off the record - daeron targaryen modern!au
pairing: f1 driver! daeron targaryen x fem!reader summary: it was supposed to be just another interview. but the way he looks at her even when the cameras stop rolling says otherwise. warnings: formula one setting, the targaryens have a racing team, no use of Y/N, third person narration. english is not my first language, i apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors. word count: 10.4k a/n: so… i think it's obvious who one of my favorite targaryens is. i swear i try to think of ideas for everyone equally, but daeron's just flow much more easily, and i'm not going to deny that, i'm just a girl in love with a blondie. could i have used this idea with a real driver? yes, but it was more fun to do it this way. i hope you enjoy it and like it as much as i did!
The Targaryen name had been in Formula One longer than many of the circuits on the current calendar. It wasn't just another team, but a legacy, a dynasty, a fire rooted in carbon fiber.
From the outside, Targaryen Racing inspired the same reverence as Ferrari or Williams, a historic and dramatic team, impossible to ignore. Inside, it was a family business transformed into something dangerously efficient. Everyone participated in one way or another, to a greater or lesser degree, knowing that the family's image could not be tarnished and that they had to proudly wear the dragon crest that had represented them for decades.
Baelor Targaryen, the CEO, was currently responsible for the team's image, marketing, sponsorship and commercial performance. A retired driver for the dragon team, he had several victories to his name years ago, including two championships. Until he decided to focus on the business side. He was the public face, measured, charismatic, always composed. He seemed born to be in charge.
While Aerys and Rhaegel worked as engineers in the factory, ensuring that the design and production of the car parts went well, Maekar worked inside the paddock, being the team director. He was everything you look for in a team director, coolness, strategy, calmness, knowing that his hand wouldn't tremble when making a decision in the middle of a race that would make anyone else's hair stand on end.
And then there were the drivers, family members who were old enough to participate actively.
Valarr Targaryen, the kind of driver everyone adored, with his sweet smile, his elegant and well-thought-out answers, the driver you'd want if you had the chance, the PR team's lifeline whenever there was an issue to address. He was calm and confident personified, a driver with both cunning and decorum. The complete opposite of Aerion Targaryen, brilliant but volatile, unpredictable, never knowing what he might do next, what his next move might be both on and off the track. He split his time between being a reserve driver for the Formula One team and the team's lead driver in the IndyCar series.
And then there was Daeron Targaryen.
Considered by many to be one of the best drivers of the moment, endowed with a natural talent that couldn't be taught, fast, intelligent, always focused on achieving the best result. But that wasn't what people focused on when they talked about him, nor his incredible results, his podium finishes, or his performance. Rather, it was the fact that he was one of the most distant and reserved drivers in the paddock, with his curt answers, his polite disinterest and the way media days seemed to drain the life out of him.
He hated attending press conferences, avoiding them whenever possible. He hated the journalists' questions, which always focused on the same two or three topics. He hated the expectant stares directed at him, as if what he did on the track wasn't enough and he had to prove himself off it as well. He was a headache for the PR team every time he ignored, intentionally or unintentionally, the journalists' questions, leaving awkward silences and accusatory looks upon him, looks he no longer cared about.
He hated being asked questions there, having to think about the answer people would like to hear, the one the team would approve of, the one his father and uncles would expect, instead of what he would like to say. He couldn't even be like his brother, Aerion, who already had a reputation for answering with the first thing that came to mind. Because it seemed that people were only entertained when Aerion was the one doing it, but if he said something they didn't like, something that didn't fit with the image they'd created of him, then he was wrong. And that's why he disliked questions, journalists, and interviews so much, and he ran away from them whenever he could.
And that was the main reason why she didn't expect to receive a response from his team accepting the invitation to her podcast.
She had sent it without much hope, trying her luck, even though she knew the chances of Daeron Targaryen agreeing to appear on an episode were minuscule, almost nonexistent. She knew of other Formula One podcasters, much more well-known than her, who had tried to invite him and had been rejected every time, so she thought she was just going to be another one of the bunch. She was greatly surprised when she received that email accepting the invitation, several days later than expected, when the hope of even receiving a simple email saying 'no, he'll pass' had already vanished. Instead, she received an email asking for details of the meeting so they could coordinate everything.
She had read the email three times before fully understanding it. Not because it was too long, but because she still didn't believe it was real, she even had to double-check that the email address was correct and that she wasn't falling for some kind of scam.
Daeron Targaryen had agreed to be on her podcast, he really had, and she was about to start jumping and dancing with excitement.
She had to do well, she couldn't fail. She couldn't let this opportunity slip away.
The days leading up to the recording passed in a strange mix of excitement and quiet, contained panic. The kind of panic that made her check the cables at midnight, rewatch her own episodes with a critical eye, looking for something she could tweak for this occasion or improve, and adjust the light boxes until the light settled on the chairs like warm honey instead of a clinical white.
Her studio was small and intimate. A spare room converted in the apartment she shared with only her notes and her collection of miniature helmets. Walls in a soft and welcoming color, a low shelf filled with signed gloves and faded racing posters, a couple of miniature cars among technical manuals, alongside more casual books of fantasy, science fiction and romance, plus a few photographs of her with friends and her pet. Nothing ostentatious, and everything with a purpose, to make it a warm, welcoming place that offered a sense of tranquility, a place you wanted to be.
The main camera was on a sturdy tripod, its lens perfectly framed for the two-person setup, next to a second camera slightly tilted for close-up shots and reactions. The microphones were already attached and tested, their levels perfectly adjusted. She had learned everything through trial and error: late-night lighting design classes, hours of experimenting with white balance, framing tutorials that made her cross-eyed, dozens of video tutorials and courses to see how she could improve audio, image, lighting, even the way she addressed interviewees. It was a mix of many different things fitted together, like a collage, but it worked. The room felt like a space for conversation, not a stage, a place to chat as if she were having coffee with a friend.
And yet, she was nervous. Because this was Daeron Targaryen.
