."
At last, one frightened midwife stepped forward.
The child was carefully placed into Alicent's embrace.
The baby immediately settled against the warmth of her mother's chest, her cries fading into quiet little whimpers.
So small.
So impossibly small.
Alicent's expression softened.
"Oh..."
The infant had her nose,the exact same delicate curve and her lips, her cheeks, even the little furrow that appeared between her brows whenever she frowned.
However.
Her hair, though still damp from birth, was already unmistakably auburn. Almost identical to Alicent's own.
"My sweet girl..."
Then the baby opened her eyes.
Brown. Warm brown.
Not pale lilac.
Not violet.
Not even green.
Alicent stopped breathing and her smile froze.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, her eyes travelled over the child's tiny face once more, then down to her neck, her tiny hands, her little fists curling against the blanket.
And her skin.
Golden.
Not dark enough to invite immediate suspicion. But not pale enough to belong to House Targaryen.
It was the exact shade of skin she had kissed beneath the cover of darkness on countless stolen nights.
Not here, not in this room, not in this palace but beneath moonlight. Behind locked doors. When Criston Cole had whispered that he should never have loved her. When she had answered that neither should she.
Her stomach lurched.
"No..." The word escaped before she even realised she had spoken it and her fingers began to tremble. "No..." She repeated, this time with far greater desperation.
The baby blinked innocently up at her.
It was a cruel jest of the Seven, delighting in the divine punishment they had chosen for her sins.
The child offered a toothless little smile and let out a tiny, happy coo.
Alicent recoiled as though she had been burned alive.
"No!" She nearly threw the infant away from her. The baby only avoided striking the floor because the nearest midwife caught her just in time.
"My Queen—"
"No!" Alicent cried as she stumbled backwards across the chamber, one hand clamped over her mouth in a desperate attempt to suppress the nausea rising in her throat.
"It cannot be." She shook her head violently as tears streamed uncontrollably down her face. "It cannot."
The room spun around her and her stomach emptied itself onto the stone floor again and again as desperate, broken sobs escaped her lips. Nothing remained inside her, yet her body continued to retch while tears poured down her cheeks without restraint.
One horrified maid stepped forward.
"Your Grace—"
"DON'T!"
Alicent pressed herself against the far wall, staring at the baby as though she were a monster. "No... Don't you dare come any closer."
The child cried louder. And louder. A divine torment, without question. The cry the Seven themselves had sent to haunt both her days and her nights.
"Take her away."
"My Queen..."
"Take her away!" Her throat burned as she screamed after so many endless hours of agony.
"She needs her mother, Your Grace," the Grand Maester said gently, attempting to approach Alicent with the infant cradled in his arms.
"I SAID DON'T COME NEAR ME!"
At that exact moment, the doors flew open.
Ser Criston Cole entered in full armour, one hand already resting upon the hilt of his sword.
"Your Grace, are you—"
His words died instantly.
The Queen stood barefoot against the wall, still shaking, her bloodstained gown clinging to her legs and abdomen. Her auburn curls were tangled, her cheeks flushed crimson from the endless tears that wracked her body.
The floor bore the evidence of her sickness.
Every servant in the room looked ready to faint as the baby cried somewhere behind them.
Criston frowned. "What has happened?"
No one answered.
Alicent slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. He had seen her frightened, he had seen her grieving, he had seen her furious. But he had never seen this.
Pure despair.
Slowly, almost against his own will, Criston turned toward the infant just as the Grand Maester, finally obeying Alicent's command, carried the baby toward the door.
As he passed beside him, Criston stole a glance at the child's face.
His breath caught.
Auburn curls. Alicent's face. And...
His own Brown eyes.
His knees nearly gave way beneath him. The room disappeared into a blur of shadows and muffled voices as bile crept up the back of his throat.
The proof of his dishonour stood before him.
His daughter.
Their child.
The living proof of their consummated sin.
Criston slowly looked back at Alicent.
She was crying silently now, one trembling hand covering her mouth as she stared out of the window, King's Landing stretched beneath her feet.
Anywhere but the child. Anywhere but their daughter.
He understood.
Perfectly.
Neither of them would ever speak of this.
Not while they lived.
King Viserys never noticed.
Or perhaps he no longer possessed the strength to notice.
By the time the child was presented before him, the King's body had already begun to fail him. His hands trembled as he reached out for the babe, carefully cradling her in his arms.
"Another beautiful daughter." A gentle smile spread across his face, and Alicent could have sworn that, for the briefest of moments, the light that had once lived in his eyes had returned. A youthful warmth shone through the years of illness that had ravaged him.
His ruined face softened as the baby wrapped her tiny hands around one of his old fingers, attempting to chew on it.
"So like her mother." He stroked the infant's auburn curls with surprising tenderness. "My little Alicent," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head before breathing in the sweet scent of her hair.
The Queen lowered her gaze. "...She favours House Hightower."
Viserys let out a weak chuckle. "Good. It pleases me greatly." He smiled fondly at his wife as he gently rocked the baby in his arms. "I have enough silver-haired children already."
The court laughed politely. Only Alicent did not. She stood frozen beside the cradle while Viserys admired every feature that reminded him of the woman he had loved ever since Queen Aemma's death.
"The same hair."
"The same smile."
"The very same sweet face as yours, my sweet wife."
Not once did he mention the baby's eyes.
Perhaps he no longer remembered the colour of his own.
Not everyone was so blind.
Princess Rhaenyra watched the presentation from across the hall without uttering a single word. Beside her stood Laenor Velaryon, while a little farther behind them lingered Harwin Strong.
The princess observed the infant quietly. The babe was born with auburn hair, brown eyes, and darker dornish skin.
Her gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Her eyes moved inadvertely towards the captain of the King’s Watch and a small smile escaped her lips. Then she looked towards Alicent.
The Queen refused to meet her gaze. Rhaenyra tried fighting the smile appearing in her lips. Not triumphant. Not exactly mocking. But not completely innocent either.
She glanced sideways, and Harwin followed her gaze toward the child. His brows rose only slightly before understanding settled across his features.
Laenor noticed a heartbeat later. His eyes widened as he looked first at the faithful knight in a white cape, then quite shamelessly turned to look at his own wife. A quiet laugh escaped him.
"So..." Rhaenyra murmured softly, just loud enough for the two men beside her to hear. "It would seem we are not so different after all."
Laenor raised his goblet with an amused smile. "I have always believed hypocrisy makes for the finest entertainment." He lifted his cup a little higher. "A toast to the Seven... and to their exquisite sense of justice." A light chuckle escaped him.
Rhaenyra said nothing. She simply continued watching Alicent.
The Queen never looked up. She did not need to. She could feel those knowing eyes upon her skin.
For years she had condemned Rhaenyra. She had called her sons bastards and questioned their blood, questioned their honour.
Now the gods had answered with exquisite cruelty. Not by exposing her. That would have been merciful.
Instead, they had given Alicent exactly what she had spent years despising.
A child she would spend the rest of her life trying to convince the world was something she was not.
No one ever spoke of that night again. Not the Grand Maester, not the midwives, not Ser Criston Cole, not even Alicent herself.
By the time the little princess celebrated her first nameday, every witness had convinced themselves that silence was simply another form of loyalty.
The Queen saw to it personally.
The oldest midwife was quietly dismissed from court, granted enough lands to ensure her comfort for the rest of her life.
Another chose to take her vows as a Silent Sister.
The youngest left King's Landing altogether before the child had even learned to walk.
The Grand Maester never uttered a single word. He had served three kings and he intended to die serving the fourth.
Some truths were safer buried.
Others were buried every single day.
The princess grew into a beautiful little girl.
Every passing moon made Alicent's heart heavier. When she laughed, she saw herself. When she frowned, she saw herself. And when she tilted her head in curiosity, she saw herself.
Then the little girl would look up with those warm brown eyes, and Alicent's stomach twisted all over again.
Criston's eyes.
Always Criston's brown eyes.
It became impossible to look at her for too long.
So Alicent learned another kind of motherhood. One built not upon affection, but discipline.
Routine. Prayer. And control.
If she could not change the child, she would shape everything around her.
"You are the blood of Oldtown before you are anything else." The sentence became as common as the morning bells. "You are a daughter of the Seven."
"Your heart belongs to the Mother."
"Your thoughts belong to the Father."
"Your soul belongs to the Maiden."
Every lesson began with scripture, every meal began with prayer, and every evening ended inside the royal sept.
While Aegon disappeared from his tutors, while Aemond begged endlessly to visit the Dragonpit, and while Helaena wandered through the gardens collecting insects no one else noticed, you learned hymns.
You learned the Seven-Pointed Star before you learned the histories of Old Valyria. You knew every prayer by heart before you knew the names of the Conqueror's dragons.
Alicent insisted upon it. The less you loved dragons, the safer you would be, the farther away from the truth you would remain, the farther away from ever knowing that you could never bond with one.
Sometimes, late at night, she imagined you years from now. Your hair hidden beneath a white veil. Your eyes lowered.
A septa.
Anonymous. Forgotten by the court.
Safe.
No dragons. No marriage. No heirs. No questions.
That image soothed her.
Maybe if she prayed hard enough, perhaps the Seven would grant her at least that mercy.
The milk baths began shortly after your fith nameday.
At first, you thought they were wonderful. The enormous marble tub was filled until white foam lapped against its edges. Pitchers of warm donkey’s milk were poured in, the finest and whitest milk from all the Seven Kingdoms.
Honey.
Ground pearls.
Rosewater.
Sweet herbs.
The servants poured them one after another while steam curled lazily through the bathing chambers.
"It smells nice."
"It should." Alicent watched from her chair nearby. "It is good for princesses."
You accepted that answer happily. Princesses took milk baths. Princesses wore silk. Princesses prayed. And princesses obeyed.
That was simply how the world worked.
But as the years passed, the baths became longer. More frequent, exactly every second day. Sometimes every day even during the summer.
You would sit patiently while the servants rubbed fragrant oils into your skin until it glowed pale beneath the candlelight.
Whenever you complained, Alicent would simply say, "A little longer."
Children accepted answers adults never would.
Always a little longer. She never explained why.
She only noticed, with quiet relief, that your skin remained fair despite the blazing summer beyond the castle walls.
The sun became your greatest enemy.
Though you never understood the reason. Whenever you stepped into the gardens, it had to be beneath a parasol.
Always.
White silk, embroidered with seven-pointed stars, perhaps an unconscious attempt to protect the truth from ever coming to light.
A servant carried it faithfully above your head no matter the season.
When you tried running ahead, as children did:
"My lady!" The poor handmaid hurried after you. "Please... The Queen will be upset."
You would stop immediately. "Oh."
Soon, however, you stopped running altogether, knowing there was no possibility of stepping beyond the limits of the parasol.
Shade became as natural as breathing. You learned which gardens remained cool beneath the trees and which sunny hallways to avoid.
You assumed every princess lived this way. You had never known anything different.
Only Alicent noticed the difference after those rare afternoons when the sun found you despite every precaution.
The warmth returned to your cheeks, to your hands, and to your shoulders.
Only slightly. Barely enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for her. Enough to remind her of your Dornish skin.
She would order another milk bath that very evening.
There was only one part of the day you truly loved.
Every night. After supper.
When Mother called for you herself.
You would hurry through Maegor's Holdfast with your hair bouncing freely behind you.
No one ever questioned your place, not truly; not when they saw the pale streak that had begun to appear as you grew, hidden deep at the nape of your neck. A divine gift, they whispered, a blessing from the Seven themselves, proof of Valyrian blood made manifest.
