good ol' nerd & metalhead with the music taste of a sixty y/o rocker dad and a thirteen y/o obsessed fangirl combined.
always up to make new friends, so feel free to message me :)
Requests: closed (until all requests have been written and posted) - if you send in a request while they are closed, i will not reject it/not do it, but it will take lowest priority, just be aware.
Fun fact: all my fics are named after rock songs (not based on). song titles and artist can be found at the bottom of each fic.
General Links.
Main Masterlist || Guidelines || Who I write for || About Me
3 Most Recent Works.
Black Soul - (Aerion Targaryen)
Dark Thoughts - (Daeron Targaryen)
F-F-F-Falling - (Haymitch Abernathy)
Most Popular Work.
Mad About You - (Valarr Targaryen)
My Tags.
#sleo00 - every single one of my posts will have this tag
#sleo00writes - all of my fics will have this tag
#sleo00answers - under this tag you can find all my posts where i answer asks/requests from my inbox (when you're curious if your request has already been posted, check this tag)
#sleo00recs - i will add this tag when i reblog a fic (basically meaning i recommend said fic)
all works posted on this blog belong to me and were written by me with no usage of ai whatsoever. i do not allow my work to be reposted, copied, fed to an ai or anything along the lines.
I think/hope that I'm really gonna get to some requests in the following days/weeks (for real this time, hopefully). I've been writing a lot the past days, a few works have already been posted. and i'm still simultaneously working on several others, so there should be more coming soon :) i just want to get each right before presenting them to you.
Have a nice day/night and take care of yourselves!
hihi!!! I saw that you said you're open to any suggestions for haymitch, so here I am!!
okayyy so I'm thinking they're both 12 victors, and obviously that already comes with some relationship, and they're on their way home after one of their first parties/mentoring/whatever, and they're are so extremely exhausted and all they want to do go to bed. something or another happens, maybe their family does something weird, and they're just super snappy and exhausted. Haymitch gets everything together for them, and pretty much gets them ready for bed. He COMPLETELY takes over for them, simply because he's a gentleman. He is also totally not a fan of caring for someone like this.
thank you!!! I love your fics hehe
Hello Lovely!
You've sent this in so long ago, I'm so sorry <3 I was pretty inactive and needed to get myself back into Haymitch writing mood, but here I am now :)
Here's F-F-F-Falling
I really hope you still get around to reading it and hopefully you enjoy it, thank you so much for requesting <3 If you had anything else in mind, please feel free to send me another ask, no harm done.
content warnings/contains: spoilers for sunrise on the reaping!, fluff, angst, talks of the hunger games and the arena, talks of death and violence, the capitol and snow are their own warning - as always, i think i kept it neutral - if i slipped somewhere feel free to tell me, more fluff than angst hopefully, tense family relationships, can be read as established relationship or not, not proofread, grammatical errors - probably
requested: yes
a/n: so, i'm currently working on finishing all the requests i already started and just haven't finished because i literally disappeared for a few months. this has been requested ages ago, i hope the dear requester might come across this by chance and still find to enjoy it <3
link to masterlist
The past few days had been anything but enjoyable.
No one from the Districts really associated the Capitol with anything positive at all. Despite the humongous amount of propaganda they shared, advertising it as something so great and glorious, only they themselves were actually dense enough to believe it. Everyone else was glad to stay as far away from it as they possibly could.
A lot of people would rather live in poverty, wondering every day if they’d go to bed hungry or not, than even step foot into the Capitol. Countless people did. Snow and his team had been brainwashing the entirety of Panem for decades. With some, it worked. With some, it didn’t. Surprisingly enough, it seemed to be more effective in the lower districts, the ones closer to the Capitol. The ones that were already quite rich themselves.
Alright, maybe it wasn’t that surprising.
Unfortunately, there were times where going to the Capitol was inevitable.
The worst of them all was getting reaped for the annual Hunger Games. And even worse, if you happened to be the lucky person to return back home, it wouldn’t be the only time you’d ever stepped foot in the Capitol. Though lucky might not have been the right word.
The peace and quiet that was promised to the victors of the Hunger Games never truly comes. Year by year, they need to return to the Capitol, stepping in as mentor for two more unlucky kids that would most likely need to lay their life down way too early. Or to attend the parties and galas President Snow loved to host.
And despite masking these events as peaceful get-togethers, to let the Capitolites and the victors connect, they knew it was punishment wrapped in silk and riches. There was no backing out of the Capitol events. If Snow called, you answered. And if you didn’t, he’d make you feel it. Regret it.
Returning from these type of trips always left you hollow, a shell of who you once were. That small part of yourself that the arena hadn’t been able to erase, to steal from you, it always dimmed and flickered each time Snow called for your presence. The talking to the journalists, having to relive the worst moments of your games all over again. It wrecked you. Each and every single time.
And by seeing the silent smugness and satisfaction on Snow’s face at these galas, you knew he revelled in the suffering of his precious victors. He thrived in it.
How you wanted to drive an axe through his head.
Despite everything, you called yourself lucky. As lucky as you could be, in a world like this. With a fate like yours. Said luck came in the form of two words. One person.
Haymitch Abernathy.
He had won the Hunger Games two years prior to you. And arguably, he’d had a fate worse than yours. The 50th Hunger Games. The second Quarter Quell. Twice as many tributes. Only one victor.
You could remember watching his games, watching one of the boys you’d seen around the district countless times, fighting for his life, losing people that he considered friends and family. Having to become a murderer for the sake of survival.
He’d won, barely alive by the time the last cannon had fired, announcing the end of the games.
And as soon as he’d returned home, his suffering only worsened. His house burned down, his mother and little brother right with it. It was adamant that it certainly wasn’t an accident.
Snow must have had a personal vendetta against him. And after having returned from your own victory tour with him, he’d explained to you that he’d tried to destroy the arena. End the Hunger Games. That they’d manipulated the footage to make it seem like nothing happened.
That explained Snow’s actions. Explained, not justified. Because this type of cruelty could simply not be justified.
It had been four years since the 50th Hunger Games. Two since the day you’d miraculously made it out of that hellhole alive.
And now that boy had become your pillar. The reason you hadn’t completely lost yourself to the grasps of insanity that tried to wring their hands around your neck and squeeze every last ounce of your soul out of your being until nothing but a hollow shell remained.
And you’d be as bold as to say that you were the same for him.
Despite having two different houses in the victor’s village, most of your time was spent together in one of the two estates. Mostly his. Because as tragic as it was that he was forced to live alone, no family left to keep him company, you needed exactly that from time to time. Only him, no one else.
Your family, bless them, felt overbearing a lot of the time. They treated you as if the arena never happened. Which, technically, was a good thing. You didn’t want to be coddled or hovered around. You just wanted to be yourself. But that was the problem. “Yourself” had changed after the Hunger Games. The person you were before the Games did not exist anymore. Not in the same way.
And that was something your family struggled to accept. They just wanted their child back. Which you understood. More than you let on. You wanted nothing more than to be who you were before your name was called on that day. Before you were forced to endure and watch unimaginable horrors and survive them.
So, whenever you reacted to something not with the same enthusiasm you would have several years ago, when everything was still much simpler, your parents struggled. They didn’t know what to do with you. Sometimes, they got all quiet and tense, avoiding eye contact as they barely recognized who sat in front of them. You knew that feeling, better than anyone, every time you looked in the mirror.
Other times, they got angry. Mostly your mother. It was mostly because she was hurting, you knew. You knew she just wanted you to return to who you were before. When you were happier, more carefree. But you couldn’t. As much as you wanted to. Because being reminded of what happened each night when you closed your eyes made it difficult to let go.
Being forced to return to that wretched place every year made it impossible.
Tonight has been one of those nights.
Your mother had cooked dinner, something she came to enjoy greatly in the high quality kitchen from your house in the Victor’s Village.
She had cooked your favourite. What you could have eaten every single day as a child and never grown bored of it.
You hadn’t had the energy to eat one bite of it.
You’d just returned from the Capitol that morning, forced to attend one of Snow’s Galas. So eating was the last thing on your agenda. It made you nauseous to even think about. You felt sorry for your mother. She thought she could cheer you up with it. But you weren’t in a state to be cheered up.
You know she hadn’t meant any harm, that it was only her own frustration bubbling up as well, but when she had snapped at you, called you ungrateful as you didn’t even try and touch the food on your plate, you needed to get out. Get away from them.
Without a word, you had pushed back the chair, making a beeline for the door.
You walked a straight line across the street and up the front porch steps. You didn’t bother to knock. You pushed the door open and walked inside.
“Haymitch?” you called out, feeling your voice trembling in the slightest. You hated it.
When no answer came, you wandered further into the house, until you reached the living area. There he was, sprawled on one of the couches, head hung low. A glass of whatever liquor rested in his hands, still half full.
You sighed, lowering yourself onto the couch next to him. He startled as he felt the couch dip, his head turning to face you. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey.” you returned quietly, leaning back into the pillows.
You nodded towards his glass. “How many?”
“First one. I know, unbelievable.” he muttered, taking another sip.
You squinted, sceptical. For you, it was highly unlikely that this was only his first glass. You took in his face, his eyes, and found that indeed, he didn’t look drunk. At all.
“Why’re you here?” he asked then, his expression twisting into something almost concerned.
“My mother.” you responded, averting your gaze slightly.
“She cooked my favourite. Couldn’t even get one bite down. And she got angry.” you explained further.
“How fucking useless can I be?” you exclaimed, the frustration and all the suppressed emotions from the past few days coming back.
“My mother cooks me a meal. My favourite. And I don’t even eat it?”
You could hear how Haymitch sighed in response, setting the glass on the coffee table.
“It’s okay. Doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or some shit. You’re just exhausted. Don’t break your head over it.” he tried to reassure you, soothe you slightly.
But by the way your breathing stayed as shallow, by the way your eyes stayed glassy, he knew it wasn’t working.
Another sigh.
“Okay, come on.” he said, standing up. “You’re staying here tonight.”
He held a hand out to you. When you only blankly stared at it and didn’t take it, he beckoned with his fingers impatiently. “I don’t got all night, so up with you.”
A small groan escaped him. “I’m trying to help you here. So just indulge me, hm?”
When, finally, you placed your hand in his, he pulled you to your feet and over to the stairs. He led you up and into the nearest bathroom. He sat you down on the edge of the bathtub.
“Alright, wait here.” he gave you a look before vanishing from the bathroom. Barely two minutes later, he came back with some of his clothes. A shirt and some pants. He held them out to you.
“Here. These should fit you. Get changed. Shout when you’re ready.”
It seemed your brain and your body had trouble catching up with everything he was currently doing for you. Your mother’s anger had left you rattled, so Haymitch caring for you felt completely absurd to you right now. Even if he often did. Subtly, you would have pay attention to notice it. But he always did.
He placed the clothes in your lap when you didn’t take them. “Get changed.” he repeated, before leaving the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.
With slow and almost sluggish movements, you slowly got changed. Pulled his shirt over your head, the black and soft fabric nice against your skin. Pulled the pants to your waist, securing them with the string.
Not being able to muster up the energy to call out for him, you simply reached for the doorhandle and opened the door, seeing him waiting, leaning against the opposite wall. He came back in, reaching for a spare toothbrush. He wet it under the running water, put some toothpaste on and once more, held it out to you.
“Think you can manage that?” he asked.
He sounded disgruntled. Every thing he said left him with a tone that suggested this was a burden to him. And in your state, it should have unsettled you further, should have made you shrink into yourself even more. But it didn’t. Because this was just… Haymitch.
He pretended like this was some great obstacle for him. Like nothing annoyed him more than caring for you. But you both knew he didn’t. Not enough to send you away. If he truly didn’t want to help you, take care of you, he would have told you to get out.
But even if he didn’t admit it. Didn’t have the courage to, after everything that happened to everyone he loved, he cared for you. More than he let on. And that is why he was doing this.
Why he was practically offering you to even brush your teeth for you. Why he asked if you could do it on your own, instead of just thrusting the toothbrush into your hands and telling you to get it done with.
You managed a nod, reaching to take the toothbrush from him.
He retrieved his own, and got to brushing his own teeth. The eye contact through the mirror, his attentive eyes on you the whole time, it calmed you. Like his presence always did. His a little bit grumpy behaviour, as if all of this was torture for him – even if you knew it wasn’t, not entirely, at least – it made you lean on him even more. Just as he did on you.
After brushing your teeth, he took your hand once more, leading you to his bedroom. He switched the bedside lamp on, casting a dim and warm light over the room. Nothing overwhelming, nothing too bright. Neither of you could handle it right now.
“Lie down.” he said it like it was an order. And in some way, it was. But not one with severe consequences, would you not obey. Not like it was with Snow. Or the Capitol. Where you would lose everything precious to you if you didn’t listen.
You moved to sit on the mattress, and Haymitch assisted you to get comfortable under the thick sheets.