It wasn't just his presence that made her nervous, but rather the possibility that he wouldn't like anything she'd prepared.
That he would come in, sit down, answer politely, and leave.
That it would just be another interview, another box checked.
He arrived exactly on time.
No entourage. No PR handler hovering at his shoulder with a clipboard and a forced smile. He stood alone in the doorway, wearing a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans, a worn cap perched on his head, his hands loosely in his pockets. Nothing about him screamed that he was a famous person, one of the top 20 drivers in one of the most important categories of motorsport, instead he looked casual, like any other boy his age.
When she opened the door, he looked up, and for a moment the world shrank to the calm gaze of his blue eyes, which contrasted sharply with everything around him. Up close, in person, they were so much more beautiful than in the interviews and photos she had seen.
“Hi,” she said introducing herself by name, a smile breaking through before nerves could swallow it, her eyes sparkled warmly, which was refreshing to him.
“Hi.” his voice was lower in person, softer around the edges than the clipped press-conference clips she’d studied. “You’re… her.”
She laughed under her breath. “Yeah. It's a pleasure to meet you, come in.”
He stepped inside slowly, gaze sweeping over the setup, the cameras, the diffused lights, the small table with two glasses of water and a notebook she’d barely touched. He paused in front of the main camera, tilting his head like he was reading the specs on the lens.
“This is all you?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“Every cable, every light, every course I failed and retook,” she answered, closing the door behind him. The click sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room. “I wanted control over how it looked and sounded. No one else editing my questions or cutting the best parts.”
Daeron nodded once, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Smart.”
She led him to the chair that was his, approaching to adjust the microphone in front of him to his height, able to smell the scent of the perfume he was wearing, one so delicious that it made her want to inhale deeply just to capture more of the aroma, but she wasn't going to do it, she couldn't do it, it was too strange at that moment and with that closeness. As she adjusted the microphone, his gaze fell upon her profile, appreciating more closely what he had already seen before, perhaps looking at her for longer than was prudent.
"Would you like anything in particular to drink?" she asked, taking a step back and observing him with a small, gentle smile. "I brought water just in case, because I wasn't sure if you'd prefer anything specific. I can offer you tea, coffee, or even a cold drink like juice or soda, it's up to you."
Daeron watched her for a few seconds considering her options, until he finally nodded. "A soda would be fine, any you have."
She nodded, walking over to a small refrigerator in the corner of the room and taking out two cans of different flavored soda, placing them in front of him. "Whichever you want, it's on the house," she said, making him smile. Making him smile was a complete victory in her book. He took the one on the right while she sat down opposite him, then she took the one he had left untouched.
“Okay, I don't know exactly what your agent told you about our email conversation regarding this," she began. "But it's just a conversation, not a script. If you hate a question or topic, we move on. If you want to stop, we stop.”
He watched her carefully. “You don’t script it?”
“Not even the order of the topics,” she tapped gently on the cover of her notebook. “I have some ideas jotted down, but I don’t really stick to them. I much prefer the conversation to flow in the moment, I prefer that the guest feels comfortable and not interrogated as if they had committed a heinous crime.”
There was a brief silence as he watched her with a small smile on his lips, until he finally spoke. "That's why I said yes,” she looked up, surprised by his words. "I watched some of your previous episodes," he added calmly, as if those words were no big deal. "The episode with the Alpine mechanic who'd been working there for several years, the episode with Bortoleto when he was still in F2, the episode with the first female race engineer, Laura Müller, and even the episode with Hannah Schmitz, which was really good, to be honest I enjoyed them all,” he gave her a soft smile. “You let people talk, you're not chasing headlines or things that will get you easy views.”
Her cheeks flushed at his words and the way he was looking at her, his blue eyes studying her intently. "I try."
"Good, I like it," he murmured, giving her one last look before opening the can of soda and taking a small sip. "Whenever you want, I'm more than ready."
"Okay, let's do it."
The red light on the main camera blinked on with a soft click and for the first few seconds the studio felt smaller than it had during all her setup checks. The diffused lights cast a warm, even glow across the two chairs, catching the faint sheen on the miniature helmets behind her. He sat straight-backed at first, the way he did in every press conference, polite, composed and his blue eyes flicked once to the lens, then settled on her face, waiting.
She didn’t launch into the usual opener. No ‘How’s the season going’ or ‘Tell us about the car’. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her notebook balanced on her knee more for comfort than reference, and smiled.
“Most people think being a Formula One driver is all about the speed,” she began, voice calm and curious. “But what’s one thing about the day-to-day of it that still surprises even you, something that has nothing to do with lap times or podiums?”
Daeron blinked, the question clearly not what he had braced for. He took a moment, he actually took it, his gaze drifting down to the table as he turned the words over. His fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair, no longer gripping. When he answered, his voice was measured, but there was already a thread of honesty in it.
“I think… I think it’s the quiet,” he said after a long second. “Between sessions. Everyone assumes the garage is nonstop chaos, but there are these pockets of… nothing. You’re just sitting there in the car, helmet off, listening to the team talk about tire wear like it’s the most important conversation in the world. And you realize the car is breathing with you. It’s weirdly intimate.” He paused again, as if testing whether that sounded ridiculous out loud, then gave a small, almost surprised huff. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that before.”
She didn’t jump in to fill the silence, she simply nodded letting it breathe, and the corner of his mouth lift at the space she gave him.
Encouraged by the way he was already leaning forward a fraction, she continued. “What about the moment the lights go out on the grid? Every driver talks about the pressure, the strategy, the lap times. But… What does it actually feel like?”
His brows drew together slightly, thoughtful. “To drive?”
She shook her head gently. “No. To get in the car.”
Silence settled between them, not empty but alive with consideration. “For a race?” he asked.
“For anything,” she said
This time he didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he thought, really thought, the way someone does when they’re not performing an answer. The studio lights caught the faint tension easing from his shoulders.