Unlike Helaena, whose silver hair was woven into intricate braids by patient ladies. Unlike the Velaryon girls at court. Unlike every noble child you had ever met. You always wore your hair loose. Long, thick, untamed auburn curls.
Mother insisted upon it.
"It suits you," she used to say.
So you believed her. She never allowed anyone to braid it. Never pin it up. Never twist it into fashionable styles. You simply thought she liked it that way.
And you never questioned why.
Children rarely questioned love.
Inside her chambers, every servant was dismissed, every single one. Only the Grand Maester remained.
He always arrived carrying the same small wooden chest. But he never opened it. He simply placed it upon the table, bowed, and withdrew.
Only after the doors had closed would Alicent unlatch it. Inside rested a tiny crystal bottle filled with a pale, cloudy mixture that smelled sharply of vinegar, herbs, and crushed flowers.
You smiled the moment you saw it.
"My turn?"
Alicent looked up, and that was always the first time each day she smiled at you.
"Yes."
Your favourite part.
You climbed eagerly onto the cushioned stool before her mirror as she stood behind you.
Slowly, very slowly, she began brushing your hair. Long strokes through your reddish curls. From crown to waist.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The room remained quiet except for the soft sound of the bristles gliding through your auburn curls. You loved closing your eyes. Mother's hands were always gentle in that moment. Her harsh personality long forgotten, leaving only a sweet mother stroking your hair with tenderness.
Not hurried, not distant, gentle.
Sometimes she hummed the hymns she sang in the sept. Sometimes she spoke.
"You have beautiful hair."
"It looks like yours," you would always answer.
"...Yes." She always replied with a tight smile.
You smiled at your own reflection.
"I hope I always look like you."
The brush stopped for only a heartbeat before continuing.
You never saw the tears gathering in her eyes, every single time.
When every knot had disappeared, Alicent carefully gathered the thick white section of hair that grew from the very back of your head.
Deep at the nape of your neck. Hidden beneath the heavy layers that fell over it. No one would ever be able to notice the auburn roots growing beneath it unless your hair was lifted completely away from your shoulders.
That was why she had chosen to place it there.
The rest of your hair remained untouched. Only that hidden lock needed to be treated.
She tied the surrounding hair aside with practised fingers until the section lay exposed. By now, the roots had begun returning. The soft auburn colour appearing once again, barely half an inch, clashing with the rest of the white strand.
You reached up automatically.
"They're red again... They always grow," you said, a hint of sadness in your voice. "Will they become white tonight?"
Alicent forced herself to smile. "Yes."
You nodded excitedly, looking delighted. "I like it when it's white."
"I know."
"It makes me look more like Father."
"...It makes you look like a Targaryen."
You simply nodded, satisfied.
Alicent uncorked the crystal bottle, and the familiar acidic scent filled the room.
"Ready?" she asked, and you nodded enthusiastically.
She dipped the small brush into the mixture before carefully painting it over the hidden lock, working from root to tip with painstaking precision.
Within moments, the burning began.
Your little shoulders tensed.
"It stings," you tried to complain.
"I know."
"It always stings."
"I know."
She continued anyway. Every hair. Every inch. She could not afford to miss even one.
Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes as that spot on your scalp burned. You never complained, and you certainly never cried.
Instead, you leaned backwards until your head rested lightly against Alicent's stomach, seeking comfort from your mother.
Without thinking, Alicent's free hand came to rest atop your head. Slowly, almost unconsciously, she stroked your hair.
"There..." she whispered. "My brave Targaryen girl."
You smiled despite the sting.
That sentence...
Just those three little words were worth every moment of discomfort.
You would endure far worse if it meant hearing your mother say them again, if it meant her touching you with such love and gentleness
Neither of you realised the terrible truth.
For you, this was love.
For Alicent, this was penance.
You were the punishment the Seven had seen fit to send her. Her Sword of Damocles. Her everlasting sentence. The living proof of every broken vow and the greatest sin she had spent years begging the gods to forgive.
You were the Seven's answer to a forgiveness she had begged for and never received.
And from the day you were born, Alicent would spend the rest of her life hiding from the truth she had brought into the world
Until conscience, as it always does, made a coward of her.
Summary: A young lady resents her unwanted betrothal, and attempts to flee the Red Keep. Unluckily for her, even the most gallant of knights does not wish to aid her escape. (Inspired by Queen Charlotte.)
Female reader (she/her pronouns & AFAB). She has no physical description (only brief mention of her having hair). No use of Y/N.
Word count (so far): 21k
The Godswood Escape
A Walk in the Godswood
The Great Yard
The Great Sept of Baelor
Maegor’s Holdfast
The Library
The Sworn Sword
The Solar
The River Gate
The Tower of the Hand
The Royal Apartments
The Small Council (coming 11 July)
TBD
(Anticipating 16/17 chapters in total; I haven’t finished writing yet!)
I cross-post my work on AO3 as well!
If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! You can leave a comment here or under one of the chapters, or send me an ask or DM.
Asks of any kind are always welcome, I love hearing your thoughts or answering questions about the story!
𝓹airing: aerion brightflame x wife!reader, maegor brightflame x mother!reader
𝓼ummary: you and aerion welcome a second child, a healthy little girl. maegor struggles with the new addition, and the subsequent less attention he receives. he can be just as pouty as his father.
𝔀arnings: fluff and a tiny bit of angst (aerion is mean to maegor), pictures are for aesthetic reasons only as the reader is not physically described, small mentions of childbirth, breastfeeding, not proofread cause i'm lazy & english isn't my first language, can be read as a standalone or follow-up to this fic. 2.4k words.
𝓷otes: this is a bit rushed and i'm not super proud of the ending but i really like this pairing so if anyone has requests for this storyline, please send them!! also big thanks to everyone who voted on the poll to name the baby
A certain stillness had taken over Summerhall. The halls were empty, and the castle itself seemed to be basking in a quiet relief, like the silence that settled after the storm. The birthing chambers smelt of fresh linens, and cloth scrubbed clean of blood. A fire burned lowly in the hearth, offering warmth for the small life that had just entered the world.
Tiny fingers flexed, a delicate hand curled around soft swaddling clothes. A girl, the maester had announced a mere hour ago, when she took her first breaths wailing. Her head of thick silver hair was visible from the cocoon she was wrapped in, the soft little wisps still dampened though the maester had diligently cleaned her of the vernix. The babe slept soundly, her small lips parted and still wet with milk from her first feeding.
“How is the little hatchling?”
Aerion's question pulled you from the peace of your mind, drawing your attention up to your husband. A weary smile pulled at your lips, face still glistening with sweat from the efforts it took to bring new life into the world. “The maester says all is well.”
Aerion only nodded, pleased with your tired reply for now. His brow wrinkled just slightly, and with a touch too tender for a man of such cruel nature, he reached out and touched the newborn's forehead. The babe stirred slightly, a small, humming sound as she shifted in her swaddling clothes and settled again. His forefinger traced her soft hairs, then down the line of her nose. His nose.
“A girl, I hear,” the prince said thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand to admire both mother and child. He had never been a man fond of soft things, but something deep within his chest tightened at the sight of the fragile being in your arms. His expression showed none of his confliction, carefully blank as he tilted his head.
“Does that upset you?” Your voice trembled faintly, eyes searching Aerion's impassive expression. This was different from Maegor's birth. Your husband had taken your firstborn into his arms, declaring him a strong little dragon. Now, there was only silence — thick and dreadfully brittle.
“No.” His reply came low in his throat, a mere mumbled word as though his thoughts were elsewhere. The babe stirred again, her small brow pinching as she blinked her eyes open. Violet irises fluttered up, a silent, innocent gaze meeting his own. Aerion swallowed. “Visenya.”
“What?”
“Her name.”
“Husband, I had hoped we would decide to-”
“Her name is Visenya.”
His tone was firm and unwavering, leaving no room for discussion. Aerion knew his children were strong, fierce dragons just as he was. They deserved names befitting of their lineage and succession. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping along the bone as he met your gaze to await submission. You sighed, but offered a weary nod. Some fights were not worth pursuing, and this was one of them. Visenya was a strong name for a strong girl.
Aerion seemed pleased with your reluctant acceptance, a small smirk tugging at his lips before he forced it away. He looked back down at the small creature in your arms, reaching out to stroke her round cheek. “She has eaten, yes?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, laying further back against the plush pillows that had been stacked behind you, the cushion a well-needed respite from some of the ache in your spine. “I've never met a newborn with such an eagerness to feed. Even her brother was not so hungry when he was born.”
“She already has the greed of a dragon, then,” Aerion said with the faintest curve of his lips. His brief amusement was replaced with a quiet concern when he met your gaze. “You should rest. I know the turmoil of your labors has been taxing. I will see to it that the maester and nursemaids attend to you both. Here, hand her to me.”
With a quiet relief, you handed your husband your new daughter. Visenya stirred lightly, whining at the change of hands, but she settled down in her father's hold. Her small lips parted slightly around noisy breaths, her head cradled reverently in one of Aerion's hands.
It came to pass that Aerion held his greatest treasure in his arms. Not gold. Not a crown. Not a scaled dragon of his own. But her.
He leaned down, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Hello, Visenya.”
Evening had settled over Summerhall, and you had returned to the familiar comfort of your marital chambers from the birthing chambers. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting odd shadows against the walls as the last light of the sun slipped through sheer curtains. It was quiet and warm and serene, and you had once again grown accustomed to the weight of an infant in your arms.
Aerion sat on a velvet-lined settee by the hearth, dressed down to a loose tunic and breeches, a goblet of wine hanging haphazardly from his grip. The arbor gold had scarcely been touched, save for a few idle sips. The prince's attention was aimed towards you as you stood over Visenya's cradle. She was cradled in your arms, her small hands curled around your breast as she nursed eagerly. His gaze couldn't help but follow that loosely-fitted nightgown that slipped from your shoulder, revealing the delicate line of your throat and the curve of your spine as he admired you from behind. The picture before him was one of softness, the warm sunlight painting your figure in an angelic view, your face pulled into a tender look of love as you tended to his daughter.
Aerion exhaled slowly, his chest tightening up once again. He had never been a man prone to tenderness, but the sight of his wife and child did that odd thing it always did. It brought up warmth, like the fire within a dragon's belly.
He set his goblet down with a faint clink, rising to his feet. He approached with slow strides, careful not to disturb the delicate atmosphere that had taken over the chamber. He stopped behind you, peering over your shoulder to watch as Visenya drank hungrily. "Always so demanding, the little hatchling," Aerion murmured, though his eyes never left the baby’s face. He stepped closer, closing the small gap, his presence looming and warm. "She has her father's appetite for what is hers, it seems.”
He reached out, not for his daughter, but to catch a stray curl that had escaped your hairpins, winding the thick strand around his finger. His touch was deliberate, a silent claim. He already envied the ease with which Visenya could command your attention, much like Maegor, yet he found a twisted sort of pride in the way their newborn mirrored his own voracious nature. "Let her have her fill," Aerion commanded softly, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp as he leaned down, his breath ghosting against her ear. He placed a delicate kiss to the shell of it. "And once the little one is sated and dreaming of dragons, perhaps you might find a moment to attend to your husband. He has been quite patient, has he not?”
“Aerion,” you said his name lightly, head tilting just a bit when his lips grazed your ear. “You know we cannot do anything. The maester says it will take my body time to heal after this birth.”
“I am no fool, wife,” he said, the words heavy with a bit of sharpness at the offense he felt. Aerion knew well enough that your body needed rest, and he had not intended to imply otherwise. “Can a man not simply hold what is his? You look beautiful like this, my brave girl. Soft with motherhood, still rounded and mine. Besides, I fear this may be the one night I have until things return to as they were. Tomorrow, Maegor will meet his sibling, and once again, I shan't be able to tear him away from your side. The little wyrm is as clingy as a leech.”