“Good?” he asked. You nodded.
“Alright. I’ll be in the guest room. Shout if you need me.”
He was just about to turn and leave when your hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist. He looked at you with a mixture of shock and curiosity. You had slept in his house more than once. A lot of times, actually. He had accompanied you until here before. But never had you done this. Reach for him before he could leave.
“Stay?” you simply whispered, almost as if you were afraid to ask.
The look in his eyes softened remarkably at that, part of his façade slipping.
“Stay? You sure?” he asked, moving his hand so that your fingers weren’t around his wrist but rather encased by his.
You nodded. “Yeah, please.” you whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Okay.” he whispered back. He moved then, walking around the bed and getting under the sheets on the other side. He turned to face you, his blond hair sprawling across the pillow below him.
“Better?” he asked, reaching for the hand he’d been holding before, intertwining your fingers once more.
“Better.” you whispered, the touch of his hand soothing, grounding. It tethered you to the moment, rather than letting you stray to that dark place that existed in your head. It kept the demons at bay, letting you focus on his touch, his presence, rather than anything else.
And unbeknownst to you, it did the same to him. When you were with him, everything felt a bit lighter. Not easy, not entirely gone. But it stayed away for the meantime, lingering somewhere in the shadows but not coming closer. It felt manageable, controllable. It didn’t feel like a wild whirlwind of emotions that came crashing in like a giant wave and dragged him under. It felt like quiet sea. Where he could step in and it wouldn’t drown him.
And so he kept your hand in his, the both of you tethered to each other’s grounding presence and keeping the memories and terrors of the Capitol exactly there. In the Capitol. Not here, in District 12. At least for a few hours.
Daeron fluff is definitely more than welcome. That man needs some cuddles ;)
same anon from before xo
Hello!
Dear god, I know I completely left you hanging after this, I'm so sorry. I hope you can forgive me <3
As you might (or might not, wouldn't blame you to be fair, hahah) remember, you originally asked "Finally someone who wants to write for my love Daeron!!!! Could I ask you something with a sister!reader pairing? Maybe about their first time together?"
So, what I wrote has exactly those elements. It's just the fluffy aftermath of their first time.
Here's Dark Thoughts
I hope you might still find this and get around to reading it at some point. And also enjoy it <3
Thank you so much for your patience and once again, I am so sorry you had to wait this long.
i need my boy to get a hug from his wife. targcest optional but very welcome, leaving it up to you.
Hello!
I know it's been ages since you sent this in, I am so deeply sorry for that <3. But I am back and I hope to deliver.
Back then, you sent in another ask just right after this one. Quoting it here: "also, because even in my horniness for him, i feel the need to hold him, any chance for giving Daeron aftercare?"
I hope you do not mind that I combined these two, as I thought they fit together quite well and I did not want to write two too similar works for you. I had a similar request for first time with Daeron, so this all matched really well :) (I will therefore just answer this ask of yours, hope that is okay) The others of your asks are in the works as well, I promise! I haven't forgotten about you and your great ideas
Anyway, here is Dark Thoughts
Again, I am so sorry you had to wait this long and I hope you still get around to reading it sometime. I'd love to know what you thought. If it wasn't what you had in mind, feel free to let me know and I'm sure I can muster up something for you :)
content warnings/contains: targcest (siblings), fluff, barely any angst, mentions of canon-typical violence, suggestive, allusions to/talks of sex, aftercare, daeron gets some much needed cuddles and comfort, reader is described to have hair - i think that's it, talks of his dragon dreams, daeron being sober for once in his life, grammatical errors, not proofread, written in present tense for a change - i deemed it fitting, it is not stated if reader was a virgin before this or not - so you can choose whatever you want, i think that's it?
requested: yes (combined these 2/3 requests, as it made sense: one, two)
a/n: two fics in one day, i feel insane (and happy) i combined these three requests because they are really centered around giving daeron comfort and i do not think i would have been able to come up with three full-fledged scenarios for them. these were requested by two seperate people. i hope you guys like it! i'd love to know what you thought <3
link to masterlist
Both his and your breathing slowly start to even out as a comfortable silence settles between the two of you. You breathe almost in sync with him, both your chests raising and falling in the same rhythm. It is grounding, you find, the way his breath matches yours. The way he has not moved a single inch from where he is currently positioned on top of you.
You lie on the linens of his mattress, partially covered by the silken sheets. The fabric is comfortable against your skin, albeit slightly damp from the thin sheen of sweat which has formed on both your skins.
He still hovers over you, careful not to press too much of his weight on you. His forearms rest on either side of your head, one of his hands intertwined with yours on the plush pillow. His fingers are tight around yours, as if afraid you’d disappear, should he dare to let go.
His blond hair, which usually falls just to the ends of his neck, is not spared by gravity as the ends tickle over your cheeks where his face remains just inches from yours. His lips are almost close enough to brush yours. His eyes, the dark purple of them almost appearing black in the dim light, are sharp, attentive. Normally, a thin glaze lies over them, like a fogged up mirror, caused by the endless amount of wine he pours into his system. As if he could literally drown out his misery – wash it out of him with the wine.
But now, they are firmly locked onto yours with a focus, an intensity, which you have rarely ever seen in them. He has not drunken anything all day. A rare occurrence, as you cannot even recall the last time he ever went an entire day without it.
You notice how he trembles faintly, little tremors wracking through him. To the naked eye, it would almost be imperceptible. But you have been able to read your brother his entire life. You see things no one else does. Certain flicks of his eyes, certain twitches of his fingers. Every little movement that no one else would pay attention to helps you to figure out exactly what he is feeling, what he is thinking about, what he currently needs.
And the way his eyes now slowly start to avert from yours more and more, as you both come down from the highs of your pleasure, tells you that all the dark thoughts he had finally been able to put aside in your arms come creeping back. Infiltrating his mind and wrapping themselves around his neck like a vice, suffocating him.
Your hand, which had been resting on his shoulder – fingers curled tightly into the skin just mere minutes ago as you had clung to him in the heights of your desire – moves to the side of his face, gently resting over his skin. With the least amount of pressure you can muster, you tilt his head to face you directly once more.
Again, the minimal bit his head had moved away from yours would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not by you.
“Daeron.” you whisper, your tone gentle and barely audible, just enough for him to hear you, to ground him to your presence – if not anything else. “Open your eyes, love.”
Daeron had not even noticed at first that his eyes had fallen closed as he tries to fight against the demons taking root in his head. The past hour spent in your embrace, spent tangled with you in the sheets – it had let him escape from every single other thought he had.
During that time, there was only you. The way your lips felt on his, the way they trailed over his neck and shoulders. The way your hands roamed over his entire being, exploring every inch of him you could reach. He is pretty sure you had reached into his chest and laid bare his soul.
The way your little sounds had reached his ears as he brought you and himself pleasure, as he moved on top of you with slow and gentle shifts of his hips. Enough to take you both apart – not enough to entirely overwhelm. Not physically, at least. Mentally, spiritually, he feels absolutely destroyed, exposed. In the best way he has ever felt exposed in his life.
And now, as the last remnants of your shared pleasure had waned, leaving only the aftermath of it behind, the thoughts come creeping back. He feels them everywhere. From his toes to the top of his head. Everything feels like it is going to be consumed once more. And this time not by you, but by the darkness of his mind.
And he dreads it, fears it. The two of you had never done this before. But tonight, the terrors plaguing his sleeping mind had grown too much. Too cruel for even him to handle. Him, who has been cursed by these dreams all his life.
And you, his angel of a sister, must have a sixth sense just for him, he thinks. Because in the dead of night, barely minutes after he had woken up soaked in cold sweat, the doors to his chambers had creeped open and you had stepped through. You had made a beeline for him, crawling over the deserted side of his bed to where he sat with trembling fingers and wet eyes.
You had taken his hands in one of yours, willing them to stop trembling. You had cupped his face with the other, wiping at the lone tear which had escaped without his permission. You had pressed your forehead against his in the darkness of his chambers, only faint moonlight shining in through the windows, and you had leaned forward and pressed a chaste, lingering kiss against his lips.
No movement, no fervour. Just a gentle press, lips resting upon each other in the means to tether him to your presence, your comfort. Your warmth. One of his hands had left your grip and wandered to the side of your neck, needing to touch you, feel you.
For the first several minutes, it was the same as every night you came into his chambers with the intention to comfort him from his dreams, from the dark thoughts rooted so deep in him he feared they would never leave him and drag him down with them.
You had pulled away after a few minutes, your eyes locked onto his. Second after second passed, the eye contact never broken once. His thumb, almost subconsciously, had then moved to brush over your lower lip, eyes dropping to observe his own movement.
Your eyes had stayed on him, not oblivious to that certain glint which flashed through his eyes. That desperate need for escape. To forget. Even if only for a few moments.
The two of you had never crossed that boundary. Not yet. But in this moment, with Daeron completely sober and in obvious despair in front of you, that hint of need in his eyes, it only felt right.
You had leaned back in, your lips connecting to his once more. But that time, it was less gentle, less chaste. You mirrored his need, his want, feeling it welling up inside you once more.
And the both of you had given in. For the first time.
And now he still hovers on top of you, eyes remaining closed despite you gently prompting him to open them. Your thumb softly runs over his closed eye-lid with a barely there touch.
“Daeron, look at me.” you order tenderly. He finally does, his dark lilac eyes fluttering open and meeting yours, causing a little breath of relief to tumble past your slightly parted lips. As long as he looks at you, you can reach him.
“Breathe for me, my love.”
Your hand which is still tangled with his lifts from the pillow. You keep his hand in yours as you bring it to your exposed chest, right where your heart beats steady beneath the skin.
“Feel me. Just breathe. The thoughts and dreams cannot harm you here. Not while I am here. They cannot touch you.”
His breaths, which had turned ragged again, slowly evened again as he followed the way you breathe in and out. Deeply, slowly, carefully. In and out. In and out.
“Good, just keep breathing.”
Daeron insists in that moment you must be the only good thing the gods have blessed him with. Too good to be true. Because with your skin against his, with your voice in his ears, he feels how the horrors slowly fade away. They return to whatever place they had escaped to when you had first kissed him earlier that night.
He wants them to stay there forever and never come back. But he knows it is wishful thinking. Still, he wills himself not to think of it now.
The two of you had just shared something you had never shared with each other. He wants to enjoy it. Revel in the aftermath of it.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice still trembling slightly, still breathy as his gaze turns concerned for your own wellbeing. The hand which still rests on the pillow on the other side of your head brushes softly over the strands of hair which sprawl beneath you on the fabric.
You feel a soft smile break out onto your face as the first thing he says after several minutes of panicked and tormented silence is to inform himself about your wellbeing. You nod.
“I am more than alright. Do not worry for me.”
You nudge him slightly. “Come on, lay down. Let me take care of you.” you prompt him gently, helping him get comfortable on the mattress next to you as his weight finally leaves you, albeit reluctantly.
He keeps his eyes firmly trained on you as your brush the hair out of his face.
With almost sluggish movements, your limbs still weighted by the pleasure from before, you reach for the cup of water on the table by his bedside. You turn back to him, bringing the rim of the cup to his now dried lips.
“Drink.” you whisper, tilting the cup once his lips part just enough. He drinks down several swigs of the water, the cold liquid a soothing balm against the dryness of his throat. When he has had enough, you remove the cup from his mouth, taking a few sips of your own before placing it back on the table.
“Are you alright?” you ask him then, returning his earlier question.
He nods, faint, as the corner of his mouth twitches up in the slightest.
“Yes. I am now. Thank you, my angel.” he replies, his tone laced in loving softness as he looks at you with nothing but affection and admiration in his eyes.
To him, you are his angel, his darling sister. The only thing that can fight off the darkness in his head, his heart. Cast it out just with one brush of your lips, one word tumbling from your mouth.
He just hopes the gods will never be as cruel as to take you from him. For he would follow you instantly.
When you have convinced yourself he is being truthful, that he really is alright as of now, you lower yourself back onto the mattress next to him, gesturing for him to lay on you.
He scoots down just slightly, partially leaning on you as his head comes to rest just above your chest, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. One of his arms lays across your midsection, keeping you close to him. As close as he can.
Your hand comes to thread through his hair in soothing gestures, and you feel the way the last bit of tension in him slowly melts away. He completely relaxes against you.
“I love you.” he murmurs, already half-asleep, into your neck.
Your lips twitch upwards again as your eyes drop to look at him in your own adoration.
blood witch blackfyre x aerion targaryen. manipulates the hell out of him but for caring reasons ;) lowk he disappeared for a while then one day came back with her as his wife and everyone is very confused and concerned.
Hi Lovely!
First, thank you for your request. Second, I know it took a long time to get it done, I'm very sorry - I hope you still remember it and sometime get around to reading it <3 And that you like it, of course!
Here's Black Soul.
I admit, I struggled with it at first as I was not very familiar with all the Blackfyre stuff. But I think I made it work.