“It’s different every time,” he began. “But there’s always this moment,” he continued, eyes drifting somewhere just past the cameras now, as if he were seeing the garage in his mind, “Right before you put the helmet on.” His thumb traced slow, absent patterns along the edge of the table. “Everything’s loud, people shouting, engineers calling out numbers, mechanics moving, radios crackling, footsteps everywhere. And then it just… narrows.”
She leaned in a fraction more, drawn by the shift in his tone. “Narrows how?”
He met her eyes again, briefly, like he was deciding whether to let her all the way in. “Like none of that matters anymore, it’s just you and the car. It’s like the world compresses. Your heartbeat is louder than the engines for half a second, then everything snaps into focus and it’s just… the car and the track and this weird, calm certainty that you’ve done this a thousand times in your head already.” Daeron paused briefly before continuing. “And when you sit down,” he added, voice almost reverent, “when they strap you in… it’s almost calm.”
Her expression softened, seeing how his gaze seemed to shine. “Calm?”
He nodded once, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest, most private smile she had seen from him yet. “Yeah. It’s the only place where everything makes sense.”
There was something almost confessional in the way he said it, like the words had slipped out before he could weigh them. She held the moment carefully, letting it linger.
They moved through a few more like that, questions about the strange camaraderie between rival drivers in the cool-down room, about the way the car’s balance changes lap by lap and how he reads it like a conversation instead of data and more things. With each one Daeron’s answers grew longer, less clipped. He took his time, pausing to find the right words, his posture loosening until he was no longer sitting like a man under scrutiny but like someone actually enjoying the exchange. His hands gestured more freely and a real smile, small, but warm, appeared when he described the way the steering wheel vibrates differently in the wet versus the dry, like the car was whispering secrets only he could hear.
And then, gently, the conversation deepened.
“You’ve talked about growing up in this world,” she said, voice still soft but carrying a new weight. “The Targaryen name has been part of Formula One longer than most of the circuits on the calendar. Your family has always been involved in this world, everyone has some kind of participation, that sounds... intense.”
That earned a small huff of laughter. “That’s one word for it.”
She tilted your head, watching him carefully now. “Was it always easy?”
The question lingered, he didn’t answer right away. This time, the silence stretched a little longer, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was a pleasant, understanding silence.
“No,” he said finally in a soft voice.
“You don't have to answer if you don't want to, we can talk about something else,” she said, observing him with a gentle expression, her gaze showing genuine concern.
“No, it's fine, really there's no problem,” he assured her with a small smile. “It’s complicated,” he admitted.
She nodded. “I imagine.”
“When you grow up in it,” he continued, “it stops being just… racing,” his gaze flickered briefly toward the floor. “It’s expectations, legacy and roles you don’t really choose.” The room felt smaller, more intimate. “And everyone thinks,” he added, a faint edge slipping into his tone, “that because it’s this…” he gestured vaguely, meaning the team, the fame, the privilege, “That it’s easy.” Daeron paused again, finally looking back at her. “But it’s not, not always. There were… points where I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep doing it.”
Those words made her still. “Because of the pressure?” she asked softly.
Daeron hesitated, then shook his head just one. “Because of them,” that words landed heavier. “My father,” he clarified. “And my brother… We clashed,” he said, choosing the words carefully. “A lot.” His jaw tightened slightly, not with anger, but with the bitterness of memory. “It gets… exhausting,” he admitted. “When the thing you love is also the thing that keeps breaking things apart.”
Her chest tightened at that. “And did you ever come close to walking away?” she asked.
His eyes flicked to hers, for a second something unguarded passed through them. “Yeah,” he said. “But in the end, I didn’t.”
She held his gaze. “Why?”
Now his voice was softer, almost as if he were confessing it to himself and not just to her.
“Because we fixed it,” he began to explain. “It took time, quite a bit, actually,” he said, unable to suppress a smile. “And it’s not perfect… I don’t think it ever will be, but it’s much better.” He watched her for a few seconds, noticing the way she was looking at him, truly listening, no agenda behind her eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before without expecting a specific answer… The right answer.”
She shrugged lightly, the motion easy and sincere. “I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer. Just the answer you feel you need to give. It’s never wrong if it’s what you truly want to say.”
The words settled between them like a shared secret, the studio lights softening the edges of everything. Daeron’s shoulders had eased further into the chair, the rigid posture from the beginning of the recording now almost entirely gone. He studied her for a long moment, something warm flickering in the blue of his eyes, before she decided to nudge the conversation forward again, gentle but curious.
“So, when you’re not in the car,” she asked, tilting her head slightly, “what do you do to keep Formula One from swallowing you whole? Everyone talks about training and simulators and recovery, but… what actually keeps you from burning out?”
Daeron didn’t answer right away. He took his time, the way he had with every question she’d asked, his thumb brushing once along the edge of the microphone stand as he thought. Then a small, private smile curved his lips, the kind that made the sharp lines of his face look suddenly younger. “Reading,” he said simply. “A lot of reading.”
Her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. She hadn’t expected that, she imagined him responding with something much more physical, some kind of sport to burn off energy or something similar. She didn't expect that hobby at all, but at the same time she felt it made sense, given the way he spoke and how he expressed himself.
“Reading?” she echoed, unable to hide the delighted note in her voice.
He nodded, the smile deepening. “Yeah. Every time we land in a new city for a race weekend, I slip out incognito, hood up, cap low and no team gear. I hunt down the little independent bookstores, the ones tucked down side streets or hidden behind cafés. The kind that smells like old paper and coffee and feel like they’ve been waiting just for you. I’ll spend an hour in there, no schedule, just pulling books off the shelves until something catches me. It’s the only time the noise in my head actually goes quiet.”
She stared at him for a beat, warmth blooming across her face. “I didn’t expect that at all,” she admitted with a soft laugh. “But… I love it. I read too or at least I used to. Right now I’m stuck in this awful reader’s block, I pick up a book, read three pages and then put it down again. It’s been months.”
Daeron's eyes lit up once again, just as they had several times before during their conversation, bright and unguarded in a way the cameras had never caught before. “Really?” he asked, voice warm with genuine interest. “What kind of books do you like?”