You sighed quietly, a bit of tension leaving your shoulders. It was odd that your husband was not demanding anything more from you, but perhaps that was the reward for all of the hardships it took to bring forth life. A faint smile touched your lips, amused. “Are you asking me to cuddle, Aerion?”
“Cuddle,” he scoffed, repeating the word as though it had personally attacked him. “I am not asking to cuddle, I am asking to hold what is mine.”
Your smile didn't waver, but you knew better than to poke the dragon. “That sounds lovely.”
A faint, hesitant knock on the door broke the gentle moment.
Aerion exhaled lowly, pulling away from you and Visenya with a noise akin to a growl. He reached for the iron-wrought handle on the door. It swung open quietly, his hand firmly gripping the wooden edge. Whatever frustration he had felt now mounted to its peak, glaring at the nursemaid in front of him, and little Maegor holding onto her skirts. “The boy is supposed to be in bed.”
“Y- yes, your grace,” the nursemaid stuttered, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “But the prince insisted that he could not sleep without bidding goodnight to his mother.”
“Our lady needs her rest after childbirth. You know this.”
“Yes, my prince-”
Maegor stepped forward, reached to tug on the loose hem of Aerion's tunic. His lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, his little brows furrowing as he looked up at his father. “Please, papa,” the boy pleaded, tugging on the red silk in his hands. “I want… I want to see mama!”
Aerion let out a heavy exhale, glancing over his shoulder to share a look with you. You relented, nodding. “Fine, then,” he said grumpily, guiding Maegor by the shoulder to enter the room. He didn't spare a glance at the nursemaid before dismissing her with a flippant wave of his hand. “Begone, wench.”
The door closed.
“You must be quiet, sweet Maegor,” you said gently as the boy approached. He appeared hesitant, his features — which were now beginning to look more and more like his father's with each passing day — were pinched with a quiet worry. He toddled across the bedchamber, violet eyes glued to the small form in your arms. “This is Visenya,” you explained, turning to face Maegor when he stopped by your side. “Your baby sister. Once she is done eating, you may hold her if you wish.”
Baby sister.
Those words lingered in the air, light on your breath but heavy as they landed on Maegor's ears. His frown deepened, his small chin quivering and something close to fear struck your heart. Your son looked seconds away from weeping, but startled at the sound of Aerion's voice.
“It seems you are no longer the one vying for your mother's attention. She won't have much time for us any longer.”
That did it. Something shattered on Maegor's small face, tears beginning to roll down his fat cheeks. He let out a small cry; high-pitched and hoarse in his throat before he turned away from you. For once in the two years of his life, he turned to his father for comfort, his arms wrapping around his leg.
“Aerion!” You hissed his name like a scathing scold, jaw trembling from how tightly it was clenched. Aerion had always been a jealous man, even when it came to your own son. He had always been prone to cruelties, but antagonizing Maegor was not something you would let happen while you sat idly by. “How dare you say such horrid things?”
“It's the truth.”
“No, it is not and you know it!”
Aerion pouted at that, one hand sliding down to rest upon Maegor's silver curls.
“Don't pout, it's unbecoming of a prince who calls himself a dragon,” you quipped, before your gaze landed on Maegor. He looked so pitiful, face hidden against Aerion's breeches. Once Visenya had unlatched, which only took a few seconds more, you settled her into her cradle. She didn't whimper or cry, clearly unperturbed by the chaos that had erupted around her. “Maegor.”
The boy didn't respond at first. He merely whined, sniffling against the fabric of the pants he now clung to. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head to meet your gaze. You smiled gently, approaching him. You offered your hand, a bridge between the distance that had suddenly been put between you. Maegor took it, his chubby hand slotting against your own as his tears began to slow. You guided your son to the shared bed in the center of the room, offering your arm to help him climb up onto the mattress.
Aerion watched from a few strides away, gaze darkened as you gently wiped away Maegor's tears with the sleeves of your nightgown. “Do not listen to your father. He says cruel things because they amuse him, not because they are true,” you urged, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You straightened up, one hand settling onto your son's small shoulder before you turned to adress both him and Aerion.
“My love is not a finite thing. It does not have to be split. All three of you are my family now, and I love you more than anything. You both should know that.” It was a statement mainly directed towards your husband, the last words laced with a hint of anger at his childish whims. “I will always have time for you.”
Aerion felt his cheeks flush with something he would not name. Guilt? Embarrassment? He blinked, avoiding your gaze as shame washed over him like a second skin. There were few who could tame the dragon, but your words made him see reason when his jealousy blinded him. He closed the distance between you, hands sliding down to gently cradle your hips as he stood behind you. “I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered so that only you may hear, ashamed that he had to stoop so low to begin with. He had been frustrated with the interruption, anger coiling in his chest when the quiet moment he had shared with you and Visenya had been shattered. But it was not fair to his son, and your words rang true in his mind. His lips found your neck in a slow kiss, a silent apology. “You just brought our daughter into this world. You should be resting, not dealing with my actions.”
Maegor sniffled, his hands reaching for the front of your gown. His little fists clenched around the soft linen. “Mama, I'm sorry, too,” he whined. He had no need to apologize, but he had watched with wide eyes as Aerion had done so first. You only breathed out a sigh, and ran your fingers through his silver.
“Now, Maegor, would you like to meet your sister?”
18+ mdni ♡ A/N: Hey team...no stalker!Valarr tonight cuz i lowkey flopped. will slay again soon but in the meantime have this oldie...Thinking about my loverboy headcanons...CONSIDER: waking up next to Valarr ‘i love ur hands’ Targaryen.
Every day begins the same with Valarr: slowly. He’s an early riser and he doesn’t force you out of sleep but, no matter what’s happening behind your closed eyelids, his softly rustling the covers and low humming is always dreamier.
You like to hold each other in the mornings, arms tangled over waists and nuzzling noses. Aerion makes retching noises when you so much as graze hands in the dining hall; if he could see you now, he’d lose his head.
Your hand settles on Valarr’s cheek “Sleep well, my love?”
“I did.” He emphasises this with a nod, his lips curling upwards as he burrows closer to you. “I dreamt of you.”
“That’s every night this week, Prince Targaryen,” you say, chuckling. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were merely flattering me.”
“Nonsense.”
“Oh?”
He hums in the affirmative, turning to bury his face in your hand. For a long, quiet moment, he simply rests his face there, inhaling deeply. His breath tickles down your wrist and his smile only grows as he begins pressing kisses into your palm. As his lips move, he traces small circles into your skin, rubbing and squeezing at your waist.
“What,” you huff out a fond giggle, “on Earth are you doing?”
Still buried in your skin, his voice comes out muffled. “Kissing you.”
“My hand?”
He gently bites the heel of your palm, then your wrist, then kisses his way back to your thumb. “I love these hands.”
On a roll now, he bites your thumb, immediately licking the spot his teeth just grazed. He licks up the length of your fingers, then peppers your fingertips with more pecks.
“These soft hands.” Another peck. “These gentle hands.”
Valarr’s eyes simmer with longing, fixed on your face while he takes first your middle, then index finger into his mouth. Slowly, he lets you push against his tongue, waiting as his saliva soaks the pads of those fingers. Even slower, and still watching you intently, his lips close around them. A quiet, breathy moan leaves him and as his head bobs listlessly up and down, his eyes flutter shut. His hips roll into the sheets and the moans come with more heat, more conviction.
He periodically pulls away, to go on talking as if he never stopped. “These hands–Mm–that know when to rub the spot on my neck that shuts my brain off. That stop me from thinking myself into despair.”
It takes a few stuttering breaths before you pull yourself out of his mouth and as you do, he whines and pouts.
“I love you.” Taking the hint, he leans in to kiss your lips, pulling his body closer. “I love your hands. I love you.”
Synopsis: After organizing a tea party for his lonely newly wed wife, Cregan must rush to comfort her in the wake of ghost stories gone wrong.
Warnings: pet names (little lady, sweet girl, darling), reader cries, ghost stories (though I hope they’re not truly scary!) awkward convos with newhusband!Cregan, maybe ooc Cregan, fluffy, cheek kissing, cuddling, husband/wife/my lord/my lady used in conversation. no smut, no use of y/n, not proofread.
dividers by @uzmacchiato
The first thing you had noticed about Winterfell was its unique silence. In the Vale, your true home, silence had never truly existed, not like it did in the North. The Eyrie bustled, even the quietest mornings were full of the distant sounds of the waterfalls freely falling in the mountains, the cries of flacons as they soared above pale stone towers, whispers of winds swirling through gardens filled with late summer blooms. Sunlight had always spilled upon polished floors, painting every room with a warm glow. Yet in the North, these simple pleasures were lost to you. Winterfell’s silence breathed, settling into ancient stones with eerie groans. Instead of the whispering winds you were accustomed to, the breeze seemed to screech, alive with some sort of archaic energy. Wolves in the woods howled late into the night, their voices carrying over the great expanse of the keep, rattling you to your core. You wondered if you would ever grow used to the sound.
Standing before your bedchamber window, you wrapped your icy hands around a steaming cup of mulled cider and watched as fat flakes of snow drifted lazily through the gray afternoon. You had lived at Winterfell barely three weeks. Just three weeks, and you had begun to understand why the Northerners measured time by winters. The Great Keep itself was magnificent, older than any keep you had ever seen. Beyond it, the rest of the castle was vast enough to lose oneself in, its winding halls humming with history. Everywhere you looked there were reminders that generations of Starks had walked these halls before you. Sometimes, it only made you feel smaller.
A soft knock sounded at the chamber door, breaking you from your thoughts. “My lady?” One of the maids, her name escaping you, entered carrying thick wool gowns draped carefully across her arms, “I’ve finished your new dresses, my lady.” You smiled politely, ‘thank you.” The girl returned your smile, but nothing more. No idle chatter, no gossip, no questions about your settling in. She set the dresses away and excused herself with a curtsy scarcely a minute later, leaving the room to fall silent once more. Maybe it was a tad overzealous to expect a maid to converse with you, as the new Lady of Winterfell, though the disappointment stung all the same. Sighing, you wandered toward the fire, setting aside the cider. The large hearth was enormous, no doubt large enough to roast several pheasants if one wished it, yet even its generous warmth never seemed to reach every corner of the room. Thick pelts lay across settees and benches, practical rather than decorative. Heavy tapestries depicting direwolves and ancient battles hung where embroidered falcons or flowery landscapes might’ve hung in the chambers of the Eyrie. Everything in Winterfell existed for a purpose. Beauty, if it even existed here, came second. You missed the gardens of your home, the sunlight, even the impossible climb up the towers where the air had been so crisp it almost sparkled. Most of all though, you missed knowing people.
In the Vale, every servant had known you since childhood. Every Lady had watched you grow, every Lord smiled when you had passed by. Here, everyone bowed their heads, ever so respectful as they addressed you, “Lady Stark.” Yet you remained an outsider all the same. The Northerners were not unkind, which almost made it worse. If they had been openly hostile, you could have understood it, but they were courteous, reserved. The ladies smiled when they crossed your path, complimented your embroidery, and inquired whether your new wardrobe was to your liking. Then, inevitably, they would drift back toward one another, laughing over memories that stretched back decades. Childhood winters, harvests, marriages, and babes born, you had no place in these stories.