I'd love to know what you thought and if it was along the lines of what you hoped for. If not, always feel free to send me another ask. I promise I usually try not to take this long with requests :)
content warnings/contains: spoilers for akotsk (kinda?), canon-divergence & certain inaccuracies, canon typical violence, aerion is a warning himself as always, distant targcest (blackfyre x targaryen), very suggestive & talks of/allusions to sex, no smut, reader is witchy, inaccuracy on blood magic - i just came up with stuff, no physical description of reader, use of y/n, they were both seperately exiled to lys at around the same time, reader's parentage is not stated, curse words, valyrian wedding (basically copied the Rhaenyra x Daemon scene), reader indulges his delusions & he worships her for it okay? (the worship/obession is kinda mutual), you can basically choose if she does it only to manipulate him or if she genuinely loves him - i don't think i specified that much, grammatical errors, not proofread, italics - flashbacks, bold - spoken in high valyrian
requested: yes
a/n: i know i disappeared off the face of the earth for a moment there, sorry about that... anyway, i'm back! (for longer than a week, hopefully) and i'm actually quite proud of this one. i started this over like 5 times until it went into a direction that satisfied me. i'm not used to writing more freaky stuff, but i tried my hand this time. i hope it turned out well. to the requester, sorry you had to wait so long and i hope you like it <3
link to masterlist
Several years ago, you’d been exiled to the city of Lys by your father. Back then, in the midst of your rage at being sent away from everything you’ve ever known, you never would have been able to comprehend just in what direction your life were to go once you reached the east.
Lys brought a lot of advantages with itself. Advantages you had not wanted to acknowledge when you’d first arrived, alone, angry and hurt. You’d been granted your own small residence. Carrying Targaryen blood – even if not technically seen as legitimate in the eyes of the Faith – had its perks, after all. You’d barely left it at first, still furious at the audacity of your father to send you to a place practically littered with whores.
But when the lack of food forced you to wander out into the markets, when the first places in the city began to attract your attention – you came to see just how much of a blessing it was that your father had sent you here, of all places. He’d done it as punishment, as a means to make you see reason, cure you from the poison which had taken root in your blood and mind – as he claimed.
How stupid he’d been to even think that a place such as this would help you better yourself. In Lys, you were free to do as you pleased. You could eat, drink and fuck as much as you desired – no one would bat an eye. The loose clothes made of silk felt like a gift from the gods, in comparison to the suffocating gowns and corsets you were made to wear back in Westeros. The weather was always warm and sunny, a stark contrast to the storms and winds from the west.
And no one hindered you in the practice of your magic. By the hearth in your house, you’d carefully positioned fourteen candles, just as you had back home. And this time, when you spoke the High Valyrian words beneath your breath, when you let droplets of blood trickle into the flames, no one barged into your room and dragged you out kicking and screaming. No one banished you from your home. Here, you were free to do whatever you wished.
The most interesting thing you would encounter in Lys, however, arrived mere moons after you. Aerion Brightflame.
A Targaryen prince, sent to the east to reflect on his actions, turn into a better man, after causing almost his entire family to fall apart at a tourney held for the nameday of a minor Lord’s daughter.
In Lys, most possessed Valyrian features. The silver hair, the bright eyes - either amethyst or blue – the pale skin. You’d sensed him different from the start. You had not seen him arrive by boat. You only knew that you had never seen him before when you laid eyes on him for the first time. But you knew instantly that this was not a simple Lyseni man. The short and almost spiky hair – nearly looking like scales – paired with the pride he carried within himself and the unmistakable lilac eyes. He practically radiated that royal stench that came naturally with Targaryens – a name you were raised to despise. But alas, those who raised you had turned you into an outcast as well.
You watched him, kept your eyes on him as he began to get accustomed to his new surroundings – and the freedom that came with it. One day, you decided you would not stay away any longer. You’d approached him while he lounged in one of the plush chairs outside a tavern, sheltered from the sun by the shade of the building as he sipped on a cup of some fruity wine from the free cities.
You slide your fingers over the back of his chaise as you round it, gaining his attention instantly. His sharp eyes follow your every movement. You do not falter, coming to a stop on front of him.
“A Targaryen prince in Lys.” you drawl, eyes roaming over his rather exposed body, as he had now also taken to dressing in Lyseni fabrics, rather than thick, red and black doublets or chainmail. You could see several angry scars littering across the visible parts of his upper body, no doubt from wounds healed not long ago. The kind of scars that would fade with time, yet never disappear entirely.
“Tell me, your grace.” you go on, the title laced with thin mockery. “This vacation of yours, is it voluntary, or no?”
His eyes never stop following you, tracing every movement. Be it a twitch of your hand, or a quirk of your lips. He is assessing you, trying to categorize you.
“Which one of the princelings are you?” you continue when he still does not say anything. “You surely do not look like one of Breakspear’s brood. Too little… dornish.” you pause, eyes raking over him once more. His pale skin – slowly beginning to tan in the heat of Lys – has a reddish tint to it, making apparent that his body is not accustomed to this type of heat. The words were meant to tease, to provoke, and by the way his fingers curl just a tad bit tighter around the armrest of the chair, you can tell it’s working. By the way something hot and flaring flashes through those eyes of his at even the mere suggestion that he could come from the seed of Baelor Targaryen.
“One of the Anvil’s offspring, then?” you hum thoughtfully. “You have too much control over your cup to be the drunken one. One’s at the citadel, that could not possibly be you. Well, unless you’ve suddenly decided you had enough of the maesters and celibacy, which would make this a wonderful place to break free from those chains. The others are too young. No, you are the one they whisper about. The one they fear…” A pause. “Brightflame, is it?”
You can tell you have him in your clutches by the way an entirely different glint shines in his eyes at the mention of others fearing him. A certain satisfaction. You watch as his lips curl upwards in the slightest, finally giving you a reaction.
“And who are you, to be making such a bold advance on a prince of dragon blood?” he returns, the taunting in his tone matching yours perfectly.
“Y/N. Blackfyre.”
You cannot quite tell if your name causes his amusement to rise or vanish, as his expression turns almost unreadable.
“Blackfyre?” he repeats, humming shortly. His eyes assess you once more, roaming over your entire being before settling on yours again. “Awfully confident for someone whose family constantly loses against mine, are we?”
That coaxes as slight laugh from your lips, not at all deterred by what he surely means as an insult to you.
“Awfully big talk for someone who has not once fought in those rebellions, don’t you think?” you retort smoothly.
By the way his finger twitch, you assume he is torn between lashing at you like a feral dragon – something you’ve come to realize he reminds you of quite a lot – or joining your amusement.
He brings the cup of wine to his lips, eyes never once leaving yours as he takes a sip, tongue flicking out to taste what little liquid had caught in the far corner of his mouth. Ultimately, he settles on the latter, the sharp smirk from before creeping back onto his features.
“So, Brightflame. What was your name again?” you ask then, head tilting in the slightest. He likes the attention, you can tell.
“Aerion.” comes his reply, short and firm.
“Aerion.” you repeat after him, tasting the name on your tongue. You expect it to taste bitter. Like hatred and distain. You find it does not. It tastes dangerous, yet in a concerningly alluring way.
“And what exactly brings you to Lys, Aerion?” you ask then, all the while lowering yourself into the thickly cushioned chair next to his. Your body is angled in his direction just enough for it to appear intended.
“In the eyes of my father, it seems I am at fault for the events that led to my uncle’s death.” The reply comes smoothly, almost trivial, as if he were talking about the weather. As if he were completely indifferent to the fact that his uncle has passed.
Your heart stutters for a few seconds at his words, the meaning of them, the weight, settling in your mind. It takes a few moments for you to gather your senses and to manage a reply.
“Your uncle? You mean to tell me Baelor ‘The Hammer’ Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, is dead?” you ask in thinly veiled shock.
Aerion only hums in response, nodding once.
You exhale a breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.” A whirlwind of emotions arises inside of you. Happiness, relief, pride, uneasiness. It seems your conscious refuses to settle on one.
You snap out of the depths of your mind when Aerion speaks up this time. “And you? For what reason does a Blackfyre get sent to Lys?” he asks, unable to conceal his own curiosity. His gaze is filled with intrigue and suspicion, still unsure whether to trust you or not.
“Blood magic.” You reply and find that, hypocritically, you’ve said the two words with the same lack of weight to them as he had done when informing you about his uncle’s death.
Your eyes are locked onto his own as you say it. And to the day you die, you’d swear you’ve never seen someone’s stare of suspicion and hesitation turn into fascination and something dangerously close to devotion so fast.
****
As your time in Lys progressed, it seemed that Aerion found it difficult to stray from your side after that first meeting. It did not bother you in the slightest. Quite the opposite, as you yourself sought out his company quite often on the days he did not come to you on his own.
You showed him more hidden corners of the city, places one would rarely wander to on their own. Not without the purpose of finding them. You let him discover his newfound freedom – viewed as punishment by his family – and watched him grow to enjoy the ability to indulge in whatever he pleased. You showed him where he could drink the finest either local or imported wines to his heart’s content. Where, depending on his tastes, the best dishes from all around Essos and Westeros were served. And because you knew that everyone had their needs, especially men, you also showed him the finest pleasure houses with the prettiest Lyseni whores. They were pricey, but he was a prince of the blood – he could afford even the most expensive courtesans. And he did.
Aerion Brightflame quickly became known among the brothels of Lys. And not only in those he frequented. The pleasure girls either anticipated a visit from him, or dreaded it. Rumour spread like wildfire that the prince enjoyed his endeavours rather rough. And not the regular roughness one could expect from a man of his standing.
They said that he revelled in the taste of blood just as much as in that of a woman’s desire. That his teeth were sharper than they appeared and that breaking skin came naturally to him – that it brought him pleasure. He liked his whores pretty and dolled up – just so he could leave them utterly and entirely ruined.
What might have surprised you the most, however, was that he was said to be a generous lover – despite being drawn to violence and pain. No woman left his clutches unsatisfied. A rareness in men such as him.
As time passed and you kept on listening to the brothel workers’ whispers – you always listened when it was about him – you could not help but desire a taste of your own. You had no doubt that the women he bedded in the pleasure houses took what he gave without protest, surrendered to him like pliant little does and let him claim them as he wished. As they were paid to do.
But you wanted to show him what it felt like when he laid with a woman who could match him. What it felt like when the person beneath him knew how to bite back. You wanted him to sink his teeth into your flesh and return the gesture with just as much ferocity. You never made any direct advances, however. The furthest you went were low whispers that could border on suggestive, inviting. Or lingering touches along his wrists, his hands, on rare occasions even the broadness of his shoulders, sometimes straying to his collarbones – a spot that made him shiver, you discovered.
Aerion was not stupid. The man was an expert at observing those around him and reading their intentions from their eyes, their movements, from their veiled words. He knew you desired him when your subtle touches began to linger longer than necessary. He’d had to refrain from dragging you against him and putting both of you out of your misery on several occasions, feeling the need in his veins burn hotter than the sun whenever you were nearby.
But it seemed you both enjoyed this dance. Your own dance of dragons. You circled each other like vultures, just waiting for the right moment to strike – to claim.
That moment came one evening after several moons of this unresolved tension between the two of you. You’d been sitting on the terrace of your home, overlooking the nearest bay – granting you a perfect view of the setting sun. If it was one too many cups of Arbor Gold or if it was one heated glance too much, you couldn’t recall. You could only recall that one second, the two of you had leisurely sipped on your cups of wine, and the next, he had all but dragged you from your chair into his lap, nails digging into the skin of your waist through the silk.
His lips ghost over the junction between your neck and the underside of your jaw, his breathing shallow – hot and uneven – against your skin. From your position, you cannot see his eyes, but the usual violet brightness in them has darkened from untamed desire.
“You madwoman.” he rasps against your jaw, lips slightly brushing against you as he speaks. His tone is low, a mixture of want, frustration and desperation. “What have you done to me? Is this one of your wretched spells?”
Your hand comes up to rest on the side of his neck, leading his head away from you, just enough to lock your eyes with his. His grip on you tightens almost instinctively as your body warmth leaves the side of his face. He looks undone, completely at your mercy yet ready to pounce all the same. Your hand rises from the side of his neck, thumb running over his cheekbone. The corner of your lips twitches upwards almost imperceptibly. He catches it anyway.
“It would be no fun if it was a spell, zaldrīzes.”
The Valyrian word slips from your tongue deliberately. Dragon.
His mouth curls into something akin to a snarl, like an animal – only living up to the name you’d given him. He has never looked more attractive to you.
“You madwoman.” he repeats. “You magnificent fucking madwoman.” he practically growls as one of his hands leave your waist, snaking up the length of your back and settling on the nape of your neck.
With one sharp pull, he drags your head down to his, connecting his lips to yours.
