Warning!! Modern AU. Relationships with questionable ethics / Grey relationships / Friends with benefits, Alcoholism / Mentions of alcoholism, Mental health issues (character anxiety, depression), Family conflicts / Toxic parents, Emotional dependence, Social inequality / Class prejudices, Headcanons / Non-canonical tattoos and piercings, Obscene language, Sexual scenes/mentions, Psychological pressure/Gaslighting from relatives, Drug references (false accusations), Drama/Angst, hurt/comfort. English is not my native language. There may be errors in the text.
Morden AU!
Daeron Targaryen X fem!Reader
He's the eldest son of Prince Maekar, always drunk, always rumpled, and a long-time disappointment to his father. She's a girl with a tongue piercing, dyed hair, and a reputation as a "who-knows-what," someone any self-respecting mother would keep at arm's length from her son.
Their relationship isn't even a relationship; it's more like friends with benefits, drinking buddies, and label-free lovers. He disappears for weeks, comes back, falls to his knees, buries his nose in her stomach, and whines like a abandoned puppy. And she forgives him. Because, damn it, he's the only one who sees her as a human being, not just a "drug-addicted freaks."
The Prologue.
Chapter 1. (Coming soon)
English is not my native language. I might have misinterpreted a word somehow. I would be grateful. If you point out my mistake, if there is one.
If you're interested, you can check in the comments when I finish the prologue and I'll keep writing. So that I can tag you.
He's the eldest son of Prince Maekar, always drunk, always rumpled, and a long-time disappointment to his father. She's a girl with a tongue piercing, dyed hair, and a reputation as a "who-knows-what," someone any self-respecting mother would keep at arm's length from her son.
Their relationship isn't even a relationship; it's more like friends with benefits, drinking buddies, and label-free lovers. He disappears for weeks, comes back, falls to his knees, buries his nose in her stomach, and whines like a abandoned puppy. And she forgives him. Because, damn it, he's the only one who sees her as a human being, not just a "drug-addicted freaks."
Warning!! Modern AU. Relationships with questionable ethics / Grey relationships / Friends with benefits, Alcoholism / Mentions of alcoholism, Mental health issues (character anxiety, depression), Family conflicts / Toxic parents, Emotional dependence, Social inequality / Class prejudices, Headcanons / Non-canonical tattoos and piercings, Obscene language, Sexual scenes/mentions, Psychological pressure/Gaslighting from relatives, Drug references (false accusations), Drama/Angst, hurt/comfort. English is not my native language. There may be errors in the text.
Masterlist . The prologue. (You are here).
The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the campus of the University of Baelor the Blessed in those particular gold-pink tones that hurt your eyes but were so loved by the freshmen in the art department. You were sitting on an old, peeling bench, in that very spot where you and Daeron had once spent an entire night until dawn trying to figure out what the artist who painted the fresco in Valyria had really meant by depicting a three-headed dragon with one head bitten off. Daeron had been rambling some drunken nonsense about politics and incest back then, and you had laughed and fed him chips to make him shut up. Now, those memories just made something clench unpleasantly inside you.
The bench was old, its paint flaking off to reveal grey, rotting wood. You'd been sitting on it for so long that you were starting to distinguish faces in the stream of students heading to class. At first, you just glanced over them; then you started noticing details: whose sneakers were dirty, who hadn't washed off yesterday's mascara, who'd been wearing the same hoodie for the second week. Your thoughts flowed slowly, like molasses, and kept circling back to the same point—to him.
The conversation on your phone hung there like dead weight. Your last message, sent three days ago, was dreadfully banal:
"Where are you?"
"Just write that you're alive."
"Daeron, for fuck's sake, this isn't funny anymore."
"Ok. I get it. But you could have just said something."
That last message was sent three weeks ago. Silence. Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days without a single "hi," without a drunk call at three in the morning with declarations of love he'd pretend not to remember in the morning, without his lanky, perpetually stooped figure in the doorway of your cheap apartment.