A log shifting in the hearth diverted your attention as you stared into the fire, the ache behind your ribs easing into something more manageable. Homesickness was unbecoming of a newly wed lady, your mother had told you as much when explaining the alliance between you and Lord Cregan Stark. A wife does her duties without complaint, mother had said. You intended to, you truly did. The heavy wooden door of your chambers opened once more, this time without ceremony. Heavy boots crossed the threshold, scattering specks of snow and dirt onto the stone floor. You turned just in time to see your husband stood framed by the doorframe, broad shoulders stretched beneath a fur cloak. Chilled air followed him inside before you hurried to close the door again. Facing him once again, Lord Cregan Stark looked as if he was made of winter itself. Tall, solid, his dark hair damp where snow had melted into it, chilled cheeks flushed red. He paused upon meeting your eyes with his own gray ones. “Wife,” He said, voice low and roughened by the cold, “you’re awake.” You blinked, awkward still during conversation with him, “I should hope so, my Lord.” A flicker so brief you almost missed it, passed across his face. Amusement. “I only meant you’ve not been out. I thought you to be sleeping still,” he replied. “Oh,” you said, glancing toward the window, “I must’ve lost track of the hour.” Cregan grunted softly in reply, setting aside his gloves. It had taken you several days to realize that your Lord husband possessed an astonishing number of meanings behind these gruff noises. There was agreement, disapproval, indifference, the occasional ones of approval. You had already begun to distinguish the different meanings among them.
Cregan crossed the room towards the fire, holding out his chilled hands toward the warmth. For several moments, neither of you spoke. The marriage had begun much as you had expected, respectful and careful. He had never been cruel, never dismissive. Yet conversation between the pair of you had often felt like crossing a frozen river. Each sentence testing uncertain footing before daring another step. After a length of time, Cregan asked, “did you see? The snow has eased today.” You nodded, arms crossed against your chest, “I noticed.” He spoke again, observing, “you like the view from the window here.” Nodding again, you looked to him in response, “I do.” Another thoughtful grunt left him before silence settled again. You wondered if all Northern marriages were like this, if affection simply grew so slowly one scarecly noticed it, or whether this stiffness would endure forever. You shuddered at the thought. At last, Cregan reached for the iron poker at the side of the hearth and adjusted one of its burning logs. Without looking at you, he said, “the maids tell me you’ve spent most afternoons here.” Heat rose to your face at the observation. Did he disapprove? “I hope that isn’t improper. It’s simply that I finish my duties so early in the morn, I know of little else I may occupy my time with, my Lord,” you answered. “It’s acceptable,” he replied, setting the poker aside. “Though,” he continued, “Winterfell is large.” You smiled faintly, “I have seen.” Cregan turned to you, still bent before the fire, “You should see more of it, wife.” You swallowed, throat thick with worry that you had disappointed him. Men disappointed in their brides ought to be rid of them, your father had told you. Quick to remedy whatever dissatisfied thoughts that may run through his head, you replied, “I intend to, once I know it better.” Standing, Cregan glanced at you once more. Not mocking, merely considering. “You could ask the other ladies to walk with you,” he said. You hesitated, unsure of whether or not to tell him how much of an outsider you truly were. “I could,” you considered, bringing your arms down from your chest to fold your hands in front of you. “Though,” you continued, “I do not want to get in the way of anyone. I have never been fond of feeling like a nuisance.” Cregan spoke suddenly, almost cutting off your sentence, “you would not be a nuisance." He had spoken simply then, as though stating a fact. Matter-of-fact and entirely sincere. Something in your chest loosened, “I will do good to remember that, husband.” He nodded once in reply.
The conversation might have ended there. Instead, after another long pause, Cregan asked, “and the ladies, have they been keeping you company?” You searched for the politest answer, loathe to let him down. “They have all been so perfectly gracious,” came the reply you settled on. It wasn’t untrue, though he studied you for a heartbeat longer than usual. You smiled again, nervous and careful, “really, my Lord, they have.” There was another pause before he inclined his head, apparently satisfied. “Well then. I’ve some matters to attend to before supper,” he stated, “Of course,” you had replied. He collected his gloves once more, crossing the room, before stopping in the doorway. “Shall there be anything you desire, wife,” he said, back still turned to you, “tell me.” Then he was gone.
The chamber seemed to quake in the wake of his absence. You stared after the closed door for several moments before returning in front of the hearth. Unbeknownst to you, before the evening was over, Cregan would seek out half a dozen noblewomen throughout Winterfell with a request. “My lady wife has had little company,” he had said, “see to it that’s she’s welcomed.” Certain that the matter was now settled, he would think no more of it. You would, entirely unaware of his quiet interference, go to tea the following afternoon believing you had finally been invited into the company of the castle’s ladies of your own accord.
At first, the tea before supper had been wonderful. The ladies entertained you with talks of embroidery, flowers that grew through snow, and other such things. Lady Umber had even delighted you with a quick instruction on how to preserve herbs in the harsh winter. As you had slowly begun to relax into the conversation, Lady Manderly spoke up, “speaking of winter…” Another Lady’s voice rose to answer her, “Lady Stark, have you heard of the woman who walks beyond the Wolfswood?” The mood shifted then, something darker settling amongst the table. One by one, the women begin to trade stories, stories of things that chilled you to the bone. You are unsure if they meant to terrify you, or if they were simply entertaining themselves.
With nervous giggles and hushed voices they tell you of the witch beyond the woods, the Moss Mother they call her. “Her dwelling stands atop twisted tree roots, and runs like a horse!” One of the younger women had said, spinning a tale of a haggish woman who stole hunters and wandering maidens alike. “Oh but the Moss Mother is far less fearsome than the White Widow!” Lady Manderly replied. “They say she lost her husband to a brutal winter, and now she appears among blizzards to exact her revenge. If you follow her ghostly call out into the snow, well…you’re found frozen when the storm clears, heart torn from your chest by a great claw,” she said, voice deepened. You bring your handkerchief up to your mouth in shock, sickened bile threatening to spill over in the face of such gruesome details. Before you could collect yourself, another Lady spoke up, “Such poppycock! We all know the Hidden Walker is the most menacing. A creature that remains hidden behind the trees, never seen directly. Whenever you turn, my Lady, it's behind another trunk! All of us here know, it follows lonely travelers for miles. Though, once you hear its breathing over your shoulder, you never turn back.” Your heartbeat quickened, daring to break through the bodice of your dress. As you attempt to find a steady breath, the stories only drew on. “Truly you must know that the Hidden Walker is just another name for what roams beyond the Wall. You know, my grandsire encountered it years before the tale was told,” Lady Umber said. At this, the ladies fell silent, even the women whose giggles had, just a moment before, filled the chamber. You noticed immediately, left to wonder if all the tales had been true. The younger lady from before spoke after a moment, “we exaggerate, Lady Stark…mostly.” She had tried to ease the worry etched on your face, she had failed. “Don’t fret, my Lady, it’s just- well, it's best not to walk the grounds at night,” she added. Your stomach dropped, throat tightening. Every creak of old stone suddenly deafens you, the whine of old stone mingling with the calls of the creatures beyond the walls. Wind whistles, and branches scrape the windows. You panic, trying to remain calm, but faltering. “I must excuse myself, Ladies. Suppertime draws nearer and Lord Stark will want me to freshen up,” you squeak, rushing to stand and scurry out the door in a flurry of skirts and furs. “Was the poor dear crying? I do believe we terrified her with our old wive’s tales” Lady Manderly inquired. “Lady Stark is from the Vale, after all.” Lady Umber replied.
Supper time had come and gone, with no sight of you. You had not turned up in Cregan’s solar, nor accompanied him on his evening walk, as was customary. Odd, he had thought, though maybe you were worn from your evening of socializing. After a few more circles walked around the Godswood, Cregan decided to return to your shared chambers. He smiled to himself as he recalled how the ladies doted after their time with you over supper. Lady Umber had even told him of how radiant your smile had been. It had been worth arranging in secret, he thought. The North could be an isolating place, Cregan knew that all too well. It must’ve been especially lonely for a lady such as yourself, born under gentler skies. He knew how you missed the familiarity of the Vale, even if you never complained. So where had you gone? As he walked down the hall, he caught one of your maids, who, after being questioned, told him that you’d retired early after your time with the other ladies. Frowning, Cregan made his way to your shared quarters. Pushing open the door, he noted the room was dim, lit only by the fire and a handful of scattered candles. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn over the window, and at first glance it seemed as if you had abandoned the room entirely. Then he heard it, a sniffle, then another. With knitted brows, he called out into the room, “wife?” He was met with silence, then the unmistakable sound of someone trying to suppress another sob. His heart lurched as he slammed the door and crossed the room in three quick strides. Upon reaching the bed, he noted a small, shivering form encased in a mountain of furs and blankets. “Wife?” The trembling froze as he lifted back the edge of one of the pelts. Two enormous, watery eyes stared back at him. Your cheeks were stained with tears, hair hopelessly tangled, lower lip wobbling so pitifully that Cregan swore his heart ceased to lurch and instead shattered. You looked utterly miserable.
“Gods,” he whispered, moving to sit beside you, “what has happened?” You only made another tiny broken sound before burying your face back into your mattress. “Were you harmed? Insulted? Are you unwell?” He asked, voice wrought with concern. You shook your head vigorously, refusing to answer. “Then please, tell me, what is the matter?” He asked. Silence stretched through the room as he waited for your reply. Eventually, with a quivering tone you answered, “you will think me foolish, my Lord.” Cregan did not know how, but his shattered heart seemed to only break further. “Never foolish, never. Tell me, girl,” he whispered, gray, helpless eyes boring into your own. You slowly emerged from your cloth sanctuary, until your eyes and nose peaked over the furs. “The ladies, they…told stories,” you replied gravely. He only blinked, “stories?” You nodded dismally, “terrible stories. Of things that wander beyond the walls. Ghosts who freeze and tear out hearts in blizzards, witches who snatch up maidens, and Hidden Walkers who follow in the woods! And-and Lady Umber said it all to be true!” Your words rushed out in one breath, hiccuping, you continued, “they even told me not to wander after the sun goes down!” By the end of your explanation, you were practically wailing. Cregan stared down at you for a heartbeat before he realized. They terrified you, a sweet girl from the East who knew nothing of monsters or gremlins. A lonely girl who had only wanted to befriend others and instead found herself horrified by Northern superstition. If Cregan’s heart was somehow still beating within his chest, surely it had been crushed away now. He settled himself among the various pillows stuffed against the headboard, stretching out over the comforter. “Come, sweet girl, come here,” he whispered, careful of his volume. Slowly, you moved up the large bed, setting yourself next to him. He turned to look at you, still so pouty, and slid his hands under your arms. Tugging, he settled you and your tangle of blankets and furs into the cradle of his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
The sudden contact was shocking at first, but the safety of Cregan’s arms around your fluttering form was a welcome protection. He let you adjust quietly before he spoke once more, “those tales, we tell them to the children. No wandering in the woods, staying indoors during storms, avoid travel through strange wilderness. They are a way of warning, but I am sorry they frightened you, wife. Truly, I am.” You sniffled, hiding your face further into his neck. His scent was that of pine, cider, and something undoubtedly warm. “Tis I that should be sorry then, husband. I was spooked by children’s stories,” you whispered, breath tickling his skin. Just then, a log shifted in the hearth, sounding off with a loud CRACK. You yelped, pulling a fur over your head and grasping Cregan’s tunic with such fury he was sure your knuckles paled. He began to chuckle, before he felt the hot, wet slide of your tears down his neck. “Oh my little lady,” he croaked, patting the expanse of your lower back, “I’m here.” With much of his willpower and strength, Cregan looked down at your face hidden by the reddish brown pelt covering you. A careful thumb came up, smudging a salty tear into your cheek. “Please don’t cry, it is alright. I am here,” He said, a faint smile stretching his lips. “I am sorry. I am being silly. Rattled by silly prattle and noises in the night,” you whispered. You were melting into him now, and he couldn’t help but adore you for it. Only three weeks ago, you’d arrived in Winterfell as his bride. Dutiful, quiet, painfully homesick. You’d barely known each other then, but now Cregan realized he’d do whatever it took to protect you, comfort you even. He reached out once more, slowly enough that you could retreat if you wanted to. Instead, you leaned in, allowing him to wipe away another tear before he gently kissed your cheek. A tingling heat broke out over your face as he kissed the spot again and again, feather light. “You are not silly, they are convincing stories,” he said against your cheek, a large hand still cradling your head. “Stay with me?” You asked, the question so quiet he almost missed it. Cregan’s expression softened, “Of course. I am here to ward off those ghouls,” he jested. You giggled at his poking of fun, relaxing little by little until you were draped across him. After a long silence, he spoke again. “It is I truly who should be sorry. I arranged the tea so that you may make friends amongst the other women. I had not intended for them to get carried away. I am sorry to see you this way, I had hoped it would ease you, but it did not,” He admitted. You only nuzzled into his hold. “I liked the company, and I am most appreciative of your careful planning. Though, I could’ve done without the witches and phantoms,” you giggled. “Yes,” he agreed, “no more sorcery and ghosts for you, darling wife.” You smiled brightly and giggled again, the sound filling the bedchamber far better than the shrieks of goblins ever could. Outside the winter winds howled against weathered stone, but inside beneath thick blankets and in the warmth of Cregan’s arms, you decided that perhaps the North was beginning to feel a little less lonely. And if you had insisted on sleeping with every candle lit that night, Cregan would never complain.