It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s all tongue and passion. Two unbridled flames colliding and flaring up into one big fire as he moves his lips against yours. In a matter of seconds, you’re all over each other, fingers tugging at fabric, lips wandering and teeth dragging over every new exposed inch of skin.
You rock your hips over his, feeling the desire radiating off of him. Just as he can feel yours. It is like a vicious cycle, how the need pulsing through you spurs him on, causing the same reaction in you.
The two of you ruin each other that night beyond compare. Torn silks and sheets, sweat-coated skin, scratch-marks, bruises from tight grips, unwilling to let go. Both your necks are littered with bite-marks and dried blood where your tongues hadn’t reached in the height of your pleasure. Both his and your lips are bruised and swollen, decorated with the metallic taste of blood – from both the broken skin on your necks and the sharp teeth which had sunken a bit too deep on occasion.
****
Neither of you was able to rein in the desire you felt for each other after that night. Barely a day passed where the two of you did not drag each other into the sheets, claiming one another over and over. Even when there was no inch, no crevice, left to claim, you did it all over again.
The whores at the pleasure houses suddenly became entirely uninteresting to him. After the first time, Aerion had tried. Gone to the nearest brothel to try and drown the lingering heat of your touch – a Blackfyre’s touch – in another woman. It had been a miracle that said woman was not strangled by his bare hands that day. She had lain there, took what he gave and told him exactly what he wanted to hear. No sincerity. She did not fight back, did not return his fire in the way that you had. She had no fire, he came to realize. It infuriated him. She may have carried Valyrian blood, as a lot of Lyseni people did, but there was no Targaryen blood flowing through her veins. There was not enough heat to match him.
And after one night with you, he craved that heat. Craved the fight. The feel of teeth sinking into his skin in retort to his own. The feel of nails scratching at him and laying him bare. And only you were able to give him that. Because you had that Targaryen blood, the same blood that he carried also burned through you – even if illegitimate in the eyes of many. He had been taught to despise the likes of you, but you had captured him in a way that he could not wrap his head around.
He had come crawling back to you the very same day, and you let him. Because you could not resist him either. You had never felt desire such as this – and you did not need to stray into the arms of another man to know that only Aerion could quench that thirst. That in some twisted and contorted way, the two of you had become intertwined in more ways than one that night. In ways neither of you could fully explain.
It was on a exactly such a night, almost a year into your stay in Lys, when he asked you what exactly had happened for you to be exiled here. He knew, from your very first conversation, that it had been because of the blood magic you practiced, like few of his ancestors did. But he had never asked for the full story. That night, his curiosity overcame him.
You weren’t shocked by his inquiry about the details of your exile. You were more surprised that he hadn’t asked earlier. He was curious – and ever fascinated by the tellings of your witchcraft. You could practically see the look in his eyes changing whenever you spoke of it, as he hung onto every word that slipped past your lips.
You had been lying on his exposed chest when he’d asked, both of you bare and partly covered by the silken sheets of your bed, legs entangled. Your hand rested where his heart beat steady beneath your touch, his fingers idly gliding up and down your arm in a barely-there touch, almost subconscious. The nightly breeze flowing in through the opened balcony doors, cooling down your overheating bodies.
You had tilted your head to look up at him, asking him: “Why the sudden curiosity?”
He’d only shrugged in response, and you found you could not deny him either way, so you retold the story of the night your father had caught you. At first, you considered lying, twisting the story and veiling the actual truth of it. But honesty was something that had been crucial between you and Aerion from the start. Not discussed. Not demanded. Just there. For some reason, the two of your had laid your souls bare to each other from the start. Every dark and twisted crevice of them.
So you told the truth. Every detail.
This is your chance. Your chance to bring victory to your family. If this turns out to be successful, you could be celebrated as one of the greatest Blackfyres of all time. Besides Daemon Blackfyre, maybe. You doubt they would let a woman surpass the likes of him.
The fourteen candles are carefully positioned around the hearth of your chambers, surrounding you where you kneel in front of the crackling flames of it. You light each candle, one after the other. One for each of the volcanoes in Old Valyria. Channelling the source of their magic.
With a few muttered High Valyrian words, the candles burn just a tad bit brighter, telling you that the gods of Old Valyria are listening. Just as you intended.
With careful fingers, you reach for the pitch black napkin, unfolding it slowly, until it reveals a single silver hair. Daemon Blackfyre’s. While the guarantee of success would be much higher, had you something of the right person in your possession, you’d read that it can work nonetheless – as they share blood. You would just need to be more careful, more precise in your words to make sure it takes the right man.
You set the napkin, the hair still positioned on top of it, down on the stone floor of your chambers. You unsheathe your dagger, crafted from valyrian steel. A gift you had received from your father on your thirteenth nameday.
You cut across the palm of your hand, blood welling immediately. Same as with the hair, the chosen man’s blood would make it easier, safer. Even Daemon Blackfyre’s blood would have been better. But you could not make Daemon Blackfyre bleed without being named a traitor and getting executed on the spot.
So your blood will have to do. You share blood with Daemon. It could work. It needs to.
With your uninjured hand, you pluck the hair from the napkin, laying it delicately across the wound, where blood covers it instantly. You lean forward then, turning over your hand so the soaked hair falls into the flames of the hearth, droplets of your blood following.
You begin to speak again, the words low and quiet.
“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”
Footsteps approaching your chambers almost make you falter. You need to finish this, fast.
“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”
Just as the last few words leave your lips, eyes closed tightly as the blood continues to trickle from your hand – the candles burning bright around you – the door to your chambers opens, your father stepping through the threshold.
He halts in his tracks when he sees you, knelt in front of the hearth, palm bleeding into the fire. He looks at the candles surrounding you. He does not need to count them to know there are fourteen.
He only hears the last few words you mutter, your voice too quiet for him to make out what exactly you are saying. Yet he knows it is not the common tongue. It is the language of your ancestors.
He recognizes the scene immediately. You, his own daughter, practising blood magic. Like Visenya Targaryen, one of the Conqueror’s herself, had done. The blood magic which was rumoured to have been involved in the making of Maegor The Cruel. He knows you admire your ancestors. But he never would have guessed it to run this deep. To lead you to such poisonous acts.
He finally gathers his senses just as the last word dies on your lips. In furious outrage, he exclaims your name, taking quick strides in your direction. You startle out of your daze, head snapping around to see him advancing on you.
No. Not yet. It is too early. The ritual has not ended. The sacrifice cannot have been enough for it to work. Your thoughts are frantic as you squeeze your hand shut over the fire once, forcing more of your blood to trickle into the flames below.
Before you can do much more, two hands hook under your arms, dragging you away from the fireplace. Away from the candles, which all diminish the second your blood stops feeding the fire.
The gods are gone. You just hope it was enough.
You kick and you yell as you try to get out of your father’s hold. But his grip on you is strong, tight. He drags you out of your chambers and into the hallway, practically throwing you to the floor by the opposite wall. He pulls the door of your chambers shut, severing every last connection between you and the ritual you had built within.
“What has gotten into you!? Are you mad!?” your father exclaims, staring at you with wide eyes filled with rage.
“These- these abominable acts. How long have you been practising them?” he asks.
You don’t reply. You are not afraid – only worried that your ritual might have not worked. Because if it hasn’t, it could take the wrong person. And the consequences for you could be fatal, should the fault be traced back to you.
“Answer me, daughter!” he yells. You don’t.
Your father eventually drags you before Daemon Blackfyre himself, where the decision is made. You are to be exiled. Sent away. Far from where you can poison others with the witchery in your blood.
****
Aerion had been eerily silent once you finished telling him the reason for your banishment. His eyes did not meet yours for several minutes as he stared at the ceiling. His expression was nearly unreadable, a thousand thoughts running through his head.
He recalled your words. You had repeated to him exactly what you had spoken to the fire.
“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”
“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”
“Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”
Let the Hammer come to his downfall. The Hammer. A nickname Baelor had gained during the first Blackfyre rebellion. Just as Maekar had been titled the Anvil. May it be used against him. While not exactly accurate, Aerion remembered vividly that it was his father’s mace that had struck the back of Baelor’s helm, which had ultimately led to his uncle’s death. A mace could be considered some type of hammer, technically.
He repeated it in his head over and over again. Could it possibly be that you were at fault that Baelor Targaryen had fallen in the Trial of Seven at Ashford? Could it be, that no matter his own actions, Baelor would have fallen either way? That his exile was wholly unnecessary and the one at fault for it currently laid in his arms? That the death of Baelor Breakspear, heir to the Iron Throne, was technically a victory at the hands of the Blackfyres, caused by the hands of a young woman in their ranks. The woman he had claimed in every way possible. The woman who had claimed him for herself just as much.
One part of him wanted to shove you off him, pin you beneath him into the mattress and strangle you until the last bit of breath died on your lips. This had been your fault. His humiliation by that tall fucking Hedge Knight. His father’s fury against him. His exile to Lys. All of it had been your fault. You had made a blood sacrifice. Your own blood gifted to the gods of Old Valyria, with only the request to take Baelor Targaryen with them.
But as much as he wanted to kill you, leave you to rot on these very sheets, he could not bring himself to. Not when he felt the faint touch of your fingers over where his heart beat in his chest. Not when he felt the comfortable weight of your body partially leaning on his, completely relaxed despite what you had just told him. Not when he looked into your eyes and only felt the need to hold you tighter, kiss you, and take you all over again.
Not when you were the only one who saw him as exactly what he was.
A dragon.
You were the only one who saw it. In the way you called him ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon. You’d told him that the sharper ends of his hair reminded you of dragon scales, when the light hit them from the right angle. You’d told him his tongue was long and thin, snake-like, as that of a dragon, when he had licked all over your neck one night.
Once, when he’d laughed at something you said, you had stilled, staring at his lips. When his mouth had closed, you reached out, pulling at his upper lip carefully. You dragged it up, revealing his teeth, with it the naturally sharpened canines he had. You’d called them his own little fangs. Like a dragon’s.
In your eyes, he was exactly what he had always known himself to be. A dragon through and through. You took him apart piece by piece, finding proof after proof of what he truly was. And you saw it too.
He could not kill you. He could not lose the only person that saw him. He needed you, craved you. Seven hells, he was pretty sure he loved you. In the only twisted way he could feel that type of emotion. Expressed in the way his eyes followed you, in the way he gripped you just a bit tighter than he was used to doing to anyone else. In the way he could sink his teeth and claws into you and brush his lips over yours in the most tender motion all the same.
You could sense the battle taking place inside his head as he connected the pieces. His fingers twitched just slightly over where they had been brushing against your arm. The fingers of his other hand, arm stretched out along the length of his body, curled and uncurled repeatedly in the silken sheets.
His breathing changed. From calm and relaxed to shallow, making it apparent that he did not know what to do with himself in that moment. You watched every emotion that flared in him, only visible in the amethyst of his eyes. Rage, murderous intent, conflict, desire, that hint of devotion that often entered his gaze when he looked at you.
“Ñuha zaldrīzes.” you had whispered tenderly, hand reaching up to brush over his temple, smoothing over the furrow of his brows.
“You are thinking too much.”
The sound of your voice, soothing him in the tongue of your blood, it had a calming effect on him. One he could not fight, even if he wished to. His breath evened slightly, though not entirely.
You could feel the way he started relaxing, the rigid tension in his muscles fading away.
“Breathe, my fire. My bright flame. I will make sure you forget all those troubling thoughts of yours. No thinking. Just feel.”
You moved, climbing over his lap. Your hands steadied yourself on the planes of his defined chest, feeling how the thumps of his heart picked up again. For an entirely different reason this time.
You smirked, leaning down to breathe into his ear. “Good. Let it take you. Far away from that torturous place your mind has led you to.”
****
The first time he’d told you that he intended to take you as his wife was in the heights of your shared pleasure, just over two years into your shared time.
He’d been sprawled across the sheets, his grip tight on your hips as he moved you over him. Your own dragon to claim, to ride.
The words had left his lips so breathlessly that they almost appeared subconscious. Yet with no less determined intent. He meant them, even if they were perhaps not said in the situation he had originally meant to.
“I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”
You had not replied, only leaned down and kissed him.
For several days after, neither of you mentioned what he had said. For a moment, you might have thought that he had entirely forgotten that he had said it. But it was Aerion. He was painfully aware of what he said and did. Nothing left his lips without intent, without purpose.
But he also did not stay silent without intention behind it. Most of his actions were done with full awareness and willingness. They were not always calculated, not always smart. Anything other than that. The decisions were often made without thinking, rash and impulsive. But he meant them nonetheless, with every fibre of his being.
The two of you had been soaking up the sun one afternoon, a week after those poisonous words had slipped past his lips. They had ingrained themselves into your mind. Playing in your head over and over again. “I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”
It was only then that he approached the subject again. A comfortable silence had settled between the both of you, broken only by his words.