At first, you didn't panic. Daeron Targaryen was, essentially, the embodiment of instability. He could disappear for a couple of days, only to show up on your doorstep with such a pitiful look, with such huge violet eyes full of remorse, that it made your insides turn to mush. He'd fall to his knees right on the dirty doormat in the hallway, wrap his arms around your waist, and bury his nose in your stomach, starting to mumble something unintelligible, like a big, guilty, but sincerely loving dog. He'd crumple your t-shirt with the print of some obscure punk band, inhale the scent of your cheap hair dye (the same one Kira had once done for both of you in a fit of drunken impulse) and whimper. And then he'd just fall asleep, sprawled out on your sagging couch, and you'd look at his pale face, at his ash-blonde, perpetually tangled "sandy" hair, so unlike the silver of his relatives, and it was hard to stay angry. How can you be angry at a stray kitten that came to you for warmth?
You smirked at your own thoughts. It was foolish to hope. The first week you were still angry, inventing furious speeches you'd give him when he showed up. The second week you took your anger out on the pillow (the one he always slept on), imagining you were strangling him. By the third week, you'd started blankly staring at the ceiling at night, replaying all his stupid habits in your head: how he'd bury his nose in your neck, searching for that nearly invisible tattoo; how his baggy pants would constantly snag on everything; how he'd gnaw on the edge of his sweater when deep in thought; and how he'd bite his nails to the quick when he was really anxious.
Memory obligingly supplied a picture: his tangled gold-sandy hair on your pillow, his sharp shoulder blades under an old, faded t-shirt, and his jackets thrown somewhere, always ending up wrinkled. And that expression on his face when he looked at you—a mix of puppyish devotion and some ancient, world-weary exhaustion. He never talked about his family. Just fragmented phrases: "Father made another scene," "Aerion is an absolute monster, and he used to be such a good kid…," "Egg… he's the only one I…" You didn't push. You had skeletons in your own closet, or rather, in your rental kitchen, where there were never enough dishes and the sink leaked. You were the perfect couple: two people who don't ask unnecessary questions because they're afraid of the answers.
At first, you really didn't sweat it. Yeah, Daeron, yeah, Targaryen, yeah, the local prince du jour, heir to this or that—to you, he was just Daeron, Dae, the weird guy from the art history department who smelled of cheap wine and wore old-fashioned but expensive jackets that were always wrinkled. He'd disappeared before. Gone into a binge, into the astral plane, into himself—call it what you will. After a week at most, he'd show up: standing on the threshold of your rundown one-bedroom rental on the edge of town with sad puppy-dog eyes and, without a word, fall to his knees, bury his nose in your stomach, and start whimpering.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm an idiot, I know, I just…" he'd mumble into the fabric of your t-shirt while you rolled your eyes at the ceiling, which still bore the stain from the upstairs neighbors' flooding.
He'd kiss your stomach, wrap his arms around you as if you were the only anchor in his storm-tossed life, and you'd end up on your cheap, sagging couch. He'd fall asleep on your chest half an hour after crumpling all your clothes with his long fingers, and you'd look at his tangled brown hair, at his unhealthy sallow skin (he was still quite attractive), and think, "Well, how can you stay mad at him?" and you'd forgive him everything.
By the fourth week of his silence, acceptance set in. A dull, viscous apathy. Had you broken up? Were you even together in the first place? This question, which you'd both so masterfully avoided, now hung in the air with the same mocking grey checkmark as your messages.
Though, honestly, "relationship" was too strong a word for what was between you.
Boyfriend and girlfriend? Well, formally, yes. You went to the movies, he dragged you to those outrageously expensive restaurants downtown, the menu prices made your eye twitch, and he'd just wave it off: "Don't look, it's just paper." You got drunk together so hard that in the morning it felt like you'd vomited up not just your stomachs but part of your souls (though for the last six months, both you and he had cut back on alcohol drastically, though Daeron still slipped up, for which he often apologized). Friends with benefits? Too petty. Drinking buddies? Warmer. But it was something more than just "hook up and leave." It's just that both of you, like two idiots, never actually said it out loud. It just kind of… happened.
Freshman year (three years ago, by the way), in a class on Ancient Valyrian History, you sat next to him simply because it was the only free seat. And you sat there for almost the whole semester. He was silent, you were silent. You thought: well, the guy's a bit off, weird hair, eyes actually violet like contact lenses, and he reeks of wine. But I've had experience with a junkie neighbor whose apartment smelled so bad, so the choice was clear—you could put up with it.
Then, at the beginning of the second semester, he suddenly started talking. And it turned out that beneath the mask of a melancholic, perpetually tipsy prince was someone incredibly interesting to talk to. He'd read tons of books, watched strange arthouse films, and could talk for hours about why modern architecture lacked soul. One thing led to another, a couple of shared nights in the library before exams, and then you were at some student party. A couple of pints of beer, his hand on your knee under the table, and—bam. He was no longer in his bed, but in yours.