You’re Viserys and Aemma’s daughter, no description of reader though. Daeron is our adopted son!! Just little family moments
“Not it.” You mumble snuggling further into your pillow when you hear your daughter cry. Her refusing to settle for the nursemaids so you and Gwayne are alway on baby duty. You two not having slept properly in moons, Gwayne just whining in response.
“I’m coming, wait a second.” He tells your daughter sleepily stumbling out of bed. Rosalind having been going through sleep regression and acting like she did when just born and suffering from colic. “Can you go back to sleep, my little princess?”
“Why won’t she let us sleep?” Your half brother Daeron grumbles making you and Gwayne jump, not knowing the boy was in your chambers let alone sleeping on your sofa.
“How long have you been here?” Gwayne asks his favourite nephew, you two have practically raised the boy for the past few years. You having married Gwayne when Daeron was being given as a ward. Your stepmother and his father wanting to tie you to the hightowers. You and Gwayne eventually falling in love over the time of your marriage, Daeron being your first child in all but blood.
“A few hours, I had a nightmare.” He admits knowing you’ll worry given Helaena’s dreams.
“What type?” You ask quickly sitting up to look at him, wanting to check he’s ok.
“It wasn’t a dragon dream.” He reassures, getting off the sofa and joining you in bed, wanting a cuddle. Knowing his dream won’t come true but still wanting comfort.
“Good.” You say kissing the top of his ginger head, knowing your boy is a cuddle fiend like his uncle.
“Do you want to be the best uncle in the world?” Gwayne asks the boy deciding to try his luck as Rosalind if finally sleeping again. Knowing she’ll only sleep on someone’s arms.
“No.” Daeron say snugging into you on Gwayne’s side of the bed, knowing what his uncle wants. “Night uncle Gwayne.”
-
“They’re like cats.” Gwayne muses as you’re all sat in the gardens having a picnic while the dragons play. Stormfrye mothering Tessarion and Shrykos, teaching the young dragons how to hunt/play.
“What?” You ask looking at your husband in confusion, Daeron to occupied playing with a giggle Rosalind. The girl having just learnt how to walk.
“Dragons, they’re like overgrown cats.” He clarifies, never expecting to have 3 almost 4 dragon in his life/family. Your hand resting on your small bump, watching Shrykos pounce Tessarion.
“I suppose you’re right.”
-
“Do we have to?” Daeron asks having just read the letter his mother has sent asking him to go back to kingslanding for a visit. You and Gwayne beginning invited along as Rhaenyra and daemon were also going to be there, it being the kings nameday. “Can’t we just say home?”
“It’s father’s nameday we need to go.” You say fixing Lillian’s toy bunny, Rosalind having accidentally ripped the arm off while playing with her dragon.
“It was his nameday last year and we didn’t go.” Daeron counters, not even knowing his father, Gwayne being his true father. Just as you are his mother.
“That’s because it wasn’t a big one.” You say raising an eyebrow at the boy, knowing he was just trying his luck.
“This is so unfair.” He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. Wanting to say home with his sisters.
“Life’s unfair sweetheart.”
-
“Right, it’s bedtime.” Gwayne says the night before you have to leave to go back to the red keep. The girls sleeping after you read them their favorite story. Daeron half asleep on his cuddle chair, it being big enough for two.
“Can you carry me?” The boy asks not wanting to walk and missing when Gwayne would carry him to bed most nights when he was little.
“Daeron you’re 10.” Gwayne say with a smile happy to carry the boy.
“And?” He asks in response smiling when Gwayne lets out a dramatic sigh before picking the boy up. “Thank you.”
-
“You must be proud.” A old woman says to you, you all having stoped at a tavern on the way to your father’s nameday celebration. “Your son is a darling young boy, he’s so polite and very good with his sisters.”
“Oh, thank you.” You say not bothering to correct her, Daeron is your son. You raised him, you were the one who would read him to sleep every night.
“He looks just like his father as well.” She says with a laugh seeing Gwayne playing tag with the children in the gardens. Gwayne spinning Rosalind around making her giggle Daeron doing the same to Lillian.
the godswood smelled like scorched stone, even fortnights after the masons completed it. you enjoyed it that way. it meant heartfyre was here recently, and that the cold, grey castle had flames running through it once more.
cregan stood a respectful distance away, his arms crossed, watching as you directed the hunters to place hunks of elk onto the platform. heartfyre waited til the men were at a reasonable length away before you said, “kisās.” eat.
she flamed the corpse before snapping her jaws shut, smoke curling from her nostrils in fulfillment. “ao games jorrālagon, eh, prumiaperzys?” you like that don't you, heartfyre? you murmured, more to her than your lord husband. you ran your hand along the ridge of her scaled leg once she had swallowed. heatfyre made a clicking noise of approval, just like caraxes, a sound that vibrated through the ground beneath your boots.
“what was that?” cregan asked, now stepping closer, now that she was a little less hungry. “high valyrian,” you said, as if cregan didn’t know. “i asked if she was eating well.” you smiled, signalling the hunters to bring another hunk of meat up. “i speak to her more than i intend to. old habit,” you sighed. “father always said dragons remember the tongue far more than anything otherwise.”
cregan was silent for a moment, watching you stroke the beast. “say something else.”
you chuckled, considering your husband’s request. “why?”
“because i am a northerner who only understands the common tongue,” he admitted. true, but painfully so. “and it is still the finest sound i have heard since i came home from the wall.”
heat arose in your cheeks that had no concern from the dragonfire. “sopagon." laughable.
“northmen do not jest of such,” he said with ease. “we speak the truth. it gets colder here, men learn not to make waste of their words.”
you let a laugh out, and heartfyre huffed out smoke in response, as if she found cregan amusing as well. you switched back to the common tongue, only to say, “careful, lord stark. keep speaking like that, and i shall teach you a phrase or two on my own.”
“i would enjoy that,"he genuinely replied. with cregan, you could always tell. he always had full intent with his words.
you pat heartfyre before getting up, skipping over to your lord husband to kiss him.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
the fire in your chambers had settled to ash now, and you were still in your furs, loathing to give the final remnants of the evening’s warmth for bed. cregan sat across from you, sharpening a smaller blade that needed no more shine. it was usually a sign he wanted to speak to you about something.
“a rider came through wintertown this morrow,” he stated. called you ‘the dragon of the north’ before he even asked to see me. did not name you a princess. not lady stark, even.”
“i noticed.” you swirled your wine in your hand. “strange is it not? in the keep, i was just princess. alike of baela and rhaena. titles were handed to us on silver platters.”
“not much difference here,” cregan noted. you nodded, eyeing the crimson liquid in your glass. “i beg to differ. here, i am the dragon of the north. lady of winterfell. shewolf, when the elder men in the hall have had their sins wasted away in ale, and believe i lost my hearing.”
“does it trouble you?” cregan asked. you knew he would halt any words of disgrace that came your way, but it never disturbed you truly.
“no,” you replied without thinking a second time. “in truth, i believe it is fitting, as strange as it sounds. the titles i was born with mean nothing to me, for i did nothing to earn them. but this,” you gestured vaguely, at the castle, him, the embroidered direwolf on the quilt, “this is a name for what became of me. the north gave it to me.”
cregan set the blade down gently. “shewolf,” he repeated, saying it to hear what it sounds like from him and not a member of the commonfolk. “suits you better than princess.”
you scoffed, “let us not get further than we anticipated, lord husband.”
he laughed, crossing the room to settle beside you. “princess is still yours, do not worry, my love.” you let yourself lean into him, furs and all. “besides,” he whispered before kissing your lips, “heartfyre takes dragon of the north.”
you rolled your eyes in jest before launching a pillow at him, which he let hit his chest. outside, far and fair, a dragon’s click answered as if she knew her ears were burning.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
a letter arrived whilst you were sitting with your ladies in waiting in the solar, needlework and embroidery forgotten in favor of gossip, as it usually was during midday. a gold yellow seal coated the front, bees raised in the wax. you broke the seal and scanned the parchment before letting out an exasperated groan. the sound was so undignified that three separate ladies looked up in alarm, or more so, fright.
you could have assumed someone passed, or maybe a relative insistent om visiting the north. “what is it?” one asked.
“lord beesbury,” you lamented, “is to be wed. once more.”
the solar erupted in laughter and gasps. you counted on your nimble fingers as the women supplied the tally. his first wife died of a fever, the second of childbed, the third, who caused a scandal in the reach because she ran off to braavos with a lover, the fourth, who “expired”, as one of the elders put it. and now, a fifth, a maiden younger than his daughter.
you laughed til your ribs were aching, and still were hours later, curled up against cregan's side in the dark of your bed chambers.
“you smile at nothing,” cregan observed with a smirk.
you smiled harder now, completely forgetting to tell your husband the humorous information. “lord beesbury is getting wed. fifth wife.”
cregan huffed, half a laugh of disbelief and jest. “the man must be having the constitution of an elk.”
“or the lack of one,” you chortled. “four wives, cregan! i could wager half the court believes he is the old gods and new cursed him, or he is hunting them for sport.”
“which do you believe?”
i believe,” you started, turning over to prop yourself on your elbow, “that he simply cannot bear to have an empty bed for longer than a fortnight. he is too noble to find a lady of the night. few men cannot stand an empty hall.”
“few men,” cregan parroted, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of silver hair behind your ear. “know a good thing when they have had it, and go searching for it again the moment it is lost.”
you smiled, “my, who would have thought the warden of the north had such a way with words?”
“let me tell you more then,” he said shamelessly before flipping on top of you, holding back a giggle.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
the shout of your boys carried across the training hard, punctuations left by the clacking of wooden swords, as well as your husband’s patient corrections. your son, rickon, overcommitted on every swing, the stark stubbornness shining through. rodryck was more silent in his fights, more analytical of his older brother’s mistakes before he made his own.
“rickon, elbow in,” cregan warned, stepping in to adjust the young boy’s grip. “not chopping wood, aye?”
you sat a little further across the yard with the girls, a bow in your own hands that was being used more for decor than weaponry. saera was the one drawing now, a small doll face stitched together with concentration as she lined up a shot at the targets. raeya was tapping her boot against the ground, impatiently waiting for her turn.