“I meant it.” he says out of nowhere. Your head, which had been facing the sun, taking in the warmth, turns to meet his gaze. Only then he continues. “What I said. A week ago.” he pauses once more, one hand reaching out to brush over the skin of your temple. A barely there touch that sends a shiver through you.
“I wish to take you as my wife. No other woman could see me as I am just how you do.” His tone is almost soft, but filled with possessiveness. His eyes never once leave yours.
He is right, in what he said. And you know it. From the day the words ñuha zaldrīzes had first left your lips, loud enough for him to hear. You know that this attention is exactly what he desires, craves. For someone to view him as what he is, what he thinks he knows himself to be. And you have given him that. From the very start.
You know that, could he purr like a satisfied cat, he would, each time you call him your dragon, each time your fingertips nudge his sharpened canines in the depths of pleasure. Every time your hands run through his hair, through the jagged ends you’d told him reminded you of scales, in certain light.
You do not fear him. Do not cower in his presence. And while he revels in the fear and submission of others, the fact that you stand and meet him at eye-level undoes him completely. It makes him sink his claws into you just that much deeper, unwilling to let you slip through his fingers.
“No Septon would wed us, Aerion. Not without demanding the blessing of our parents.” you reply eventually, your hand coming up to rest over his where it still brushes against your temple in careful movements. You encase his hand with your own, turning your head to press a kiss to his fingertips.
He scoffs, lips curling into something between irritation and amusement as his eyes linger on where your lips brush over his fingers. “I do not intend to wed you in the ways of the Seven, my love. We will be united in the ways of Old Valyria. As true dragons must. And we are true dragons, are we not?”
“Of course we are, Aerion.” you reply in earnest. “And when do you wish to do it?”
“I would do it right now, had I come prepared.” he responds lowly. “But soon. Soon, I will make you mine in the eyes of our gods. As you will make me yours. We will be one. Not just by words and promises, but by blood and fire.”
The look in his eyes, possessive and bordering on a hint of madness should unsettle you. As it would unsettle anyone else. But you only feel a smile creeping onto your lips as his words.
“Your family would be enraged, should they hear that you took a Blackfyre as your wife. A blood traitor.” you retort lowly, almost teasing.
“Then they are fools.” he hisses, though the heat is not directed at you. “Valyrian blood must connect with valyrian blood. Dragons do not mate with sheep. I fear that is something my family has forgotten over the decades. Our blood is tainted, watered. We can strengthen it again. We will. And if they cannot see it, they shall wander in blindness until their sacred Stranger takes them.”
****
Aerion had spent the moons following that conversation in search of a priest who was specialized in the wedding customs of Old Valyria. You knew he’d scarcely find one, as the tradition of valyrian weddings had died out long ago.
Word said that the last such ceremony had taken place in the year 120 after Aegon’s Conquest, almost one hundred years ago at that time. The ceremony had united Rhaenyra Targaryen with her uncle, Daemon Targaryen. Two of the last dragon riders in your bloodline.
Barely any priests or septons were taught the traditions of valyrian weddings since then. So the chances of Aerion finding one were close to none.
But Aerion was not the type of man to accept defeat. He would find a person to wed the two of you. No matter what. He had set his mind to it – and when he did – nothing could bring him away from it. Not that you would have thought to try. You wished for him to find one. Marrying in the ways of your ancestors, in the way of Old Valyria, had been what you desired.
No ceremonies in the eyes of the Seven. Only fire and blood.
One night, Aerion had come to you, the delight and satisfaction clear as day in his eyes. He had found a willing priest. To this day, you do not know if the priest was willing or threatened. It would not have mattered to you either way.
He told you that while the priest was not familiar with the customs, he had agreed to read scripts of the ceremonies – and that he would wed the two of you in the traditions of your ancestors. That he would unite the two of you as you intended.
Aerion stands before you, the two of you dressed in traditionally valyrian robes. He had them fabricated especially for this ceremony, wishing to do everything right. Everything needs to be perfect, down to the last detail. If he is to marry you in the ways of Old Valyria, he is to do it right.
The priest, who had read and memorized the vows and details of the ceremony, steps forward and holds out a blade to you, made of valyrian steel. Both you and Aerion already know what you must do.
You take the blade from him, eyes moving to meet Aerion’s. You exchange a determined glance, no hint of hesitation in either of you. Your gaze drops to his mouth as you bring the blade to his lower lip. With careful movement, you drag it down the center of it. A tiny amount of blood wells beneath the steel, coating his lip red.
You raise your hand, thumb coming to brush through the liquid. You then bring your thumb to his forehead, wiping his blood over his still rather pale skin, no matter how much Lyseni sun he had soaked in.
He takes the dagger and repeats the exact same gesture with you. A clean cut down the middle of your lower lip, thumb catching the blood before bringing it to your forehead, mirroring his own.
He moves the steel across his palm then, his fingers twitching minimally from the pain. You offer your own hand, and he does the same to you. You do not falter, do not wince. You are used to cuts littering the palm of your hand. Blood sacrifices demanded exactly that – blood.
The priest steps forward, in his hands a thick and long ribbon, red with gold embroidery. You and Aerion connect your hands, palms touching and your blood joining, becoming one. While the priest wraps the fabric tightly around your hands, your mixed blood trickles out beneath it, running down your wrists and dropping onto the floor beneath you.
Neither of you really notices, eyes firmly locked onto each other’s.
The priest then reaches for a black chalice, filled partially with wine. He holds it beneath your joined palms for several moments, letting the wine mix with your shared blood. He hands it to you.
You lift the chalice to your lips, eyes not once leaving Aerion’s. You drink half of it, letting the taste fill your mouth and consume your senses. Sweet, the metallic taste not to be missed. You let it run down your throat and into your system as you hand the chalice to Aerion.
He mirrors you, drinking the second half of the liquid. Neither of you are strangers to the taste of blood, though it is watered down by the wine this time. Neither of you shy away from it, the thought of what it implies. You never have.
All the while, the priest chants High Valyrian words. The vows said to unite the two of you. To make you one.
“Blood of two. Joined as one.”
“Ghostly Flame. And song of shadows.”
“Two hearts as embers.”
“Forged in fourteen fires.”
“A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness.”
“The vow spoken through time – of darkness and light.”
When the priest comes to a stop, his words dying out into silence, Aerion lifts his free hand, setting it on the side of your face. Your hands come unbound, neither paying attention to the priest, wholly focused on one another.
His other hand, coated in his own and your blood, comes to the other side of your face. You feel the wetness of the liquid smearing over your skin, but it does not bother you.
He pulls you into him, connecting his lips to yours.
And with that, you are his. And he is yours. Two dragons, bound as one.
He loses himself in you, lips unable to part from yours except to whisper just once, with certain finality to it:
“My wife.”
You return it. But you do not call him husband. It would be logical. That is what he is. And yet, you only call him what you’ve always done. What you know he wants to hear more than anything.
“My dragon.”
****
The years that passed after the ceremony were mostly uneventful. You and your husband indulged in the relaxed and lavish life you could live here in Lys. No one to meddle in your business, no one to pressure the two of you into conceiving heirs. While the two of you intended to – one day – honour the dragon’s third head on your family’s crest, you had no reason to hurry. So you did not.
One day, Aerion came to you, a piece of parchment tightly clutched in his fingers.
“A letter. From my father.” he had said, settling on the edge of the bed next to you, where you had just taken a nap in the early hours of the afternoon. You had lifted yourself onto your elbows, glancing at the neat handwriting on the parchment,
“And what does he want?” you had asked in return.
“He demands my return. He claims that the amount of years I have spent here have been enough. That my punishment must come to an end and that I shall return to Summerhall by the end of the week. He will send his people by boat to get me.” Aerion had explained.
You could tell that he was conflicted. You knew part of him longed to return home. To the place where he was not an exiled man, but a prince of the blood. Where his words and actions held more power than they did here. And that a small, twisted part of him, longed for his family. Even if he would never admit it.
But the other part of him wished to remain here. A place with no restrictions – no demands and no expectations. The freedom he’d had here he would not find back in Westeros. The relaxed days spent lying in the sun, bathing in the sea, sipping on fruity wine would end, vanish. And they would scarcely ever return.
“Then we shall return, if your father demands it. I highly doubt he would let you stay here, even if you asked him to.” you had replied in a soft tone, your leg moving beneath the silken covers to brush your outer thigh against his back where he had sat on your bedside. The physical contact was meant to calm him, ground him, bring him back from his wandering thoughts.
“You will return with me.” he had stated.
“Of course, I am your wife. But they will not be happy with my presence.”
“I do not care. The dragon protects what is precious to him.”
“I know, ñuha zaldrīzes. I know. I do not doubt it. Do not doubt you. You are the fiercest dragon of them all.”
You had seen the way the tension in his shoulders slowly lessened at your words. As it always did.
“Then we will return. By the end of the week.”
****
Maekar Targaryen’s men had been utterly confused and dumbfounded, when in the stead of only the volatile prince they were said to escort back to Westeros, he was accompanied by you. A woman. You had known they most likely thought you a whore at first glance, still clad in Lyseni silks.
They most likely thought he had bought you free from one of the pleasure houses. That he had liked you so much he intended to bring you back home with him and keep you as his personal courtesan.
Fortunately, they had been smart enough not to comment on it, only welcoming both Aerion and you onto the ship which would bring you back to the west. Otherwise, the ship would have had no one left to lead it back home.
The journey had been much too long and tedious for your liking. Spending several days and nights upon a rocking ship through storms and windy weather irritated you to no end. You had already missed the familiar heat of the Lyseni sun. Or the slight burn in the evening when you had stayed outside just a tad bit too long.
The fresh smell of the open sea transformed into the familiar, almost long forgotten, stench of the west once the boat finally docked. The thick and dense smell of the soil, the rot of the cities, such a stark contrast to the east.
The ship had docked in the haven of Stonehelm, the closest bay to Summerhall. After that had followed another days long journey by carriage, bringing the two of you from Stonehelm to Summerhall at last.
And so, here you were, stepping out of the carriage after Aerion, his hand in yours as he led you out of the confined space. It was cloudy, a state you had last seen the sky in years ago. And now, it seemed to be its default state. You had never been in Summerhall, so the towering castle was entirely new as you took it in while stepping out into the courtyard.
Your eyes roamed over it for a few moments while Aerion led you further forward, into the direction of where his father was already waiting, posture rigid as the elder man’s violet eyes, much like Aerion’s, fell on you.
Maekar greeted his son first, even pulling the man into a short embrace. Aerion had been gone for several years, after all. He pulled back, the palm of his hand lingering on the side of Aerion’s upper arm for a few seconds longer before falling to his side.
Then his eyes, filled with suspicion, landed on you.
“Who is this, Aerion?” he asked, voice laced in confusion and already flaring anger. Maekar knew his son. He knew nothing good would leave the prince’s lips in response to his question.
“This, father, is my wife.”
The words were said dripping with pride. You were his valyrian bride. Everything he had ever desired in life. He claimed you as his, as a dragon was born to. And you had given yourself to him willingly.
Maekar’s expression blanked before it quickly contorted back into anger.
“Your wife?” he repeated, tone sharp. “And does your wife have a name, son?”
“Y/N.” you cut in then, redirecting the prince of Summerhall’s attention to you. “Blackfyre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
You spoke your family’s name with smugness, fully aware of what chaos it would cause. What weight it carried that Aerion, a prince of house Targaryen, had married you, a Blackfyre, in secret – without the permission of his father.
“Blackfyre?” Maekar practically growled, repeating the name while his lips curled in distain.
It was comical, almost. How similar yet different father and son were all the same. It was the exact same thing Aerion had first said once you had introduced yourself to him. An echo of your name. Only that Aerion’s had been laced in curiosity, surprise almost, while Maekar’s dripped in hatred.
A small smirk crept onto your face, which did not go unnoticed by the elder man.
His eyes snapped back to his son, his entire body vibrating with fury.
“Have you taken complete leave of your senses, boy!?” he snapped, keeping his voice low enough to not attract the attention of the entire courtyard. If he could, he would keep this under the wraps for all eternity.
“I send you to Lys, to reflect, to better yourself. And you come back with the exact same arrogance you carried when you left. And not only that, but you have married a Blackfyre. A blood traitor. Without consulting me once. What in the seven fucking hells has gotten into you?”
Before either you or Aerion could get a word in, he went on.
“And you have not only wed any Blackfyre. Of course it had to be the witch. Have you gone mad? Which Septon approved of this?”
His words did not deter you. You did not feel insulted, even though you possibly should have. The word witch was no bit belittling to you. In a way, you were what could be considered a witch. It amused you, rather, the outrage of the Anvil. A man said to be so strong, composed and focused in battle, reduced to a fuming mess by the fact that his son had wed the enemy.
As Maekar insulted you, however, Aerion’s own anger began to flare. He sensed that it did not bother you, he could see it in the calmness, bordering on amusement, on your features. The lack of tension in your shoulders.