And it was… normal. Natural. You didn't even discuss what it meant. It just became "us." He gave you a ring on your unofficial anniversary (not an engagement ring, thank gods, just a beautiful, antique one, he said) that made your eyes pop. You stammered that you couldn't accept it, that it was too expensive, and he just smiled his sad smile, kissed your cheek, and put on some stupid rom-com on Netflix, pulling you onto his chest.
"The main thing is that you're here," he'd mumble into the top of your head.
And then there was that "last" date. Two months ago. An ordinary evening: you had a glass of wine at a bar in his neighborhood (he lived in a nice area but never invited you over, and you never pushed, it didn't really matter), then went back to your place. You conjured up some mac and cheese in the kitchen, he sat on the windowsill and smoked out the vent, talking about how his younger brother Aerion pissed him off, how he craved attention and would do anything for it, and about his delusions of grandeur… And then you both fell asleep.
In the morning, you woke up because the sun was in your eyes. His side of the bed was empty and cold. You just snorted into the pillow: "Well, idiot." He often left early, would kiss your forehead and vanish until evening, but he always texted. First, "made it home," then "how are you?", then some random crap. But then—silence. A day, two days, a week. A month. Two months. And nothing.
"Y/n! And why are you sitting here looking so gloomy, huh?"
Rohanne Webber's voice crashed into your thoughts like a bucket of ice water. You startled and looked up. Rohanne, as always, was impeccable. Red hair, bright green eyes, perfect skin, perfect makeup, beautiful, with a deliberately careless hairstyle, the smile of a hungry fox who definitely knows what's for dinner tonight, and that dinner is you and your secrets. She plopped down next to you, and her perfume—pungent, with notes of wood and some eastern spices—momentarily overpowered the smell of the university bus's exhaust fumes. She put her hand on the back of the bench, practically looming over you, and grinned that particular smile that genuinely made guys prematurely ejaculate and made girls want to roll their eyes.
"It's all good, Rohanne, just… nothing really. Just tired." You sighed heavily and put your phone in your bag. You looked at Rohanne. Her grin widened. Her eyes, however, narrowed, scanning you from head to toe. She didn't believe a single word. Rohanne Webber was a nosy one, and lying to her was just a waste of time.
Rohanne Webber was pretty bitchy, but very loyal. The daughter of some very important lord from the Reach (she always waved off details, saying, "It's boring there, just fields and relatives").
"Nothing?" Rohanne theatrically placed a hand over her heart, feigning shock. "My dear, I've known you since freshman year. You get tired when you hole up in the library until closing time to churn out another brilliant piece of writing on art history. Right now, you look like you want to chew up your own phone and wash it down with your tears. Spill. Is it about your pale, perpetually sour prince charming?"
The funny nickname Rohanne had stuck on Daeron after that party where he, drunk on cheap beer, tried to recite a (Even before the conquest of Aegon the Conqueror) Valyrian poem while standing on a coffee table, then collapsed into your arms, muttering something about "dreams with dragons." She didn't know half of it. Didn't know how his hands trembled when he held your waist. Didn't know how defenceless his usually melancholic face became when he fell asleep on your chest. Didn't know he called you the only real thing in his "goddamn farce of a life."
But Rohanne still didn't like Daeron, no matter how much you defended him to her. I mean, maybe she accepted him as a person, but as your "boyfriend"? Never. She considered him a wimp, a mama's boy who only knew how to drink cheap plonk and feel sorry for himself. You never argued with her because deep down, you understood there was a grain of truth in it.
"He's gone," you exhaled, giving in. Saying it out loud made you realize how pathetic it sounded. "Not just not answering, Rohanne. It's been two months. The last time we saw each other… well, you know. He stayed over at my place, and by morning, he'd vanished."
Rohanne whistled softly, but her playful expression shifted into something more serious, almost concerned. She took her hand off the back of the bench and turned fully towards you.
"Oh," was all Rohanne said, and her grin finally gave way to something more meaningful, resembling sympathy. "The scruffy kitten crawled under the porch again? Listen, hon, I've told you a hundred times—get involved with a Targaryen, and you're asking for trouble. That family, you know yourself, a few cards short of a deck. Especially this branch. Fossoway told me about it once. And you know Raymun is the chief hater of the whole Targ clan, even Crown Prince Baelor and his perfect son end up in his angry tirades."