“like this,” you softly instructed, adjusting saera’s positioning just as cregan did with rodryck previously, just a few dashes away. “steady. release when you are ready, not when you think you are ready, rakaris.” little love.
the arrow loosened and landed wide, but closer than her previous attempt. saera beamed as if she had just won a tourney.
“better!” you approved, and looked up to find cregan watching both of you, rather than the boys, for a moment. something soft appeared on his face before he caught himself, face pink, before turning back to correct rickon’s stance.
raeya groaned, patience running thin, but this time about something else. “when may we go to king’s landing?” she tugged at your sleeve, restless as ever. “you said we would meet uncle aegon's children.”
“not for some time, my little wolf,” you hoped, testing the bow’s string idly. “not while i am carrying your little brother or sister.” your hand briefly drifted to the curve beneath your furs.
“how do you know it isn't another sister?” saera demanded, standing on raeya’s behalf.
“i do not,” you admitted, a smile breaking through. “however, your father has convinced himself so.”
across the yard, without looking up from correcting your son’s footwork, cregan called back, “i am always correct.”
“insufferable, is he not?” you sighed solemnly, earning a giggle from both of them. in the distance, you saw cregan’s mouth twitch with the smile he was having a difficult time hiding.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
“i did it last time!” rickon insisted, already halfway up the steps of the platform, that you could put a halt to his actions.
“you did not! you did it the time before that, it was my turn last time–” rodryck was scrambling after him, naive to all, a chunk of meat clutched in his small fist as if it were a trophy he denied relinquishing.
the boys were always so excited to feed heartfyre, but their mischievous behavior made you wary of such sometimes.
“both of you, off the steps,” cregan announced, in the tone he used when it was truly time to parent. a tone the boys learned to argue with. they halted, but continued to glare at each other with venom only siblings a year apart could follow through with.
“she has no intention of eating either of you,” you said, amused, crouching down to your children’s height. “though she may not eat out of the hand that is distraught with fear. the beasts of valyria know fear, and apparently, temper.”
your small word of advice got the boys to still, thankfully. heartfyre watched the entire exchange with calm, but considering eyes. a snort blew through her, just waiting to get her snack.
“rodryck can go first,” rickon murmured. generosity is never scarce in the north, and it never feels as such when your dragon hatchlings chatted. “since he’s smaller and probably needs to practice more.” ah, there it was.
“i do not need practice,” rodryck spat, but he took the opening anyway and marched up with the chunk of meat like a pouch of rubies. he presented it to heartfyre, who took it with surprising delicacy and gentleness. rodryck turned back to you with a grin so wide it nearly cracked his face.
“your turn,” you told rickon. he puffed his chest and made his way up the steps in his tiny boots. cregan watched the interaction with his arms crossed and the same soft, unguarded look he had on only with the four (almost five) of you.”they shall fight about this until they are grown. or maybe until they both get their own dragons”
“good,” you said, eyes closed, leaning against a tree. “that means they shall still speak to one another.”
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
your first feast in wintefell was ghastly, especially since it was a celebration of the betrothal of two great houses. you were so nervous that you had barely eaten. the duck on your plate was untouched, and the fruits still assembled as they were before. every northern lord in the hall had looked at you the same way, with a polite, distant, awaiting look. most likely waiting to see if you had the blood of the dragon, or were just a pretty alliance for the warden.
if your family had taught you anything, it was to be prepared to win. never to lose.
“lord cerwyn,” you started, when the stern, greying man presented himself to you. “iron and ice, is that correct? i confess i find it strange for a house far from either to have words of such.” you smiled, easily and warmly. “though i suppose after enough harsh winters, the two start to feel related.”
cerwyn blinked, startled that a southern princess had bothered learning anything, especially a northern house. he accepted the jest, however. “aye. that they do, my lady.”
you had complimented lord manderly’s wine that somehow made its way to your feast. the hall began to shift, whispers and looks, yet not unkind. by the time you had greeted all the northern lords, the house words of all were familiar as fire and blood. scepticism thinned into respect and loyalty.
cregan found you near the end of the evening, cheeks flushed from wine and your efforts that were unexpected. “you memorized every house’s name in the north.”
“i memorized every house coming to our wedding feast,” you corrected. “a dragon only has so much patience.”
“they did not expect as much,” cregan noted, bringing an arm to your waist.
“nay,” you agreed. you watched lord mormot laugh at something across the dining hall, who looked you up and down before sparking a conversation with you. “i don’t believe they expected me to try at all. most seem to forget i come from a line of conquerors.”
cregan took your hand, prideful and poised, before he looked at your eyes. “the north remembers those who try.”
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
the solar in the red keep was warm with the sun of the morrow, and you sat with saera and raeya. the girls were settled in front of you, the scent of their hair hinting at scents of lavender and lemon. your old nurse hummed a valyrian hymn under her breath as she worked.
“tighter than that, please,” you directed her, watching her fingers make way through raeya’s silver hair, with a streak of brown. “she will tug it loose by supper if otherwise.” you took over her sister’s plait yourself, fingers feeling along the hair to find the pattern. you took the three strands, crossing them back over themselves into the tight, elegant braid every targaryen woman had styled before you. styles meant to survive thrashing winds and dragonback.
“why do we wear them as such?” saera pondered, wincing for a moment as you tugged against her tender scalp.
“because your ancestors flew on dragons across the narrow sea in them. their locks would have been ruined by loose hair the moment they gained height,” you explained. “every braid in this style is old enough to have crossed an ocean, ñuha dona rūs. my sweet baby. your aunt rhaenyra wears them. your grandfather does too, when he still bothered.”
“cousin aegon never braids his!” raeya unhelpfully pointed out.
you scoffed and dryly said, “cousin aegon does away with many matters incorrectly.”
by the time you and the nurse had finished, both girls had proper valyrian crowns woven into their hair, so silver, yet a small streak of brown that dawned on it made it ten times more beautiful. it nearly vanished into itself, the plaiting that took years of practice and patience to get right.
you held up a looking glass to show the prideful crowns, the two turning their heads to see the patterns.
“now we look like real princesses!” saera declared. “you were always real princesses,” you reminded her, smoothing a loose wave. “now you are valyrian ones.”
outside, king’s landing was abrupt with its usual noise, contrasting with your home of winterfell, but for a morrow with your daughters’ hair betwixt your digits and old hymns in your ear, it felt like home.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
lord wull was drunk, and three cups past the point of such, and had cornered you by the table with the confidence of a lord who had never been denied of anything.
“a maiden like you,” he slurred, the smell of wine apparent on him. “wasted up here in the cold. dragonstone, or even king’s landing, should have pulled you for a keepsake. or even better, somewhere a lord could appreciate you properly.”
“i am no maiden, my lord,” you mumbled quietly, because your four brats were enough explanation. “and i am well appreciated,” you explained, stepping back into the wall. “by my husband.”
“husbands get tasked,” he cooed, a hand approaching your waist. “come now, just a dance–”
“as my lady wife stated, she is well appreciated, i assure you.” cregan’s voice cut through the noise, making lord wull’s wandering hands falter. cregan did not raise his tone, simply because he did not need to. the lord of winterfell was rarely required to, and everyone in the hall knew it. he stepped between the two of you, and wull carried on with haste, deciding you were too much work for a man so slothful.
“my lord stark,” wull began, sobering up fast, “i meant no harm–”
“make way back to your chair, lord wull,” cregan ordered. no threat in his tone at all, yet the lesser lord fled.
cregan turned to you once wull left, a hand light against the small of your back. he checked over you without making it clear to the public, but ensured you were safe anyway. “are you well?”
“very much so,” you laughed, tension releasing from your bones. “i could have handled him myself, you are aware, yes?”
“indeed, i am,” cregan admitted, not a tinge of remorse or sorrow in him. “i enjoyed denying him, however.”
“jealous wolf.”
“only when warranted.” your lord husband pressed a brief kiss to your temple, unbothered by the eyes of the hall. “come. dance with me instead. properly.”
you pretended to hesitate the request before you smiled and took his hand, glancing in lord wull’s direction with small satisfaction.
𖤝˚｡ 𓃦 ˚☽˚｡⋆
short hcs ♡
𖤝 awaiting the lengthy time was worth the expression on your children’s faces. four dragon eggs, warmed in a chest, were sent to winterfell. you showed them the small, iridescent eggs, watching their eyes gleam. you told them you had to wait and keep them warm at all times, not letting the harsh chills of the north stunt them for even a moment.
𖤝 after many failed, solo lessons of teaching your children high valyrian, you asked cregan to search for anyone in winterfell or wintertown to assist them. you tried with all your might, but they just did not want to hear it. rickon would purposefully mispronounce things, rodryck was busy scribbling wolves into the parchment, saera was refusing to read any book, and raeya was sound asleep. the instructor cregan found was as old as vhagar, but her methods were ten times better than yours. safe to say, they were all wide awake, had books free of wolves, and better than aegon at the end of their first lesson.
𖤝 cregan would commission the seamstresses' new fur every season. he could tell when you wanted a new one, because you would either throw it off the bed in your sleep, or refuse to sleep with a fur whatsoever. when raeya was a babe, it was hare fur, when you were sic,k it was bear, when it was whatever winterfell considered spring, it was fox. he always knew.
𖤝 you and your lord husband, who were the most proud couple in the north, and maybe even westeros. you felt shame and guilt for your family, as they had to marry within and not choose lovers whom they resonated wifh. you told cregan tales of saddened cousins and aunts who had little to no choices in their partnership, making them bitter and aged like a rotten wine. he would thank you and always make you aware of the fact that you were his first and only choice to wed. a dragon and a wolf. an uncommon pair, but one that would last for eternity.
𖤝 cregan, who would comb your hair as you sat at your vanity, admiring the silver-strung locks. he would carefully pull the wooden comb through and watch as it fell through the bars. cregan would kiss the crown of your head, thinking of your children as well. “i am in disbelief that not a single one of them is entirely doused in brown hair.” you nodded in agreement, “as am i. guess i’m the chosen one.” he let you have that.
♡
a/n: i loved writing this lol we r all happy targs in another lifetime!
𖤓 summary: in the shadow of the red keep, a daughter of oldtown plays a treatcherous game of masked loyalty. her razor-sharp wit finds its equal in prince valarr targaryen — the golden heir carrying the suffocating weight of a fractured realm. but when the armor of political hostility melts into raw, forbidden passion, the cold reality of the crown demands its bitterest price. a breathless dance of minds and bodies destined to burn out before the dawn, leaving only the devastating cost of duty.
𖤓 pairing: valarr targaryen x hightower!fem reader
𖤓 contents/tags: soft smut, enemies to lovers dynamics, political hostility, verbal sparring (they looove teasing each other), heavy angst, hostage situation undertones, post blackfyre rebellion, pre akotsk era, canon divergence (especially for the characters' age, they're like in their early 20s), pregnancy implied, infidelity i guess — let me know if i missed something
𖤓 word count: 4.5k+
other works
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The Red Keep did not openly punish House Hightower for its calculations during the late rebellion; it simply invited Oldtown to dance. To the rest of King's Landing, your presence at court was a mark of royal favor, a generous invitation from King Daeron for a daughter of the Reach to brighten the capital. In reality, you were a living pledge of good faith. When Daemon Blackfyre had raised his banners, your family had chosen the safety of their ancient walls, keeping one foot in each camp until the blood dried on the Redgrass Field. Now, you were the beautiful price of that discretion, tasked with smiling at feasts to prove your family's devotion to the Crown.