She shrugged, smiling back at him, the conversation feeling less like an interview and more like two people who had somehow forgotten the microphones were still rolling. “I’m not picky at all. I’ll read pretty much anything if it grabs me, but fantasy and science fiction are my favorites. The ones that pull you into another world so completely you forget what time it is.”
His grin widened, slow and real, the kind that made the blue of his eyes look almost luminous under the studio lights. He looked… happy. More than happy, he was engaged in a way she had never seen in any press conference clip, any podium interview, any team radio footage. This was Daeron without the weight of the legacy pressing down on him, just a man talking about something he loved to someone who actually wanted to hear it.
“I can recommend some,” he said immediately, enthusiasm threading through every word. “There are a couple of fantasy series that are perfect for breaking a reader’s block, short enough to finish fast but rich enough to make you want to keep going. And a sci-fi novella that’s basically impossible to put down once you start. If you want, I can put together a quick list. Nothing overwhelming. Just… things that might help pull you back in.”
She felt her own smile bloom, bright and unguarded. “I’d love that. Seriously. I’ll take any help I can get right now.”
Daeron held her gaze across the small space between them, the air in the studio feeling warmer, closer. He looked more alive in that moment than he ever had in front of a camera, animated, relaxed, the usual guarded tension nowhere to be found. The blue of his eyes caught the light with a quiet spark, and for a second neither of them spoke, the moment stretching comfortably between them like an unspoken understanding.
Then she leaned forward a fraction, a playful glint returning to her expression as she tilted her head. “Okay,” she said, voice light but laced with mischief. “Since we’re already way off the usual script… I’m going to ask you something completely unfair now.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose, but the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, intrigued smile, the kind that made the sharp lines of his face soften instantly. “I’m starting to expect that from you. Go on, let's see what you have for me.”
She grinned. “If your car had a personality, like if it could actually talk back to you mid-race, what do you think it would sound like? Sarcastic? Dramatic? Would it roast you for missing an apex?”
He let out a low, surprised laugh, the sound rich and genuine in the quiet room, and leaned back in his chair with one arm draped casually over the backrest. His eyes lit up even brighter, the enthusiasm from their book talk carrying straight into that.
“God, that’s actually a good question,” he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d gone there. “No one’s ever asked me that. Most people want to know about tire strategy or DRS zones.” He paused, thinking for a beat, then grinned wider. “Alright. My car… it’d be a grumpy old bastard. The kind that mutters under its breath the whole session. ‘You’re late on the throttle again, Daeron. I’m not your therapist.’ But then, right when I nail a perfect corner, it’d go dead silent for half a second and just… approve. Like it’s proud but too stubborn to admit it.”
She laughed, delighted, and he watched her with open interest, his gaze lingering on the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.
“See?” he added, voice dropping just a touch, teasing. “You’re dangerous. You make me actually think about this stuff instead of giving the same three answers I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.”
Encouraged, she didn’t let the energy dip. “Alright, next unfair one. What’s the most ridiculous superstition or ritual you’ve ever seen in the paddock? Not the cute ones everyone knows about. Something properly weird that no one talks about.”
Daeron’s grin widened, boyish and unrestrained, the kind the cameras at the paddock had never captured. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, messing it slightly, and leaned forward, elbows on the table like they were swapping secrets at the back of a garage instead of recording a podcast.
“You’re killing me with these,” he said, laughter still coloring his tone, clearly loving every second. “Okay, there’s this one mechanic, he had been with us for years, who swears the car runs better if he tells it a dad joke right before the formation lap. Every single time, dead serious. Last race he hit me with: ‘What’s a car’s favorite movie genre?... Auto-biography.’ I almost missed my grid spot because I was laughing so hard.” he said, watching her laugh at the stupid joke. “The worst part? We set a personal best that weekend and now half the garage does it. It’s ridiculous and somehow… it works. Or at least we all pretend it does.”
He was smiling the entire time he spoke, animated in a way that made the whole studio feel brighter. When he finished, he tilted his head, eyes locked on hers, a shared spark between them.
“You’ve got a gift for this,” he murmured, low enough that it felt intimate, just for her. “Pulling out questions that actually make me want to answer instead of just survive the next ten minutes. Most interviews feel like pulling teeth. This… this is fun.” The compliment hung in the warm glow of the studio lights, and for a second the only sound was the faint hum of the recording equipment. Daeron didn’t look away, instead he leaned forward a little more.
“So tell me,” he said, voice still carrying that quiet warmth, “how did you start all this? The podcast, the setup, learning the lighting and the mics… why Formula One in the first place?”
She blinked, caught off guard, a small laugh escaping her. “Wait, hold on. You’re the one being interviewed here.”
Daeron’s grin widened, slow and teasing, the kind that made the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. He let out a low chuckle, the sound easy and unrestrained. “Before we started you told me this was more of a conversation.” He raised an eyebrow, playful challenge clear in his tone. “So… conversation goes both ways, right? Come on, I want to know.”
She hesitated for half a second, cheeks still faintly warm, but the sincerity in his gaze made it impossible to dodge. She tucked one leg beneath her in the chair, mirroring his relaxed posture without realizing it and shrugged lightly. “It started with my grandfather, my mother’s father,” she said, voice softening at the memory. “He was obsessed with Formula One. Used to record every race on VHS tapes when I was little, and we’d watch them together on weekends. He’d point out the lines through the corners, explain why a certain driver braked so late, and I just… fell in love with it. The noise, the strategy, the way the cars looked like they were barely holding on to the track. When he passed away, I wanted something that kept that feeling alive, something that would help me keep it present in my life. The podcast started as a way to talk about it with other people who got it, just like I did with my grandfather. Then it turned into this whole thing, learning the tech, building the studio, making it feel like a real conversation between people who share the same passion instead of another press conference.” She gave a small, self-conscious smile. “Guess I’m still chasing that feeling from the couch with him.”