But it irritated him. How his father had the audacity to disparage you. To talk down on you, his wife. His perfect valyrian bride. The woman who saw in him what no one else did. The woman who saw the truth of him.
“You will not speak in this manner of her, father. She is my wife. I chose her and married her in the ways of Old Valyria. She is a Targaryen by marriage – and therefore she deserves your respect.” Aerion hissed, his hand coming back to clutch onto yours, the grip so tight his knuckles turned white. The pressure of the grip stung slightly, yet not enough to truly hurt.
“My respect.” Maekar scoffed sharply in return. “This whore of yours does not have my respect. She will be sent back to her family, shall they decide whether to take her back or send her away once more.”
Aerion bristled at that. “She stays here. With me. I will kill everyone that as much as thinks about taking her from me. You know I will, father.”
As Maekar saw the sheer willpower in his son’s eyes. The possessiveness with which he clung to your hand, unwilling to let go of you, made him come to realize that there was no escape to this situation. He had discovered firsthand what Aerion was capable of back in Ashford. For long years, as the boy grew up, he had tried to bury it. Had tried to blame Aerion’s cruel acts against his siblings, the staff, even animals, on teenage foolery. On not knowing any better. But the events of Ashford had destroyed that illusion.
And now, as his son stood in front of him, his Blackfyre bride next to him with an irritating glint of pride and amusement in her eyes, Maekar’s anger ebbed away into worry. He knew that he would need to let you stay. That somehow, he would need to find a solution to whatever consequences came with this union. What would happen if children were to come out of this marriage.
Because if he did not, if he tried to do anything to you, Aerion’s rage would consume them all and he would leave nothing but ashes and ruins in his wake.
****
You settled in Summerhall over the following weeks. Aerion had been granted bigger chambers, which he now shared with you. He made sure you were always tended to, also ensuring no one that could pose a threat stepped too close to you. He did not trust his father’s words of acceptance to your presence. Not yet.
The inhabitants of the castle mostly avoided you. When you passed the maids and servants in the halls, they lowered their heads, walking just a tad bit faster. They were afraid, you found. Afraid of you. You were Aerion Brightflame’s wife. A Blackfyre. In their eyes, you could only be just as vain and cruel as him.
The other Targaryens stayed clear of your path as much as they could. At breakfasts and suppers, they were forced into your proximity. Fortunately for them, you preferred conversation with your husband.
Maekar always eyed you with wary eyes, as if he was just waiting for you to snap your jaws closed around one of their necks, revealing that this was all a tryst to get the Blackfyres closer to the Iron Throne. That you did not truly feel such deep affection for Aerion as you made it appear that you did.
Daeron was too drunk to pay close attention to you most days. His eyes strayed far from yours when you were in the same room, keeping his stare mostly downcast. He wished anything but to either attract your or Aerion’s rage for as much as looking at you.
The only time he had spoken to you was on one of your first nights in the castle. You had been wandering the halls at a rather late hour, and came across Daeron in a deserted hallway. His clothes had been crumpled and creased, the collar askew. His hair tousled and messy, dark rings under his eyes and the drunkenness clear in his posture.
His eyes had met yours, and he had said one thing. Only one thing.
“It was you. You killed the dragon.”
The words had left his lips slurred, barely comprehendible. But you had heard them nonetheless. You did not know the exact history of his words, but you were aware of the what they meant. You had heard that Daeron had what they called Dragon Dreams. Quite a few of your ancestors had had them as well.
The dragon. Baelor.
In his dreams, he had seen that it was you who was at fault for Breakspear’s death.
But he never mustered up the courage to tell anyone of that dream. He kept it to himself, never spoke of it. Not even to you, except on that one night.
Kiera of Tyrosh, Daeron’s wife – formerly Valarr’s – feared you. She had heard horrible stories and tales of the Blackfyres from her late and current husband’s lips. She had heard tales of you, in particular. The blood witch. That you were exiled for tampering with witchcraft.
And that you were Aerion’s wife only heightened it. While she had not spent much time in his presence while married to either Valarr or Daeron, she had seen and heard enough to know just what kind of man he was. What he believed himself to be. A dragon in human form. And by the way the two of you interacted, she saw that you encouraged that twisted mindset of his. You seemed to share it even.
But despite everyone’s fear and distaste for you and your presence at Summerhall, Aerion let none of it touch you. He would never dare to. He had sunken his claws deep into your skin, his wings sheltering you from anything that would come too close. Baring his teeth at anyone who tried.
He was a dragon. He knew it. You knew it. You told him so every day. Always with a soft caress over the side of his face, brushing the corner of his lips. Always with a tenderly whispered ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon.
He was your dragon. And you were his treasured wife.
And dragons protect their treasures. With fire and blood.
Hi! I know it's been a while since I last dropped in, but I wanted to make sure you were alright since I noticed you havent posted in a bit (which is 100% ok, take the time you need for yourself. Life gets rough).
If you're chillin, living your best life, good, I hope it gets better and chiller. If you're down in the dumps, that's also alright. Life sucks really bad sometimes. Please dont forget to take care of yourself, I will show up in your floorboards if you don't ෆ╹ .̮ ╹ෆ
Get good rest, eat what makes your body happy, and drink as much water as you can. You're super cool, love ya (platonically) twin, have a sunflower to brighten up your day🌻
-🐍🎀
Hello!!
It has been a while indeed - and thank you so much for checking in <3 I just couldn't resist from already answering this.
First off, I know you're still waiting for your request - and I promise I'm working on it (along with a bunch of other requests). So fear not, it will come! :)
Anyway, I just really wanted to say thank you for this absolutely sweet message. It means a lot to me and always adds to my motivation, so really, thank you (The sunflower did brighten my day, btw<3)
I promise I'm okay! Just some stuff that sucks lately, but overall I'm fine and happy.
And I can wholeheartedly just return that sentiment on being cool (& love ya too). You're an angel, truly.
Have a very nice day/night/whatever (you get it) and take care of yourself as well! Or else I'll have to show up in your floorboards. That goes both ways :)
I know I've been really inactive lately - I hope that's gonna change soon, I've been working on some stuff and hope to get it out soon. I've just not been that motivated lately and I don't wanna write unmotivated cause it won't turn out well, which both you guys and I are not gonna like.
But anyway, since I've been reading more than writing lately (and because I'm a pretty silent reader - I know, shame on me), I wanted to show my appreciation for the other writers in the AKOTSK fandom this time, cause seriously, y'all are amazing. So many masterpieces, I swear. Even if you're not on this post, consider yourself highly appreciated.
So yeah, these are just some of my personal favourites <3 And some of them have not so little rambles from me, be warned.
General.
Anything by @the-darklings
The way she writes is incredible. If you haven't already, go through her entire LS (Lady Stark) verse. The way she writes the characters and the unique dynamics of each pairing is insane (meant entirely positively). Like many others, I'm a complete sucker for her trailer-trash!Aerion. The dynamic is so good. But I'm also always here for some #icespring and #winterhall (and the others)
Welcome To The Family by @padmespetal (6 parts)
Generally a platonic little series centered around Egg and Reader. So amazing. But with some undertones with other characters that can be viewed as romantic/attraction. Just absolutely amazing. Absolute emotional rollercoaster and so wholesome. I love it. And the two extra fics for Daeron and Maekar where it turns into more? *Chef's kiss* as well.
She's My Wife by @cosmictheo (5 parts)
A series where our dear Duncan mistakes the wives of several characers as their child/sister/whatever. Very wholesome. I love it.
Aerion Targaryen.
Behind Closed Doors & Always You by @targaryenstar
My Only Peace Was You by @da2019
also heavily featues Valarr.
To Tame A Dragon by @/iydiamartinx
!Not on Tumblr!
Conflragated by @/alyssatrgryen on Wattpad
It's an x OC (Aerion's twin, Aerea), and I know that's not everyone's thing but I swear, this has to be one of the most amazing things I've ever read in my entire life. Well written, great characterizations (Daeron is hilarious, Valarr's a sly little piece of shit, I love him), insanely amazing dynamics. Just wow. Aerea's just as fucked up as Aerion and it works so well. Tragic and hot at the same time. If you don't mind some x OC then read this. Trust me. And read the warnings; as I said, they're both fucked up.
Daeron Targaryen.
Drowning You In My Sleep by @novaursa (2 parts)
Just chef's kiss. So beautiful.
Sleepless Nights by @thought-you-knew
This rearranged by brain chemistry. I love Daeron.
Can't Two People Reconnect? by @redwinelewis
Valarr Targaryen.
Anything by @lalalovelyly
Her works are incredible. So well written, amazing ideas. I love it. A lot of Valarr content for those starving for it (like me). And the newest Aerion pieces are absolutely great as well.
Vow Of Love by @magneticwritings
Hard Headed Woman by @sansaorgana
All Creatures Great And Small by @/thought-you-knew
Don't get me wrong, I'm terrified of spiders, but this is adorable. I really relate to Valarr in this one. He's really like "burn it. get it away from me." and honestly? same.
Forbidden Fruit by @teavocationmagic
my bisexual ass loves some girl on girl action as well.
The Goodswood Escape by @targlove
Baelor Targaryen.
What Duty Asks Of... by @fluttervoid
Well-Bred by @gutsby
Don't even ask. This changed something in me. I- wow.
The Dragon And The Stag by @lovebugism
also heavily features Lyonel.
Born Of Fire And Flame (Blood Calls To Blood) by @frankels
Maekar Targaryen.
I'd Give My All by @feral4youu (4 parts, as of now)
Amazing. The tragedy of them? Heartwrenching. They love each other so much. Be aware, Dyanna's a bit of the bad guy here, but it works really well with the story, although I have nothing against her (in canon). Excited to read more!
The Spoiled Wife Of Prince Maekar by @lostrealityr (4 parts)
A Full Bed by @maekarsmistress
So wholesome, I love it. Maekar, his wife and all the Maekarlings united.
Doubt Your Man by @escapic-mezzanine
Lyonel Baratheon.
this by @myladyship
It's not a fic, just a little idea, you could say. But I just loved it too much not to include it. Lyonel brings me so much comfort for some reason. been hooked on this man from second one.
My Difficult Woman by @entitled-fangirl
I love their dynamic so much. The way he calls her "my dragon"? Mwah.
The Helm Stays On! by @pearlessance
Storms And Dragons by @iydiamartinx
Most likely my favourite Lyonel fic. I just love their energy so much.
content warnings/contains: spoilers for akotsk! fluff, barely angsty tbh, canon-typical violence, swearing, canon-divergence (no trial of seven, baelor lives!), we don't care about aerion here, he isn't mentioned, some physical description of reader (baratheon traits), use of y/n, the baratheon-siblings' fav curse-word is "cunt", she's a bit unhinged at times, valarr is kinda shy but also charming as hell, they're whipped, this is cheesy be warned, like the opposite of a slowburn, literally love at first sight, not proofread, typos etc. me still trying to get a hang of interesting dialogue, i don't think much else?
requested: no
a/n: first valarr fic! when i first started watching the show i totally didn't get what everyone's obsession with this guy was about... safe to say that changed. and here we are. this took on a bigger dimension than i thought it would, well, anyway. the first like 3-4k of this fic will probably make you think it's a dunk x reader, but just trust the process, okay? girly is whipped for our boy valarr. i'm also tempted to do a second part with more interactions between them (like the wedding and stuff), but we'll see.
link to masterlist
“Cunts. All of them.” You grumbled as you downed the last bit of the remaining wine in your cup, which was far too little in your opinion.
“Now, now, sweet sister. They’re not all that bad.”
“Are they? Really?” you gave him a pointed look. A moment of silence, followed by: “Exactly. As I said. Cunts.”
Your brother chuckled from where he was seated at the high table next to you, the typical rasp of his voice almost drowned out in the loudness of the tent. “It is but only the first night, and you look like you’ve already sworn off talking to the male specimen all together.”
“I might as well.” you retorted. “They’re supposed to convince me to wish to marry them, no? Do I look like I will decide my future husband solely based on the fact of how many sheep he has?” you gestured loosely at the general mass of the tent, where a few of the lords who had already tried to win your favour – though in vain – still lingered. Your expression was contorted in disbelief, your tone incredulous. “Oh, and do not even get me started on the fucking arrogance they dare have. Came prancing up to me like peacocks, the lot of them. And more than half look like they’ve already seen one too many winters. Eaten enough to survive them too.”
An breathless laugh left Lyonel’s lips at your last jab. One of his hands landed on your shoulder, giving it a good shake. “Such a foul tongue, sister.” he remarked, his tone teasing.
“You’re one to talk.” you hissed back, though there was no true ill intention behind the words. Such bickering came as natural as breathing to the two of you. When you both were still younger, you’d nearly driven your parents insane with the constant jabs and insults thrown at each other’s heads, even if only in jesting manner.
Silence settled back between you both after that. You leaned over the table to get a grip of the carafe of wine, pouring yourself another generous amount and instantly taking a swig. You’d need much more than just this cup to survive the night, were it to continue how it had been going up until now.