And Prince Valarr Targaryen seemed to make it his personal duty to ensure you performed your part flawlessly.
The Young Prince carried the heavy gravity of his father, Baelor Breakspear, along with the unmistakable, quiet pride of his heritage. He lacked the traditional, ghost-pale hair of the dragonlords; his haie was rich, dark brown, broken only by a single, striking streak of Targaryen silver at his temple. But it was his eyes that drew the gaze of the court — one a deep, grounding brown, the other a sharp, electric Valyrian violet. He was not a cruel man — the realm knew him as a chivalrous, educated knight — but he was sharply perceptive, and he knew exactly why you were in King's Landing.
"You look remarkably regal today, Lady Hightower", Valarr said, stepping onto the sunlit terrace where you stood looking out over the Blackwater Bay. He wore a doublet of dark velvet, the red dragon of his house stitched neatly over his heart. He didn't approach with the cold arrogance of a captor, but with a slight, amused twitch at the corner of his lips. "One might almost think you own the battlements".
You turned slowly, offering him a perfectly executed, smooth curtsy that lacked even a shred of genuine submission. "The battlements belong to the King, Your Grace. I am merely admiring the view. It is much wider than the one from my chambers".
Valarr leaned his forearms against the stone balustrade, looking out at the bay, thour his mismatched eyes remained fixed on your profile. "A subtle complaint, my Lady? I assure you, my grandfather's court is entirely open to you. Provided, of course, your walks don't lead you too close to the harbor where the ships from Tyrosh dock".
A small, genuine smile touched your lips at the sharpness of his wit. He was testing you, as he always did, referencing the exiled Blackfyre loyalists across the Narrow Sea. "The sea air in King's Landing is entirely too foul for my taste, my Prince. I prefer the fresh breeze of Oldtown. But I appreciate your concern for my health".
"Oh, it is not just your health I am concerned with", Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a lower, more conversational register as he turned his head to face you. The teasing tone in his voice was undeniable, a quiet challenge that had nothing to do with hatred and everything to do with a mutual, dangerous fascination. "My father tells me your house has recently requested a reduction in the Oldtown port tariffs. He asked for my counsel on the matter".
You tilted your head, your eyes locking onto his mismatched ones. "And what did the wise Young Prince advise?".
"I told him that House Hightower is exceptionally prudent", Valarr replied, his lips curving into a soft, ironic smile. "So prudent, in fact, that they might choose to pay the full tariff just to prove how much they love contributing to the royal treasury".
"You are devastatingly generous with my family's gold, Your Grace", you breathed, stepping just an inch closer, your tone a mix of mockery and sharp amusement.
"Only because I know how much you enjoy a challenge, my Lady", he whispered back, his gaze softening with a warmth that completely bypassed his royal duty.
For months, this was your rythm. He did not abuse his power; instead, he used it to draw you out, to force you to match his wit and his intellect. It was a heavy, angsty game of political cat-and-mouse, but beneath the political distrust, a strange, breathless understanding had formed between you. You were both prisoners of your names, playing a part for the realm, and finding the only moments of truth in the sharp, teasing words you traded in the shadows.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a sensory assault of roast meats, heavy spiced wine, and the suffocating warmth of hundreds of bodies packed beneath the high raftered ceiling. King Daeron's court was celebrating the nameday of one of the royal cousins, and the wine flowed with a frantic generosity, as if the realm were collectively trying to drown the lingering memories of the Blackfyre banners.
You sat at the lower end of the high table, dressed in the softest green silk, the bodice embroidered with the silver beacon of your house. It was a calculated choice of attire.
"You are not drinking your wine, my Lady", a quiet, resonant voice noted from behind your shoulder.
You turned your head slightly to find Valarr standing there. He had discarded his formal state velvet for a more tailored, dark charcoal tunic, the three-headed dragon embroidered in subtle, black silk thread over his chest. He looked every bit the chivalrous prince, his posture relaxed, but his mismatched eyes were bright with that familiar, mocking intelligence.
"I prefer to keep my wits about me in King's Landing, my Prince", you replied, your voice a smooth murmur beneath the roat of the feast. "A single cup of your Dornish red might lead me to say something entirely too honest".
Valarr smiled, a genuine, low chuckle that didn't reach the rest of the table. He offered his hand with a flawless, courtly bow. "Then come dance with me. Honesty is far less dangerous when it is whispered to the rhythm of a flut".
The court watched in hushed interest as the Young Prince led the daughter of Oldtown to the center of the hall. The dance was a slow, traditional courtly measure, requiring partners to step close, retreat, and loop around one another without breaking eye contact.
"My father spent the morning discussig the Reach", Valarr murmured as the music brought him close enough for his breath to touch your cheek. His hand on your waist was light, perfectly respectful, yet the heat of it burned through your silk gown. "He thinks your family's sudden enthusiasm for the Crown's grain stores is a sign of true devotion".
"And what does the son think?", you teased, your eyes locking onto his electric violet one, a playful tilt to your lips.
"The son thinks your family is exceptionally clever", Valarr whispered back, his mismatched eyes softening as he spun you gently. "You give us just enough smiles to keep us from looking too closely at your ledgers. It is a marvelous performance. You almost have me fooled".
"Almost?", you stepped closer as the music slowed, your shoulder brushing his chest. "I shall have to try harder then, my Prince. I would hate to disappoint my most attentive audience".
"Oh, you don't disappoint me", he said, his voice suddenly losing its light, teasing edge, dropping into a deeper, more restricted register that made your breath hitch. His hand tightened just a fraction against your waist, pulling you an inch closer than court etiquette strictly allowed. "You frustrate me entirely, but you never disappoint".
The sudden shift from political sparring to raw, unfiltered intimacy hung heavy in the air between you. The angst of your position — the fact that you were a living token of political submission, and he was the prince who could never truly trust your blood — pressed into the space between your chests. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and steady, matching the frantic rhythm of your own pulse.
"You shouldn't say such thing to me, my Prince", you breathed, the playful mask slipping for a fleeting second, revealing the genuine, frightening ache growing in your core. "The court is watching".
"Let them watch", Valarr murmured, his mismatched eyes sweeping over your face with a fierce, quiet intensity that shattered the last of his princely detachment. "They see a Targaryen and an Hightower keeping the peace. They have no idea how difficult you make it".
When the music finally ended, he kissed the back of your hand with a lingering, warm pressure that felt far more like a promise than a formal goodbye. You retreated to your seat with flushing cheeks and a terrifying realization: the verbal armor you had both used to protect yourselves was beginning to melt under the heat of a fire neither of you could control.
The suffocating warmth of the Great Hall did not reach the private solar of the library tower. Here, surrounded by the smell of ancient parchment, dried ink, and cold stone, the world felt distant. You had slipped away from the feast before the final toasts, unable to bear the weight of the court's eyes or the lingering heat of Valarr's hand on your waist.
But you had not been quick enough.
The heavy oak door creaked shut, and the latch clicked into place with a quiet, definitive sound. You turned, your heart instantly leaping into your throat. Valarr stood against the door, his chest heaving slightly as if he had climbed the winding steps in a frantic rush. The charcoal tunic was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled.
"You left without saying goodnight, my Lady", he said, his voice low, raspy with a mix of fatigue and a quiet, building intensity. "My father was quite disappointed. And so was I".
"I thought the Young Prince had performed enough duties for one evening", you replied, your voice trembling slightly despite your besy efforts to maintain your usual aristocratic cool. You backed away until the edge of a heavy oak table pressed against your thighs. "You shouldn't be here, my Prince. If anyone saw you—".
"No one saw me", he interrupted smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you. His mismatched eyes were wide and dark in the dim candlelight of the solar — the brown eye soft with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, the violet one burning with that familiar, electric hunger. "And for once, I do not care about the court. I am tired of dancing around you, of pretending that your every glance doesn't throw my entire mind into chaos".
"You are teasing me again", you whispered, your fingers gripping the edge of the table behind you as he closed the remaining distance, his body casting a long, commanding shadow over yours. "Is this another lesson in loyalty?".
"Does this feel like politics to you?", Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a breathless whisper as he stopped right in front of you.
He didn't grab you roughly; instead, his large, calloused hand rose slowly, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently bryshing against your cheek. His skin was incredibly hot against yours. His thumb traced the soft line of your jaw, tilting your head up to force you to meet his gaze.
"You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met", he breathed, his eyes dropping to your lips. "You look at me as if I am nothing but a target for your wit".
"And you look at me as if I am a riddle you cannot solve", you challenged softly, your breath hitching as his thumb pressed lightly against your bottom lip.
"I don't want to solve you", Valarr growled quietly, the last of his princely restraint finally snapping. "I want to keep you".
Before you could offer another retort, his mouth closed over yours. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a courtly lover; it was a deep, viscerally intense collision of two forces that had spent months building an unbearable tension. Valarr tasted of spiced wine and dark, untamed fire. His mouth was demanding but not cruel, parting your lips with an urgent, breathless necessity that made a soft, involuntary gasp escape your throat.
Your hands, which had spent the evening folded neatly in your lap, flew to his chest, gripping the dark fabric of his tunic before sliding up to wind tightly into his hair, your fingers tangling near the silver streak at his temple. You pulled him closer, matching his desperation with your own, the fear of your political reality completely melting away beneath the heat of his skin.
Valarr let out a low, guttural groan against your lips, his hands moving to your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he lifted you effortlessly onto the heavy oak table. The green silk of your gown bunched around your thighs, the cool wood of the table a sharp contrast to the overwhelming warmth of his body as he pressed himself between your knees.
"Valarr", you breathed his name into the dark space between his mouth and your neck as his lips tracked a burning path down your jawline. His teeth nipped lightly at the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a violent jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core.
His movements became a quiet, intense negotiation of silk and skin. With steady, reverent hands, he unlaced the back of your gown, the fabric slipping down to exposed the pale curve of your shoulders to the pale moonlight filtering through the high window. He stopped for a brief moment, his mismatched eyes sweeping over you with a fierce, quiet awe that felt far more intimate than any touch.
When his bare chest pressed flat against yours, the heat was suffocating, a magnificent sort of torture that made your head fall back against his shoulder. His hands traced the line of your spine, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips, anchoring you to him as he began to move.
The rhythm was slow, deliberate, and entirely free of the polished decorum of the court. It was a heavy, frictioned heat that built with every ragged intake of breath, every quiet sigh you muffled against his neck. You arched into him, your nails digging into the smooth, scarred muscles of his shoulders, tracing the shap of the dragon lord who had completely abandoned his crown for the sake of your touch. The angst that had defined your relationship — the knowledge that you were from opposing sides of a bleeding realm — only fueled the fire, turning the intimacy into a desperate, vital confession that neither of you could put into words.
The world narrowed to the scent of ink, sweat, and silk, to the frantic cadence of his hearbeat against your ribs. The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a golden thread pulling you toward a precipice until your breath caught completely. You shuddered against him, a silent, gasping wave of release rippling through your body. Hearing your broken cry, Valarr let out a ragged, unprincely sound of his own, his body tensing completely as he buried his face in your hair, holding you so tightly against his chest it felt as though he were trying to bind your very souls together before the dawn could rip you apart.
The light that broke through the high windows of the library tower was a cold, pale grey, smelling of the early morning mist that rolled off the Blackwater. It illuminated the reality of the room with a geometric, unyielding precision. The ancient tomes remained silent on their shelves; the oak table was just wood; and the green silk gown pooled on the floor belonged to a daughter of Oldtown who knew, better than anyone, that the dawn always demanded payment for the secrets of the night.