Daeron listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving her face. The way he watched her, head slightly tilted, expression open and attentive, and a small, gentle smile adorning his lips, made her feel a little tingling inside, a warmth that spread through her chest and to the rest of her body. When she finished, he was quiet for a beat and then asked, softer now, “Have you ever been to a race in person? Not just on TV?”
She nodded, a wistful little smile tugging at her lips. “Once. When I was a kid, it was Monza with my grandfather. I still remember the sound of the engines hitting the straight, the way the ground shook under my feet. It was magic.” Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Never managed to make it back as an adult, though.”
Daeron’s brow furrowed slightly, genuine curiosity mixing with something gentler. “Why not?”
She let out a quiet laugh, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Because the universe apparently has a personal vendetta against my race weekend plans. I’m studying mechanical engineering at university so between lectures, assignments, and keeping the podcast running, my schedule is chaos and I don't have enough free time that lines up for a whole race weekend somewhere else. Every time I finally clear a weekend and buy tickets, something happens. I was supposed to go to Imola two years ago… then the floods hit and the whole GP got canceled. Booked Brazil last season and woke up the week before with emergency appendicitis, I ended up selling my pass from a hospital bed. There was Spa the year before that, but my flight got canceled due to a strike and I couldn’t get another one in time. It’s become a running joke with my friends at this point. The paddock curse, they call it.”
Daeron didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at her, blue eyes steady and thoughtful, letting the silence stretch for several long seconds as he registered every word. The story, the quiet resignation wrapped in humor, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly with the edge of her notebook. Something in his gaze shifted, a spark igniting behind those sharp eyes like an idea had just landed fully formed in his mind. But he didn’t voice it. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, soft smile, warm and almost private.
“That’s… a truly impressive amount of bad luck,” he said, voice low and gentle, the amusement in it soft rather than mocking. “The paddock curse, huh?”
She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah, I’m used to it at this point. I’ve always been the kind of person who’s a little unlucky. Some people just have that energy, I guess.”
"You remind me a lot of Charles... Leclerc, with his famous bad luck," he said, making her laugh. Daeron tilted his head slightly, watching her with that same quiet intensity. His smile deepened, something warmer threading through it now. “But there is a thing about luck,” he murmured, the words low and smooth, almost like a promise. “It can change at any moment. Usually when you least expect it.”
The statement lingered between them, heavier than the casual tone suggested, the studio lights casting gentle shadows across his face as he held her gaze a beat longer than necessary. She felt a flutter low in her chest, but before she could respond, he leaned back in his chair with an easy shift of posture, the playful spark returning to his eyes like he was inviting her to keep the conversation rolling.
“I have one more question for you,” he said after a beat, voice low and playful, the corner of his mouth twitching with mischief. “And I want an honest answer.”
She raised an eyebrow, already sensing the trap. “I’m listening.”
“Who’s your favorite driver on the grid right now?”
The question landed between them with a spark. She let out a soft, surprised laugh and shook her head quickly, cheeks warming all over again.
“Oh no. Absolutely not,” she said, biting her lip to hold back a grin. “I’m not answering that.”
Daeron’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise, but his smile only grew wider, charming and relentless. “Why not?”
“Because it would look incredibly unprofessional,” she replied, fighting the laugh bubbling up in her chest. “Especially now, with you sitting right here. People have asked me that exact question on other episodes and I’ve always dodged it. I can’t suddenly have a favorite when one of you is across the table from me. It would be… biased. Obvious.”
He tilted his head, violet eyes sparkling with amusement and something more insistent. He leaned forward slightly, appreciating how she tried to avoid his gaze. “Come on,” he coaxed, voice smooth and teasing, warm enough to make the air between them feel closer. “It’s just us. The camera’s still rolling but I promise I won’t tell a soul. You made me answer all kinds of personal stuff tonight about family, pressure, the whole legacy thing. It’s only fair.” His grin turned boyish, devastatingly effective. “You can trust me, I assure you that I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
She laughed softly, flustered, covering her face with one hand for half a second before peeking at him between her fingers. “You’re terrible. You’re really going to push until I say something, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he admitted without shame, leaning in a fraction more, eyes locked on hers. “I’m curious now. You can’t build all this tension and then leave me hanging. Just one name. Or… a hint. I’ll take anything.”
The silence stretched for a long moment, charged and easy all at once. She studied him, the way the soft lights softened the sharp lines of his jaw, the genuine spark of interest in his expression, and finally exhaled a small sigh, the corners of her mouth curving into a faint, almost secretive smile.
"Alright," she said softly, her tone light and carefree, as if her words carried little weight. "Let's just say... he's someone who used to seem very distant, as if you could only admire him from afar and that was enough. But lately... he's revealed much more than just his on-track persona, and he's even more interesting than I already thought, I already admired him before, but after all that, even more so,” she said, emphasizing ‘lately’.
She didn't say a name, team, or color that could give a concrete clue, but Daeron didn't need to in order to understand her words, he had caught it. He went very still, the playful expression on his face shifting into something deeper, warmer, a slow smile spreading across his lips that reached all the way to his eyes. Recognition flickered there, bright and unmistakable, followed by a quiet satisfaction that made the violet of his gaze glow under the lights.
“Interesting,” he murmured, low and smooth, never breaking eye contact. “Very interesting.”
He didn’t push further. He simply held her gaze across the small space between them, the air suddenly thicker, the chemistry that had been simmering all evening crackling into something sharper, more intentional.
The podcast continued for a while longer after that, the minutes slipping by unnoticed. They drifted through lighter topics, his favorite tracks in the wet, the strangest fan signs he’d ever seen, a ridiculous story about a team radio mix-up that had half the garage in stitches, but the rhythm between them had changed. Daeron answered with more ease than before, throwing questions back at her again and again, the reserved driver from the press conferences nowhere to be found. The red light on the camera stayed on far longer than either of them had planned, the conversation feeling less like content and more like two people who had simply forgotten it was being recorded.
When she finally reached over and killed the recording with a soft click, the sudden quiet felt almost intimate. The red light blinked off, and the studio exhaled.