You’d been dragged along with your elder brother, Lyonel, to Ashford to find a possible suitor, a future husband, which had already put you in a disgruntled mood to begin with. You were lucky enough to at least get somewhat of a say in the matter. But ultimately, you knew the choice would have to be made for you. Because unless an absolute miracle arrived, you wouldn’t even think about choosing to marry one of the many oafs that you’d seen around the terrain willingly.
It was only the first night of the festivities, but you’d already considered piercing your skull open on your brother’s antlered crown one too many times. You stared down into your cup, watching the swirling liquid as you tilted the cup in small circles, utterly bored out of your mind.
The chattering crowd inside as well as you startled as soon as Lyonel suddenly spoke up at a louder volume than before. The entire tent fell silent.
“I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen.” All heads had turned and all eyes in the tent were now focused on your brother.
“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that,… big field outside to blood each other with sticks – and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first ever joust. Well, I say…” he paused, leaning forward in his seat. They were hanging onto his every word, awaiting what the Laughing Storm would say next.
Yet, it seemed, he himself had forgotten.
“Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” he muttered, eyes straying back to one of the other men at your table. “First-ever joust…” another pause. You only stared on with slightly raised eyebrows, unimpressed.
Suddenly, he directed his gaze forward again. “Ah.”
“Men could not have devised such a joy. So who was it?”
Only silence followed his question directed at the general mass inside the tent, safe for the sounds of a few clearing their throats or jugging down more of their drinks.
“Huh? Who was it?” Lyonel seemed to find great amusement in the fact that no one had dared to try and answer his question, giving you an entertained look as he leaned back into his seat.
“Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast or god who sticks me best!” he exclaimed after another few moments, throwing a pouch of coins onto the nearest table. This seemed to revive the crowd quite effectively, given the cheers that echoed through the tent.
“Now, eat your birds so we can dance!” he added in a shout.
A sigh of relief left you in response to his last words. “Thank the gods, I was about to fall asleep.” you muttered under your breath. Due to the volume inside the tent, your complaint was barely audible, but Lyonel seemed to have caught it nonetheless. “What was that?” he asked sharply, his dark eyes locked onto you.
You returned his gaze innocently, taking a sip of your wine. “Nothing.”
Something of utmost importance, which was to be always remembered when in Lyonel’s presence: Never dare to call any of his festivities boring. Or you’d come to regret it.
The tent eventually started filling up with people dancing to the cheery music of the band, which had been stationed in the middle of the room. You were about to excuse yourself to up and dance yourself, when a man – taller than anyone you’d ever seen, came to a stop in front of the table. “Seven hells.” you breathed out, taking in the giant from head to toe as he munched on a tart. As it seemed, he had caught your brother’s attention as well.
“You ever been punched in the face before?” was the question Lyonel decided to start their first ever conversation with, which surprised you much less than it should have. The tall man, however, was startled, for obvious reasons.
“I beg- I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
“Big men get punched more than little men, did you know that?”
“No, but- but I believe it.”
You almost felt sorry for this hedge knight, for he looked utterly helpless. He clearly didn’t quite know what to do with the taunting of your brother. This kind of exchange was nothing new to you, Lyonel had a knack for making people flustered in his presence.
“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”
“I- I don’t slouch.” he tried to defend himself.
“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel drawled with a chuckle. You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Stop making the poor lad uncomfortable, Lyonel.” you called out, but your words seemed to fall on deaf ears.
“I- I meant no disrespect, ser, honest. Where I grew up, you- you learn to go unnoticed, is all.”
“The seven above gave you tallness. So be tall.” Lyonel started, which was probably the first decent advice he’d given all evening.
“Or I will name you a heretic, and burn you… Drown you… drop you of a tall pl- I don’t know. W-What do they do to heretics?” Well, there went the good advice.
The man next to Lyonel spoke up with fervour. “Burn them, my lord.”
“Fine.” Lyonel concluded, dropping his knife onto the table in what one could have mistaken as defeat.
“What have you brought me?”
By the stunned silence which followed Lyonel’s question, you could already tell that he’d certainly brought nothing. You sighed once more, shaking your head. This poor guy had no idea what was coming for him.
“Uhm… Uh, ser I… beggin’ your pardons. I- I didn’t realize…” he trailed off, clearly at a loss for words.
Your brother’s gaze sharpened. “You wish to curry my favour some. Yet you come with an empty hand… Lord Caferen, the smug cunt in red. He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter yet even he shinied up this… bauble from his family’s cellars for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You’ve come for my head then.”
Now, you truly did feel sorry for the poor hedge knight that stood before you, mortified as he came to the realization that he’d made the Lord of Storm’s End think he’d threatened him. But in a way, it was slightly funny as you regarded his dumbstruck expression.
“W-What? No! No.”
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”
The tall man hesitated, before stuttering out a “S-Supper?”
It was then that you couldn’t keep it in anymore as an amused chuckle tumbled past your lips. You quickly covered your mouth, muttering an almost inaudible “Sorry, sorry.” You tilted your head away from the exchange as you attempted to pull yourself together.
But it seemed even your brother’s stoic façade had been cracked as he broke into a laugh along with you. “Alright. Actually makes sense.” He muttered more to himself, than to anyone else.
“What is your name, man?” he asked as he turned his gaze back towards the “intruder”.
“Dunk- Ser Dunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel retorted without hesitation, a case of blunt Baratheon honesty. He leaned forward again, beckoning the hedge knight to come closer as well.
Quietly, as if it was a conspiracy, Lyonel asked: “Do you like dancing?”
His question caused you to perk up as well. A shy smile broke onto Dunk’s face. “Doesn’t everyone?”
You were out of your chair faster than anyone could blink, stretching your limbs that were tired from sitting in those godsforsaken chairs all evening. “Thank fuck. This was starting to get boring.” You quickly scurried off into the crowd, barely hearing your brother’s offended “Hey!” from behind you.
In a matter of mere seconds, both you and brother were up on tables on opposite sides of the tent, moving with practiced elegance. The pair of you were known amongst your peers for having a knack for dancing. Lyonel had discarded his golden cloak, now clad in a leathered vest, which he wore a loose black and long-sleeved shirt underneath. A whirlwind of black and gold hung from his belt, something akin to skirts that flowed with each movement he made. You were still draped in your gown, which too was a harmony of the colours of house Baratheon, though mainly black with a golden stag embroidered over your chest. It blended in perfectly with the rest of the tent yet standing out all the same. Your black hair, usually tied up in some ridiculous updo which only painfully tugged at your scalp, now cascaded freely down your neck and back.
And while you and Lyonel danced with practiced ease, Dunk, who was positioned right in the middle of the tent, seemed to struggle. His movements were stiff and awkward. Clearly, he didn’t quite know what to do with those enormous limbs of his. A few ladies locked their elbows with his, twirling him in circles along with them.
Within the blink of an eye, Lyonel had popped up next to him, sizing him up. Your brother was a tall man with a strong build. The tallest you’d ever encountered until Dunk stumbled into the tent tonight. Even Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, couldn’t reach the hedge knight’s height.
You were still perched on the table, keeping your body moving to the rhythm even as you leaned down to snatch the cup of one of those entitled lords right out of his hands. He gaped up at you in surprise, yet you only gave him a wink in response, downing a good portion of the wine inside the cup before discarding it somewhere behind you. You jumped down from the table, stalking right past the lord into the direction of Dunk and Lyonel without sparing him another glance.
The lord remained rooted in his spot, grumbling under his breath. Something along the lines of unlady-like behaviour. You didn’t pay it any mind.
The two giants had turned their dance into a war of stepping on each other’s feet. A war your brother had surely started – and was clearly winning. He evaded each of Dunk’s attempts with graceful ease, sidestepping every time the hedge knight even came close.
You looked away for one moment too long, and suddenly a pained groan echoed from behind you. Your eyes snapped back to your brother, seeing him hunched over in front of Dunk, clearly in pain as the giant removed his foot from Lyonel’s.
You could see the worry on Dunk’s face, afraid that he might have angered the Lord of Storm’s End, that he’d gone too far. But when Lyonel was in upright position again, his curls askew and falling over his eyes, he only grinned with his tongue caught between his teeth, sending Dunk a cheeky wink.
A bright and relieved smile broke out on Dunk’s face as he shoved at Lyonel’s chest, sending him reeling back into the crowd. The latter caught his footing with ease, returning to moving his body with the rhythm as if nothing happened.
Dunk now danced with no more finesse but much more confidence as both you and Lyonel practically twirled around him, guiding his movements as you spun the man in all kinds of circles and manoeuvres.
After what seemed like an eternity, the crowd in the tent began to settle as the music faded into comfortable background noise. Only few people were remaining as Dunk and Lyonel sat at the table, drunk out of their minds. Lyonel’s antler crown sat crooked on Dunk’s head as the two conversed with slurred words.
You were long since passed out on the chair next to them, the side of your head against the backrest as your legs were swung over one of the armrests, your back against the other. The dancing and the alcohol had certainly caught up with you.
Dunk’s gaze eventually wandered to your sleeping form over Lyonel’s shoulders.
“She’s your sister, no?”
“Aye, she is. Temperamental little beast, that one.” Lyonel responded drunkenly, but his words were laced with fondness. “She may be a Baratheon doe, but that girl’s got antlers mightier than any stag’s, let me tell you.”
Dunk huffed a tired chuckle in response. “I do not doubt that. She’s got a wild spirit. Charming.”
“A charming vocabulary as well. Quite colourful, I must say.”
“I can hear you, you dim-witted cunt.” you cut in from behind them, your eyes still closed yet very much awake in this moment.
Lyonel shot Dunk a look that said See? I told you so.
“Isn’t it long past your bedtime, sweet sister?” he taunted over his shoulder.
“It is. That is why I was sleeping. But you lot are too fucking loud.” you shot back, heaving yourself up out of the chair tiredly. “I’ll be in my chambers. And quit mouthing off about me.” you announced with a yawn, pointing a warning finger at your elder brother at the end. “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Ser Dunk. Until we meet again.” you added with a gentle smile towards the hedge knight, who returned it with enthusiasm.
Until we meet again turned out to be much sooner than you’d anticipated. By the next midday, you were seated on an utterly uncomfortable wooden bench next to your brother and his men, who’d already had one too many cups of ale. They called watching a bunch of arrogant and sweaty men pull on a rope entertainment, you called it losing every last ounce of intelligence you’d once possessed.
You sighed, turning your head to take in your surroundings, in hopes to find absolutely anything other than this that might be worth your time. Your eyes eventually landed on none other than Dunk, who stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the lords, who not only wore clothes much more luxurious, but were also all a good portion shorter than him, even in sitting position. Next to him, perched on the table, was a small boy with shaved head.
His brother, perhaps? Or squire? Though you doubted a hedge knight such as him had one.
Without as much as a word, you sprang up from the bench, making a beeline for Dunk and his little companion. You flopped down on the bench next to him, sighing. “Ser Dunk. Nice seeing you again.” you chirped, looking up at the man with a smile.
He gazed down at you in flustered surprise. “L-Lady Baratheon.” He greeted you back politely with a bow of his head. You waved him off in response, a huff of mild annoyance leaving you. “No, none of that. Just Y/N.” you tilted your body to look around the giant and at the young boy at his side. You extended your hand for the child to shake. “Y/N. Baratheon.” you introduced yourself.
The boy gave you a smile, shaking your hand firmly. “Egg.”
“Egg.” you repeated. “And who might you be to Ser Dunk here?” you asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m his squire, my lady.” You held up a hand, stopping Egg before he could say anything else. “Ah. Y/N. That counts for you too. Lady makes me sound like an old hag.”
Egg chuckled quietly, nodding once. “Y/N.” he repeated your name, just as you had done with his.
Before either of you could say much more, your brother’s voice echoed in your ears, followed by fast approaching footsteps.
“Yes! Hedge knight, you.” he called out.
You sighed in response, shaking your head in despair. “Here we go.”
Dunk attempted to take another sip of his drink, yet your brother had snatched it out of his fingers before the rim could touch his lips. He glared down at the liquid as if it had personally offended him, discarding the cup somewhere on the grass. “What is this piss froth? I need muscle.” Lyonel smacked a hand to the side of Dunk’s neck, forcing the hedge knight’s eyes to meet his own.
“Will you heed my call to war?” the words were said with entirely too much enthusiasm and seriousness for the fact that he was only asking Dunk to help him in a game of Tug of War. Without awaiting the man’s response, your brother exclaimed: “Aha, good!” before turning and urging the rest of his men to get up and to the rope.
“May the luck be with you! For my brother is nothing if not competitive.” you called after Dunk and Egg as they both jogged off to help your brother in his game against the Tyrells.