Valarr was already dressed, standing near the narrow window with his back to you. The silver streak at his temple looked stark, almost sharp against the dim morning light. He was fastening the cuffs of his dark tunic, his movements stiff, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of the frantic warmth that had guided his hands hours before. The prince had returned, and with him, the crushing weight of a fractured realm.
"The ravens from Tyrosh arrived before the first watch", Valarr said, his voice flat, though there was a slight, telltale strain in his throat. He did not turn to face you. "The council has been in session since the hour of the nightingale. My father has just pressed the royal seal to the parchment".
You sat up slowly, pulling the silk of your gown over your shoulder. For all your months of practice, your fingers fumbled slightly with the laces — a tiny, traitorous tremor that made your chest ache. A sudden, sharp image of an unknown Essosi lady standing beside him under a wedding canopy flashed through your mind, and a bitter, toxic wave of jealousy reared its head, tasting like ash.
"Then the Archon accepted the terms", you said, forcing your voice into its familiar, smooth cadence, though your eyes remained fixed on the stone floor. "How comforting. I was terribly worried the Crown wouldn't find anyone willing to tolerate the family temper".
Valarr finally turned his head, his mismatched eyes locking into yours. The violet eyes was hooded, but his brown one held a profound, raw sorrow that shattered his princely detachment. He took a step toward you, his hand half-raising as if he wanted nothing more than to kneel beside you and undo the day. "An alliance of blood to secure the Narrow Sea against the Blackfyre pretenders. I am to wed Lady Kiera of Tyrosh. The Hand makes the announcement at noon".
You stood up, quickly wrapping your dark cloak around your shoulders like armor, desperate to hide the bruises and the wildness of the night. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tilting your chin up to offer him a sharp, quick-witted smile. "A Tyroshi bride. How exotic, Your Grace. I hear they dye their hair in spectacular shades across the sea. It will certainly make the royal court look less...tedious. You might even find it an improvement".
You expected him to counter with his usual sharp wit, to keep playing the game. But Valarr didn't smile.
Instead, he closed the distance between you, his boots making no sound against the rushes until he was standing close enough for you to feel his heat. He didn't touch you, but his mismatched eyes searched your face with a terrifying, agonizing intensity. He looked at the tightness of your jaw, the faint flush on your neck, and the slight shimmer of unshed tears you were fighting so fiercely to suppress.
After months of studying your every shift, your every mark, Valarr didn't see the clever lady of Oldtown anymore. He read the truth written directly into your eyes: the grief of letting him go, and the quiet, raging jealousy of the woman who was about to watch him belong to the realm.
"Don't", Valarr whispered, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of royal authority. His mismatched eyes were bright with a deep, aching regret. "Do not hid behind your words today. Not after last night. You think I want this? You think I want to look at anyone else?".
The quick-witted armor you had worn so proudly completely dissolved. Your breath hitched, and for a single, fleeting second, the raw pain of your political reality hung naked between you. You loved the fire, but it was going to burn someone else.
"It doesn't matter what we want, Valarr", you breathed, your voice losing its sharpness, turning soft and terribly vulnerable in the grey light. You took a half-step back, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself, but your eyes remained locked on his. The jealousy, the grief, and the sudden, terrifying realization of your shared helplessness finally bled through your defenses.
Valarr took a ragged breath, stepping closer, his hand hovering near your cheek but never making contact. The sheer sorrow in his mismatched eyes was heavy, suffocating. "I am a Prince of the Blood. I am in line to the throne". He spoke the titles not with pride, but as if they were iron chains wrapping around his throat. "And I am not free to choose".
"And I am an Hightower", you whispered back, the words breaking on your lips. "My family sent me here to buy back their favor with my presence. My hand belongs to whatever alliance my father needs next. Neither of us had ever been free, Valarr".
"Last night we were", he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate register. His mismatched eyes burned with a sudden, hopeless passion as he looked at you, a raw hunger that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the man he was forbidden to be. "Last night, there was no throne. There was no duty. There was only us".
"And today the sun is up", you replied, a single, hot tear finally slipping down your cheek, cutting through the perfect mask you had worn for months. You stepped back, out of his reach, though every fiber of your being screamed to close the distance. "Go and marry you Tyroshi lady, Valarr. Be the prince the realm need you to be".
Valarr's jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to pull you back into his arms. The silence between you was thick with everything you were forced to sacrifice upon the altar of duty.
"Farewell, my Lady", he whispered, the finality of the word heavy and bitter in the quiet room.
You looked at him one last time, letting your eyes linger on the silver streak at his temple, before lowering your gace with a heartbreak that felt as ancient as the stones beneath your feet.
"May the gods bless you, my Prince", you breathed.
You turned and walked down the long, empty corridor into the morning light, leaving the Young Prince alone in the quiet of the tower, both of you broken by the very Crown you were born to serve.
Epilogue
The grand maester’s voice had barely faded from the Great Hall when the first ravens were sent. Beneath the heavy stone arches of the Red Keep, Prince Valarr sat alone in his chambers, the formal celebratory toasts still bitter on his tongue. He dismissed his guards, locked the heavy oak door, and dipped his quill into the ink by the fading light of a single candle.
To the Lady of Hightower,
The Grand Maester read the announcement before the Iron Throne this morning, and the lords of the court offered their hollow congratulations for the birth of your daughter. I smiled, I nodded, I drank to your House—and inside, I felt the phantom weight of a ghost. I write this now in the dead of night, in a room that feels far too large and far too cold, where no Kingsguard or councillor can see the ink bleed on the parchment. They expect me to be the Prince of Dragonstone, the dutiful heir who wedded for the realm, but my mind is a traitor. It drags me back to that small room in the grey light of the dawn, to the warmth of your skin and the bitter truth of our farewell. I am surrounded by the heavy stones of the Red Keep, yet I am entirely hollow. I love you still. I miss you in every breath, in every silence, in every law I am forced to uphold. May the Seven guard your little girl, though I envy the life she will lead, growing up beneath the shadow of the beacon that keeps you from me.
Yours,
Valarr
Weeks passed before the reply returned, carried not by a royal courier, but hidden deep within the mundane trade ledgers of the Citadel. In the quiet sanctum of her solar in Oldtown, you had waited until your lord husband was asleep to press your signet ring into the soft wax, your hands trembling in the dark.
To the Prince of Dragonstone,
Your letter arrived hidden beneath the ledger of the Citadel grain reports, and I read it until the paper grew soft under my fingertips. Do not speak of that grey dawn as a curse, Valarr; it is the only sanctuary I have left when the world grows too loud. I wear my green velvet, I sit at my lord's side, and I play the perfect lady of Oldtown with a grace that would make my father proud. Yet, it is all a mummer’s farce. My heart did not stay here. It remained with the dragon, left behind in the ashes of the night we shared. I love you, and the longing does not fade; it merely learns to hide in the quiet hours before the castle wakes. You speak of my daughter, and my soul aches to hear it from your lips. I only pray to the Mother that one day, the Gods will be kind enough to bless you, too, with another child.
The final sentence of your message left a cold, sharp ache in Valarr's chest. Caged in his royal duties, the word haunted his thoughts for three days and three nights, until the ambiguity became a torment he could no longer endure. Strangling his own caution, he penned a rushed, demanding note.
Your response burns through me, but it leaves a question I cannot silence. You pray the Gods bless me with "another" child. My wife shows no signs of carrying an heir, and my bed is as cold as the Wall. I have no children to speak of. Why do you use that word? What is the meaning of your prayer? Speak plainly, I beg of you, for the doubt is tearing me apart.
The final reply did not come in a formal letter, but on a jagged strip of vellum, sealed with no crest, only a smear of plain wax. It was delivered directly to Valarr's hand by a silent, hooded rider who vanished into the King's Landing docks before the sun rose.
The archives of Oldtown hold many secrets, but some truths are too dangerous for ink and ravens. If you truly wish to understand the word I chose, my Prince, then leave your crown behind. Come to the High Tower. Come alone, by the light of the thief's moon.
The journey south had been a blur of midnight roads and strained horses. Valarr had ridden hard, cloaked in rough-spun wool, his Valyrian features buried deep beneath a heavy hood. To the realm, the Prince of Dragonstone was resting in his chambers; to the dark roads of the Reach, he was just another lonely traveler.
When he finally breached the private, lower gardens of the High Tower, the sheer scale of the citadel loomed above him like a giant of pale stone, its beacon cutting a green swathe through the starry sky. The air here was heavy with the scent of salt from the Whispering Sound and the sweet, suffocating perfume of night-blooming jasmine. Every shadow seemed to stretch and whisper. Valarr’s hand rested white-knuckled on the pommel of his sword, his heart hammering a fierce, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
A rustle of silk broke the silence.
You stepped out from the archway of a weeping willow, looking like a spirit of the woods in a gown of deepest forest green. In your arms, nestled closely against your chest, you carried a bundle wrapped in thick, white wool.
Valarr took a step forward, his hood falling back just enough to catch the faint starlight on his high cheekbones. His voice was a raw, trembling whisper. "I am here. No ravens, no riddles. Tell me".
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with tears that reflected the green glow of the tower above. You didn't speak a word. Instead, you stepped closed, until the warmth of your body reached him through the chill night air. With trembling fingers, you gently folded back the edge of the wool blanket.
The thief's moon broke through the clouds, casting a pure, silvery light directly upon the infant's face.
Valarr froze. The breath died in his throat, and the world seemed to stop spinning.
The child was not a babe of Hightower stock, but she was not a traditional dragon either. She was his perfect, impossible mirror. Beneath the moonlight, Valarr stared at a head of soft brown hair, broken by distinct, striking streaks of pure white that glowed like fresh winter snow. As if sensing the sudden stillness, the little girl stirred, her eyelids fluttering open for a brief, fleeting second.
Valarr felt his heart shatter and mend all at once. Looking back up at him were his own mismatched eyes: one a deep, warm brown, and the other, a haunting, unmistakable Valyrian violet.
A dragon born in the heart of the beacon, carrying his exact bloodline written on her face.
"My husband believes she was born too early", you whispered, your voice cracking as you pressed a soft kiss to the baby's forehead. "The maesters called her survival a miracle, a blessing from the Mother. But she is no miracle, Valarr. She is the night we stole from the dawn. She is ours".
A tear slipped down Valarr's cheek, hot and unbidden. He reached out with a hand that shook violently, his thumb brushing the soft brown and white hair on the baby's head. The crushing weight of the Iron Throne, the politics, the arranged marriage, the duty that had broken them — it all evaporated, replaced by a sharp, beautiful agony.
"My lord husband has named her Jocelyn", you continued, your gaze locking onto his with a fierce, defiant pride. "A proper name for a lady of the Reach. But she does not belong to the Reach, Valarr. She deserves a name that carries the blood of Old Valyria, like her father".
"Daenys", Valarr breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer. "Like The Dreamer, the one who saved us from the Doom of Valyria".
"Daenys", you agreed, smiling through your tears.
Valarr leaned down, his lips brushing the baby's warm cheek. He did not promise her kingdoms, nor did he speak of crowns or glory. He only gave her the one truth he could offer: that no matter what lie the world forced her to live, she belonged to the blood of the dragon.
He closed his eyes, whispering into the quiet dark in the low, ancient tongue of his ancestors: "Bona jēdo Jocelyn iksā, mēri ñan Daenys iksā. Ao ñuha zaldrīzes iksā, sēte". (To the world you are Jocelyn, but to me you are Daenys. You are my dragon, always).
He wrapped his arms around you both, pulling mother and child into a tight, desperate embrace hidden in the green shadows. You were divided by laws, by oceans, and by kingdoms — but you were bound forever now, by blood and silver, under the watchful eye of the High Tower.