She exhaled too, a bright, genuine smile breaking across her face as she looked at him. “Daeron… thank you. Seriously. Thank you for accepting the invitation and for being so open. This was incredible, believe it or not, this is the longest episode I've done since I started this, it was... really fun talking to you.”
He watched her for a moment, the soft studio lights catching the faint silver threads in his hair that escaped from under his cap and the subtle curve of his shoulders as he relaxed fully into the chair. Then he smiled, slow, sincere and undeniably pleased. “Thank you for inviting me,” he replied, voice warm and unfiltered. “This was one of the best interviews I’ve ever done. Actually, it might be the best one. I had a really good time.” He paused, then added with a small grin that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, “If anyone is lucky enough to get an invitation from you, I’d definitely tell them to say yes. Without hesitation.”
Her cheeks flushed a deep, immediate red at his words, the color spreading fast and unmistakable across her face. She tried to hide it by glancing down at her notebook, fiddling with the corner of a page, but there was no hiding the way her ears burned or the pleased little smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
Daeron couldn’t help the satisfied grin that tugged at his lips as he watched her blush. There was something deeply pleasing about the way she reacted, genuine, unguarded, and so clearly affected by him. His gaze lingered on her flushed cheeks a second longer than necessary, the subtle spark of interest from earlier now openly warm, almost triumphant. He looked like a man who had just decided something important… and was very much enjoying the decision.
The studio lights still hummed softly overhead but neither of them moved to stand. Daeron stayed seated for another moment, fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair as if weighing his next words. Then he rose slowly and glanced around the small, carefully built space one last time, the cameras, the diffused lights, the miniature helmets on the shelf, before his eyes returned to her.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he told her, voice low and steady. “This was genuinely one of the best interviews I’ve had in a long time. And I don’t say that lightly.” He paused, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “So… let me do something for you in return.”
She blinked, already shaking her head before he could finish. “Daeron, you don’t have to…”
“I can get you a pass,” he continued anyway, cutting gently through her protest. “For any race still left on the calendar, you pick. VIP, paddock access, garage, whatever you want. As my guest. The whole experience.”
The words hung in the quiet room. Her eyes widened, and she let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly, cheeks still pink. “Really. That’s… that’s a lot. You should save those passes for sponsors, or important people, or…”
“No,” he interrupted, calm but firm, stepping a half-pace closer. “I don’t reserve them for sponsors. I reserve them for people I actually want there.” His blue eyes held hers, steady and certain. “And I want you there. You’ve never had a proper race weekend in person as an adult. I’d like to fix that.”
She stared at him, caught completely off guard. “Are you sure? I mean… you don’t have to feel obligated or anything. The fact that you even came here tonight was already more than enough.”
“I’m sure,” he said simply, the words carrying the same quiet conviction he used when talking about the car. “I’ll tell my agent tonight. She’ll reach out and coordinate whichever weekend works for you, just let us know which one you choose.”
For a second she didn’t know what to say. Her mouth opened, closed again and finally she managed a soft, stunned “Thank you,” the words came out a little breathless. “I… I don’t even know what to say. That’s incredibly kind.”
Daeron’s smile softened, something almost boyish flashing across his face. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you. And to seeing you in the garage.”
He reached for his phone, which was still on the table, but instead of simply turning toward the door, he moved a little closer, close enough for the scent of his perfume to envelop her again. Then, almost without thinking, he leaned down and placed a soft, light kiss on her cheek.
The gesture surprised them both.
She froze, warmth flooding her face all over again, the spot where his lips had brushed her skin tingling. Daeron pulled back just as quickly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his own features, his eyes widening a fraction, as if the impulse had caught him off guard too. He wasn’t the type to do that. He didn’t invite people into his garage; he liked the quiet there, the focus, the absence of extra noise or eyes. He certainly didn’t kiss near-strangers on the cheek after a single conversation. But something about her energy, the way she listened, the way she made the whole room feel easy, had slipped past every usual defense he kept up.
He cleared his throat, the faintest hint of color touching his own cheeks now. "Have a good day," he murmured in a lower, almost apologetic voice. And then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him, leaving the studio suddenly much quieter than it had been all evening.
That same night, long after the city lights had softened and the apartment had settled into its usual late-hour hush, she sat cross-legged on her couch with her laptop open. The edited episode was finally uploaded, teaser clip posted to Instagram, the video on youtube, full audio live on every platform and a short behind-the-scenes story showing the warm studio lighting and two empty chairs side by side. She captioned the main post simply: Longest episode we’ve ever recorded… and easily one of the best. Thank you to Daeron Targaryen for trusting me with the conversation. Go listen/watch if you want the real version of him.
She hit publish, closed the laptop and didn’t think much more of it. Until her phone lit up twenty minutes later.
@/daerontargaryen started following you.
Then the likes began, on the teaser clip, on the studio photo, on an older post of her at a sim-racing event. Even a comment appeared under the main post: Best conversation I’ve had in ages. Thanks for having me.
And a few minutes later, his story went live: a still frame from the recording, the warm lighting catching both of them mid-laugh, the caption simple and unfiltered: Had a really good time today. Go watch/listen if you want the longest episode yet. Thanks again.
She stared at the notification for a long moment, heart doing something complicated in her chest, before she smiled down at her screen in the dark. God, it didn't feel real for her, it felt like she was in a dream or living in one of her fantasies. But it was real, and there was still more to come.
The Baku City Circuit stretched along the Caspian Sea like a concrete ribbon edged in golden afternoon light, the high walls of the old city looming in the distance and the roar of engines already echoing off the barriers even before the weekend officially began. She had chosen that one, the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, partly because it was the next race after their interview and partly because the idea of seeing Daeron on one of his self-proclaimed “cursed” tracks felt like tempting fate in the best possible way.