The info about the Targaryen family wasn't exactly new to you. You'd seen Aerion yourself a couple of times when he was in town. Skinny, arrogant, with eyes such a deep lilac they looked fake, and manners that made you want to shower. Aemon was just… around, he hadn't really been in King's Landing much since he studied in Oldtown and didn't come home, but recently he'd returned and started some internship or something. There was also Aegon, aka Egg (you never really understood where that nickname came from), but Daeron was sometimes proud of him. And there were two younger sisters who went to a girls' school, as you recalled. Daeron's father, Maekar, was some important person, but you didn't really care. There were as many influential people as there were grains of sand in Dorne.
"But two months? And you've been silent? Listen, I always said that princeling bastard wasn't good enough for you, but to just up and vanish? That's low, even for him. I thought you guys were all lovey-dovey, he got you those kosher earrings or that ring for your anniversary, I don't remember which, but I remember looking it up once and it cost almost half the Iron Throne's debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos." Rohanne shrugged as she spoke; she was always very blunt.
"It was a ring, not earrings, and anyway…" you corrected automatically. "They're vintage pendants from the time of Aegon the Unworthy, they're priceless…"
You trailed off, realizing how stupid that sounded. You paused, then, gathering yourself, exhaled: "And what does it matter anyway! The point is, I don't even know if I have the right to go running around looking for him. We're not… Well, you know. We… We never talked about it. About us." You shrugged, feeling incredibly foolish. "It just was what it was. And now it's not. His phone's dead. He hasn't been at uni since the semester started, I checked with the dean's office. They said he took a leave of absence. I texted his friends, those… well, the ones he sometimes hung out with at the Lannister bar. They said they don't know either."
"Maybe he fucked off to Lys?" Rohanne suggested without much conviction. "I hear the Targs like to go there when things get hairy at home."
"Maybe," you shrugged again.
You didn't know what to think. Various scenarios ran through your head: from stupid (he decided to break up with you and just ghosted, didn't have the guts to say it) to downright shitty (got drunk, fell somewhere, and hit his head). These thoughts just made you feel even more miserable. As if that were possible.
"You called him? Maybe Kira knows? You two talk, not super close, but still, she's part of the family and all that," Rohanne whistled, leaning back on the bench.
"Nothing. Just rings. And Kira doesn't know. Either she knows and isn't saying, I don't know."
"Oh, gods, you intellectuals always overcomplicate everything. Listen here." Rohanne turned her whole body towards you, her playful tone shifting to something surprisingly serious. "He gives you family heirlooms that his family probably dragged all the way from Valyria? He watches stupid rom-coms with you and lets you cuddle him like a teddy bear? He, Daeron fucking Targaryen, Maekar's eldest son, a proper high-born brat, hangs out in your dump, drinks your instant coffee, and doesn't have a meltdown over it? What the hell kind of labels do you need? He needs you. And the fact that he's missing—it's not because he forgot about you. It's because they're having some kind of Targaryen games over there at Summerhall again."
Rohanne snorted and continued: "It could be anything from a stupid drunken brawl to a secret council deciding who gets the king's chair. They've got that… what's his name… Baelor seems to be the main heir to everything now? After his dad, Daeron the Second? Anyway, it's a mess."
"Baelor Targaryen, Breakspear," you corrected automatically, recalling lectures. "Yes, he's Daeron the Second's eldest son. He's supposed to be the next King of Westeros. And Daeron is the first son of the fourth son. He's a nobody by their standards. A drunk and a worthless heir."
"Exactly," Rohanne snapped her fingers. "So when a 'nobody' like that disappears, nobody panics. But you do panic. And you have the right to, by the way. Even if you guys aren't 'official,' two months of silence after he was on his knees, crying, begging forgiveness for a week of silence—that's too much. Either he's in a coma, or he's in such deep trouble he genuinely can't even scribble a message. Or he's just an asshole."
"He's not an asshole," you exhaled, but your voice lacked conviction.
"Alright, let's not guess," Rohanne waved her hand. "Want to go to the Black Lily? Grab some tequila, you can forget about that goat for at least one evening."
"Can't," you shook your head. "I have a shift tonight. Still have to finish my term paper."