When she stepped into the Targaryen garage that afternoon, lanyard heavy against her chest and nerves fluttering low in her stomach, he was already waiting for her. Daeron spotted her instantly. The focused set of his shoulders eased the moment their eyes met, and that slow, private smile she was starting to recognize crossed his face. He crossed the garage floor in a few easy strides, race suit half-zipped, hair slightly messy from the simulation session he’d just left.
“You made it,” he said, voice warm over the low hum of tools and radio chatter. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
He gave her the full tour, unhurried, almost boyish in his enthusiasm. He pointed out the telemetry screens flickering with live data, explained how the tight, bumpy streets of Baku punished every mistake in ways most circuits didn’t, gestured toward the tire blankets and the precise angles of the front wing they’d been tweaking all morning. His hand brushed the small of her back once or twice as he guided her around busy mechanics, the touch light but deliberate. Everything he said was casual, technical but never condescending, like he genuinely wanted her to see the garage the way he did, not just a workplace, but as a living, breathing machine.
Halfway through, Valarr Targaryen wandered over from the other side of the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, his easy smile the polar opposite of Daeron’s usual reserve. The older driver’s eyes lit up with open amusement when he saw her.
“So… this is the famous podcaster,” Valarr said, extending a hand with a smile on his face. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Too much, actually. Daeron hasn’t shut up about that episode since he got back.”
Daeron went bright red, actually red, his blue eyes narrowing in immediate embarrassment. “Valarr, shut the hell up,” he muttered, elbowing his cousin hard enough to make Valarr laugh outright. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous no one invites him on decent podcasts.”
Valarr winked at her, utterly unbothered. “He’s not wrong. Welcome to the dragon’s den. Try not to let him bore you with tire talk.”
The weekend unfolded in a blur of noise and color. Free practice was chaotic, Baku’s narrow walls unforgiving, cars brushing barriers and sparks flying, but Daeron was fast, consistent, already looking more at home than the data suggested he usually felt here. Qualifying on Saturday was electric; he fought his way to P4 on the grid, a strong starting position for a track that had never been kind to him. She watched it all from the back of the garage, heart in her throat every time his car screamed past the pit wall, the sheer speed and precision of it hitting differently when you were standing ten meters away instead of behind a screen.
After qualifying, when the garage had quieted and the sun was dipping low over the harbor, Daeron found her again. He was still in his race suit half-zipped, hair damp with sweat, but his eyes were bright.
“Hungry?” he asked, tilting his head toward the team hospitality suite tucked above the pits. “Come eat with me. I need to sit down before I fall over.”
The hospitality area was quiet at that hour, just a few engineers scattered at tables and the low clink of cutlery. They claimed a corner table overlooking the circuit, plates of fresh food between them. Daeron leaned back in his chair, studying her across the small space, something playful yet serious flickering in his expression.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said, voice dropping a little. “This track has been my personal nightmare for years. Never won here, barely even podiumed. But tomorrow… if I win from P4, you owe me a date. A real one. Just us, no cameras, no microphones, no pre-planned questions or safe topics. Just dinner, or whatever you want. No Targaryen legacy, no podcast. Just… us,” he said, his gaze meeting hers.
She stared at him, fork paused halfway to her mouth, a surprised laugh escaping. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” his gaze was steady, his blue eyes warm but utterly serious. “I’m very serious.”
She set the fork down, heart picking up speed. “And if you don’t win? What do I get?”
Daeron’s smile turned slow and confident, the kind that made her stomach flip. “You can choose anything you want, just name your prize… But don’t think about it too hard,” he leaned in slightly, voice low, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Because I’m going to win the race… and the bet.”
She raised an eyebrow, observing him silently for a few seconds before speaking again. "Aren't you being a little too confident?"
He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "No, because I know how well I perform when I'm really motivated," he paused briefly, his intense gaze fixed on her, sending a shiver down her spine. "And you, you're an incredible motivation."
She let out a soft breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly as if trying to steady herself, though the faint smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “I didn’t think you were this bold,” she admitted, a hint of amusement threading through her voice. “Or this… persuasive.”
That earned a quiet, almost thoughtful look from him. She was right, it wasn't common to see him that way, it wasn't like him at all, but those were the reactions she stirred in him. Her mere presence there encouraged him to want to try new things, to take risks, to step outside his comfort zone. “Maybe you don’t know all of my sides yet,” Daeron said, tone calmer now, but no less intentional. “There are a few you haven’t seen.”
Her brows lifted just a fraction, intrigued despite herself. “And you plan on showing them all in one weekend?” she teased lightly.
He shook his head, a small exhale of something like a laugh escaping him. “No,” he said. “I’d rather take my time.” There was something in the way he said it, unhurried, certain, that made the air between them feel warmer, heavier. “I’d like to know yours too,” he added after a beat, his gaze steady on hers. “The ones that don’t come with a microphone or a camera.”
Her fingers curled slightly against the table, the weight of his words settling somewhere just beneath her ribs. For a moment, she didn’t answer, didn’t trust herself to. Instead, she studied him, really looked at him, as if trying to figure out whether this was just another layer of charm, another carefully placed move. But there was nothing rehearsed about him now, no PR-approved smile, no measured distance. Just him, waiting for her.
“So,” he prompted gently, tilting his head just a little. “Do you accept the bet?”
Her lips parted, then pressed together again as she let out a small, breathy laugh, more to herself than to him. “You realize,” she said slowly, “that if you lose, I could ask for something very inconvenient.”
His smile returned, slow and unbothered. “I’m counting on it.”
That made her shake her head again, though this time there was no real resistance left in it.
“Alright,” she said finally, a quiet resolve settling into her tone. “You have a deal.” Something flickered in his expression at that, subtle, but unmistakably satisfied.
She extended her hand across the table, a playful formality to the gesture. He looked at it for a fraction of a second before taking it, his grip warm, firm, but lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Careful,” he murmured, eyes holding hers. “You might regret that.”
“I doubt it.”
He huffed a quiet breath, something like amusement slipping through, and then, just before letting go, he gave her the smallest wink. Something quick, deliberate, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But not fast enough for her to miss it and definitely not fast enough for her heart to ignore it.
Sunday morning arrived wrapped in tension and sea breeze. The garage was alive with final preparations, tires stacked, engineers huddled over screens, the car gleaming under the lights. Daeron stood beside it in full race kit, helmet still off, focused but relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before. She hovered nearby with the small group of guests and team staff allowed in the inner sanctum, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.
Before he climbed in, he turned to her, eyes locking on hers amid the controlled chaos. “Kiss for good luck?” he asked, voice just loud enough for her to hear over the radio chatter.
She glanced at the cameras mounted around the garage, the lenses that never stopped rolling. “Daeron… there are cameras everywhere.”
He shrugged, unconcerned, stepping closer until the heat of his body cut through the cool garage air. “I don’t care.”
She hesitated half a second, then rose on her toes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, right where the edge of his balaclava would sit. He pulled back, eyebrows raised in mock disappointment.
“Not there,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Well, you didn’t specify,” she teased, cheeks warm. “You just asked for a kiss.”
Daeron’s grin turned predatory, delighted. “If I win, you’re going to owe me the one I was actually expecting, a new addition to our bet,” he shrugged, smiling. "Terms can always be changed."
“Cheater,” she accused, but there was no heat in it, only laughter and something warmer blooming in her chest.
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned in once more, voice low against her ear. “See you from the top step of the podium, then.”
The race itself was pure Baku chaos. From the moment the lights went out, the street circuit lived up to its reputation: early contact between midfield cars, a safety car on lap twelve after a spectacular spin into the wall, another virtual safety car when debris littered the main straight. Strategy calls flew back and forth over the radio, aggressive tire choices, a last-minute switch to softs under the second safety car that most of the field missed. Daeron drove like a man possessed, calm and precise on the radio but ruthless on track, picking off positions one by one through the narrow twisty sections where others faltered.
When he crossed the line first, P4 to P1 in the most unlikely of places, the garage erupted. Cheers, hugs, mechanics slamming each other on the back. She stood among them, hands over her mouth, heart hammering so hard she could barely hear the radio celebration.
The podium ceremony dragged on in the best way, champagne spraying in golden arcs under the setting sun, the silver trophy gleaming in Daeron’s hands, the national anthem echoing off the grandstands. When it finally ended, he disappeared briefly with the team before reappearing in the garage still damp with champagne, race suit half-unzipped, hair wild.
She was chatting with one of the senior mechanics near the back, laughing about a particularly dramatic radio call, when Daeron appeared at her elbow.
“Mind if I steal her for a few minutes?” he asked the mechanic, polite but already reaching for her hand. The older man grinned knowingly and waved them off.
Daeron didn’t speak as he led her through a side door and around the back of the garages, away from the lingering cameras and the post-race bustle. The narrow alley between the temporary structures was quiet, shadowed by the high walls of the circuit, the distant roar of the crowd and engines fading to a low hum. He stopped, turned to face her, and for the first time all weekend the confident driver looked almost boyish, triumphant, breathless, blue eyes bright with euphoria, with the emotion of victory in more ways than one.
“I won,” he said simply, the words carrying the weight of everything that had led there.
Before she could answer, he cupped the side of her face with one hand, gentle, calloused from years of steering wheels, and paused. His thumb brushed once along her cheekbone, slow and deliberate, his blue eyes searching hers in the shadowed quiet of the alley. The question was there without words, Are you sure? He held himself perfectly still, giving her the space to step back, to change her mind, to keep whatever line still existed between them intact.
She didn’t step back. Instead, she gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod, barely a tilt of her chin, more felt than seen, and that was all he needed. It was then that Daeron closed the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, almost careful, like he was still half-convinced she might vanish if he moved too fast. His lips brushed hers softly, warm and tentative, tasting faintly of champagne and the faint salt of the sea air that still clung to his skin. For a heartbeat the world held still, the distant roar of the paddock fading into nothing. Then she leaned into it, a soft, involuntary sigh escaping her as her hands rose to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his race suit.
Everything shifted.
The kiss deepened, slow and sweet and certain, like something they had both been circling since the night he’d left her studio. His other hand slid to her waist, drawing her closer until the dragon crest on his suit pressed against her, warm from the heat of his body and the afternoon sun. She felt the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm, matching the quick rhythm of her own. Without thinking, she slid one hand up into the strands at the nape of his neck, threading her fingers through his slightly damp hair and tugging gently, enough to draw a low, surprised sound from the back of his throat, something between a sigh and a quiet groan that made her smile against his mouth.
Daeron answered by tilting his head, kissing her a little deeper, a little slower, like he wanted to savor every second. His thumb brushed tenderly along her cheekbone again, the calluses there rough and grounding against her skin. Another soft sigh slipped from her lips as she melted further into him, the taste of victory and champagne and something that was simply him filling her senses. The narrow alley behind the garages disappeared, the noise of mechanics and cameras and the entire chaotic weekend narrowed down to just that, the warmth of his body, the gentle tug of her fingers in his hair, the way he held her like she was something precious he’d been waiting to claim.
When they finally broke apart, it was only by a breath. Their foreheads rested together, noses brushing, both of them breathing a little harder than before. Daeron’s eyes stayed closed for another second, a small, utterly content smile curving his lips as he let out a quiet, happy sigh against her mouth.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, voice low and rough with feeling, thumb still tracing lazy circles on her cheek.
She laughed, a little dazed, fingers still curled in the fabric of his race suit. “You really are a cheater.”
“Only when the prize is this good,” he replied, stealing one quicker kiss before the noise of the paddock started to creep back in around them.
Daeron kept his forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. The distant cheers and engine roars felt miles away. For once, there were no microphones, no cameras, no carefully chosen words. Everything between them had happened off the record and somehow, that made it feel more honest than anything either of them had ever said on camera.
She smiled against his lips, fingers still lightly tangled in his hair.
They had started with an interview.
They had ended with something neither of them had planned to find.
And neither of them planned on letting it end here.