"Work, paper, study," Rohanne mimicked, but there was no malice in her voice. "Do you ever actually relax? You're like a driven horse. And all for what? So this… son of Prince Maekar, ugh," she spat on the asphalt, which looked provocative and vulgar, but suited her. "He won't even appreciate it. They're all the same in their 'Summerhall' and other mansions, only think about themselves."
"He's not like that," you said quietly, trying again to defend Daeron, running your finger over the faint white tattoo on your neck, the one you'd gotten at 16, somehow, stupidly, I still haven't fixed this tattoo, even though it's already pretty faded and blurred. The spot he loved to kiss in the heat of passion, making you forget everything in the world.
Rohanne caught your gesture and snorted.
"Sure, sure," Rohanne winked and abruptly changed the subject, jabbing a finger at your neck. "Oh, that neck tattoo is still visible. A little piece peeks out. Cute. Speaking of marks of ownership, how's that matching star on your hips? Itching? They say if a matching tattoo itches, your other half is thinking of you."
You instinctively touched your neck, where a small black piece of a diamond-shaped design —another one of your little secrets. When Daeron first saw it, he just traced the outline with his finger and said it was his favorite spot. And then, in a fit of drunken tenderness, he suggested getting matching tattoos. Not names, not dates, just stars. On your hands, on your wrists—tiny, barely noticeable. And another one on your hips—bigger ones that, if you lay together in the spoon position, merged into one large star. It was his proposal. The strangest and most touching thing he'd ever done. Back then, you thought it was crazy. You got it done. And never regretted it. But now, the thought made your insides go cold.
"Nope, not itching," you answered, taking your hand away from your neck. "Probably forgot all about it."
"Or just busy," Rohanne slapped her palms on her knees and stood up abruptly, brushing off her perfect jeans. "Alright, enough moping. Come with me, just for a bit, have some juice, relax a little, then go to your night shift at the flower shop. I feel like if you stay here, you'll just fall apart even more… I'm meeting Raymun and his friends at a bar tonight. Kind of an informal hangout. There'll be some guys from the 'noble' families, including that… well, the one from your department, always with a book, wears glasses? Aemon? Yeah, Daeron's brother, the one who wants to be a maester. Super boring, but useful. Maybe he knows something about his relatives. Come on. You'll unwind, and maybe you'll find something out. Otherwise, you'll just sit here staring at your phone like some kind of loser.
The offer was tempting. On one hand, going to a bar full of arrogant Targaryens and their hangers-on wasn't appealing. On the other—Aemon. The most reasonable of the lot, by all accounts. He was already doing his internship, having finished school early and then university early too. He didn't talk to Daeron much, but he seemed to be close to him. If anyone knows where your "boyfriend" disappeared to, it's either his father Maekar, or… this quiet, glasses-wearing guy.
"Alright," you stood up, adjusting your slightly baggy but stylish black jacket with silver zippers. "You talked me into it. But if Raymun starts going on about his cider-making achievements again, I'm escaping to the bathroom and not coming back."
"Deal," Rohanne laughed and, grabbing your arm, dragged you towards the campus exit. "By the way, you look, as always, mysterious. Your eyebrow piercing is shiny, your stupid hair that Kira dyed has now faded to 'hay after rain.' Need to freshen it up. You really do look like a girl who could be a bad influence on any good little boy."
"Piss off," you snapped back without any real malice, but it stung inside. Peach. That was his joke back then, seeing your hair that Kira, his future goodsister, had the day before dyed a couple of streaks a dusty rose-peach color. He'd laughed until he cried, then came over, kissed your forehead, and whispered, "Now you're like a peach, haha. Cute." And those words made you feel so warm, soft, and happy back then. Now, they just hurt… and made you feel empty.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket. Your heart skipped a beat. You grabbed it frantically, already imagining his stupid name lighting up the screen.
But it was just a newsletter from the university cafeteria with tomorrow's menu. You unlocked the screen, and your gaze fell on your shared photo with Daeron on the lockscreen. You look silly in it: you with your tongue piercing and a goofy smile, and him, in his oversized cardigan, pressing his lips to your cheek, his eyes, those strange violet eyes, full of some kind of puppyish tenderness. And the star on your hip seemed to pulse in time with your wildly beating heart, reminding you that this wasn't just words. That you were one. At least, that's how it seemed.
English is not my native language. I might have misinterpreted a word somehow. I would be grateful. If you point out my mistake, if there is one.