Later that night, you were sat at one of the tiny circular wooden tables along with Dunk, whose birth name you learned to be Duncan, and Egg. Your surroundings were hardly becoming of a lady of house Baratheon, but such things had never bothered you much. And as your two companions scarcely had any coin on them, you’d treated them to a generous piece of meat with vegetables, despite Duncan’s protests.
You had decided to join them on their little adventure earlier that evening, rather than listen to Lyonel curse out his squires and servants while they aided him in putting on his armour for the first joust tonight. You’d been to few jousts in your rather short life-span. And every time, you’d come to the same conclusion. While it was tiring and off-putting to watch most lordlings and knights show off like they were above everyone else, it turned out to be even more entertaining to watch them get knocked on their asses by those who practiced quiet and humble confidence.
That was truly the only thing you looked forward to as the horn blared over Ashford Meadow, announcing the start of the first joust. You only really decided to watch the joust because Lyonel had insisted you needed to watch him win against the other highborns. And unfortunately, you’d promised him you would.
So here you were, trailing behind a thrilled Dunk, who carried an even more excited Egg on his shoulders as the three of you made your way to the lists to watch the spectacle. The crowd thickened by the second as you and your companions pushed yourselves to the front, even if Dunk could no doubt see very well over everyone else. You’d inherited a good portion of your elder brother’s tallness, but not quite enough to tower over those around you.
You perched your forearms on the fence in front of you as Dunk came to a stop shortly behind you, both his and Egg’s eyes focused on the events on the jousting field. You directed your gaze towards the lists as well, watching as various lords of well-known houses prepared for the first charge. Somewhere further back, you could make out the unmistakeable shape of your brother’s golden helmet, the giant and pompous antlers on each side hard to miss.
Your sight of him was blocked when another knight came to a stop with his mount not far from you. By the way he shouted and hollered you could already tell he was one of the more entitled ones. And from the fish you could see on the back of his cape, he must have been a Tully.
The crowd seemed to love him, for they cheered him on with incredible fervour. He held up something which looked all too much like a very real and a very dead fish. “For the new gods, and old!” he exclaimed, before unceremoniously biting the fish’s head off, throwing what remained of its body into the crowd. Thankfully, further off from where you stood.
You had to refrain from outright gagging at the sight of Lord Tully swallowing the raw fish’s head, running a hand down your face in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake.” you muttered under your breath. This was not the type of entertainment you had hoped for when you agreed to watch the first joust. At least Egg was having fun – or that’s what it sounded like as the young boy’s cheers erupted from behind you.
It was then that squires and helpers started fetching the shields and lances of each participant, hurriedly approaching their lords to have them ready in time for the first charge. Lyonel was fully armed in no time, lance in one hand, his shield – bright yellow with the crowned stag painted on it in black – secured in the other.
Your gaze strayed from your brother as a new knight, clad in black and red, rode up the lists, commanding attention without much hustle. There was no boisterous showing off as he led his pitch-black mount into position, no searching for validation or cheers of the crowd. Only silent and hard focus. You couldn’t see everything from the distance between him and you, but you were able to make out that he was quite young. Most likely around your age.
And he was possibly the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on.
“Helmet!” his voice called out sharply, extending a hand for the helmet to be placed in. You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sound of his voice. So smooth yet with a slight rasp to it.
“Hey, who’s that?” Dunk asked behind you, voicing your exact thoughts. His eyes tilted up to look at his squire, who seemed to have the most knowledge about the participating knights out of the three of you. But you would be lying if you truly paid attention to anything that was being said. It also did not interest you in the slightest at that moment. Right now, it did not matter who he was. Only that he would stay on that field for just a few moments longer so you could keep looking at him. Because it certainly was a pleasant sight.
“Prince Valarr. Baelor’s son.” Egg replied to Dunk’s question, voice laced with a fondness neither of you really picked up on. “Second in line to the throne.”
A Targaryen, then. You thought to yourself, only then noticing the deep red three-headed dragon on his chest plate. You felt your cheeks heat up slightly at the fact that you hadn’t picked up on that beforehand, too focused on his pretty face to even realize what family he was representing. Now the small strand of silver you’d seen among his otherwise brown hair made much more sense.
“He’s the favourite I’d wager.” Dunk replied, slight tint of awe in his tone.
He’s certainly my favourite. You caught yourself thinking as your eyes still hadn’t once strayed from the prince ever since you’d first caught sight of him. If anyone would’ve told you the prince possessed magical powers, you would have believed them. Because he had truly and completely bewitched you.
“I’ll take that bet, ser.” Egg confirmed Dunk’s statement.
Without taking your eyes off the young prince – who was now too fully armed with a delicately detailed but robust helmet and shield, as well as a black and red lance – you threw the question over your shoulder, your mouth working just a tad faster than your brain.
“Is the prince betrothed, by any chance?”
Only silence met your question. When after a few moments, you still hadn’t received a response, you tore your gaze from the Targaryen prince, turning your head to face Duncan and Egg, who both regarded you with stunned expressions. You felt taken aback, slightly put off by the bewilderment in their eyes.
“What?” the word came out much more defensive than you would have liked. “It is only a question. I’m supposed to find a husband at this tourney after all.” you shrugged, redirecting your eyes towards Valarr, who had now taken off down the lists along with the other knights. Duncan and Egg only exchanged another look of strange curiosity, before ultimately deciding to return their attention to the tourney.
You all watched in amazement as Valarr knocked knight after knight off their horses, not once looking like he was even remotely struggling. And still, he did not try and boast before the crowd to make them cheer just that much louder for him. He remained focused, not once straying from the task at hand. He did this to prove his strength, not for glory.
Yes, there was your miracle.
Towards the end of the joust, you’d slipped away from Ser Duncan and Egg under the pretence that you were to head for your brother’s tent by the lists. At first, you had fully intended to do just that. Instead, you’d waltzed right past the yellow and black tent, walking further down the path into the direction of the black and red tent which was adorned by dragonheads carved out of wood.
You were very well aware of the fact that you intended to bluntly approach a crown prince – of house Targaryen no less – but you were never known to be shy. Quite the opposite actually. A sentiment you’d inherited from your brother, as his shamelessness had rubbed off on you throughout the years. Your dark eyes took in the extravagance of the Targaryens’ tent as you walked closer. Your averted gaze, however, distracted you from the obstacle which suddenly blocked your path.
Quite the handsome obstacle, at that.
You bumped into something hard. Staggering back a step, your eyes snapped back forward to take in what was in front of you. “Fucking-“ you started, ready to curse out in annoyance at whoever had stood in your way, but the three-headed steel dragon, just on your eye-level, silenced you instantly.
Your eyes trailed up the neckline of the armour, until they eventually landed on two mismatched ones. From your perspective, the right was a deep brown, the left a striking blue. The two colours contrasted each other drastically, yet it fit together so perfectly. Those exact were already staring back at you with an intensity that knocked the last ounce of breath out of your lungs. His brown hair fell over his forehead in thick strands, nearly reaching his eyebrows. The prince towered over you by a few inches, his head tilted ever so slightly downward. From your point of view, you could now also see the silver section of hair on the left side of his head much clearer.
Unbeknownst to you, the young prince did not fare much better.
When he’d returned to his tent just beside the jousting field, he certainly hadn’t expected a young lady – a Baratheon, he guessed, based on the colours of your clothing – to quite literally walk right into him. He’d too had half the mind to curse you out, something he wouldn’t have done on any other day, his manners always intact – especially around women. Yet he was exhausted from the joust, so there was a chance he couldn’t have controlled an accidental slip of his tongue.
But with one look at you, his throat felt like it had been sewn shut, never to let a breath or tone escape again. His eyes took in the black locks of your hair – a hereditary Baratheon feature – and how they cascaded down your neck, the strands framing your facial features oh so prettily. His gaze lingered on your face, which held a beauty he swore he’d only ever heard about in songs. He was certain that he could search every single inch of your body and still wouldn’t be able to find even one flaw.
Still too awestruck by the sight of you, he didn’t even realize when a single word slipped past his lips. “Gevie.”
The gentle and breathless sound of his voice snapped you out of your dumbstruck daze.
You blinked rapidly a few times, gathering your thoughts which had been all but erased blankly from your mind. “What?” you whispered to yourself, barely audible, as you head no idea what he’d just said.
A clearing of your throat, which was solely intended to help you find the right words, seemed to bring the prince in front of you back to his senses as well.
Before you even had the chance to say anything else, he spoke up, worry lacing his tone.
“My lady, are you alright?” he asked, his eyes roaming over you once more, his left hand hovering near your upper arm, not daring to make contact. This time, instead of dumbstruck awe, his eyes searched for any sign that you’d been hurt from one; walking straight into his steel armour and two; stumbling back upon impact.
You gave a small chuckle in return. “I am unharmed, your highness. I hope you are as well? Though I am sure your armour can withstand the impact of an inattentive woman knocking right into you.” your voice was laced in humour and light-heartedness, despite currently talking to a prince of the crown.
It seemed even he could not hold back a upwards-twitch of his lips as that. “I can assure you it does, lady …” he purposely trailed off towards the end, inviting you to grant him your name.
“Y/N, your highness. Y/N Baratheon.” you replied confidently, boldly holding out a hand for him to shake.
He took it, the grip of his gloved hand firm around yours.
“Ah, well, I am honoured to make your acquaintance, lady Y/N. I am Valarr Targaryen.” he introduced himself politely, despite the both of you being aware of the fact that you knew perfectly well who he was.
“So, lady Y/N, what brings you quite literally walking into me?” he mused as he let go of your hand, shuffling lightly to put an appropriate distance between the two of you. You knew it was only proper in the eyes of the realm, for you were neither very familiar with each other nor betrothed. Yet, you couldn’t help but despise the space between you and the prince.
You huffed a chuckle in response. “Well, I merely intended to congratulate you on your impeccable performance at the joust tonight.” A lie. Blatant lie. You just wished to see him up close, to talk to him and hear that smooth voice again. “Though I must say, this encounter turned out to start off a bit differently than what I expected.” That was the truth. But you’d do it a thousand times over if it meant you’d see those pretty mismatched eyes roaming over you again.
“Thank you for the congratulations, my lady. It is not often that someone seeks me out especially for such a reason… Unless there is something else you wish to talk to me about?” he replied with a kind smile, a small glint of knowing in his eyes.
Gods, you wanted to grab his pretty face and kiss him.
You quickly forced that thought from the forefront of your mind, trying to focus on the current conversation. “I mainly intended to congratulate you, your highness. Yet, now as you mention it, I would like to invite you to my elder brother’s festivity tomorrow evening. It may not have the size you are surely used to as a prince of the crown, but Baratheon parties have never been known to be dull.”
Valarr looked almost surprised at your blunt invitation. It was bold after all, to simply offer a future heir to the Iron Throne to stray from his own family to join a festivity in another house’s tent. “My lady, I am not sure-“
Other’s would have surely lost their tongues for what you did, but you sensed the prince was not exactly sensitive in these types of matters. So you cut him off.
“Oh, nonsense.” you retorted, waving him off. “I mean no offense, your highness, but all those princely duties surely must be exhausting. Take my word for it, a night filled with music and good company does wonders to one’s mind.”
“And I take it by good company, you mean your company, my lady?” he returned, an almost teasing tint to his tone as the corner of his lips twitched up once more.
“Yes, I do actually.” you responded confidently. “Now, I must go before my brother sends out a search party for me. Yet, just know I intend not to pressure you to attend. However, consider yourself kindly invited to join. And that a certain lady would be delighted to encounter you there.”
“Good night, my prince.” you gave him another smirk before turning on your heel and leaving back down the way you’d originally come from. What you didn’t see was that the prince remained rooted in his place for much longer than it was necessary, staring as you disappeared from his line of sight. And even then, he did not move for several minutes, eyes fixed on the spot where you’d vanished around the corner of a tent.
The following night, you were seated beside Lyonel once more as the tent started filling up more and more. You sipped on your cup of wine, eyes trailing to the entrance of the tent ever so often in the hopes of a certain prince entering.
For a while, your brother was otherwise occupied with talking to various of his lordly friends, but your almost longing gazes towards the tent-entrance did not go unnoticed by him. He brushed it off at first, you were quite the interesting fellow at times. Yet when almost an hour into his festivity, you still had barely taken your eyes off the flaps, he’d had enough.
He leaned over in his seat until his head was almost right next to yours.
“What exactly is it you’re searching for, sister?” he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.
You jumped lightly in your seat, clearly not having expected your brother’s voice so close to your ear. “Seven hells, Lyonel.” you breathed out, followed by a string of curses as you calmed your now rapidly beating heart. Lyonel remained silent, patiently waiting.
“I am waiting for someone. I invited him yesterday.” you eventually answered his initial question.
“You- Him? Who did you invite?” Lyonel returned, almost bewildered. You weren’t a stranger to social interactions. He knew you to be quite the outgoing person, in fact. Yet it came to a great surprise to him that you would willingly invite a man to this gathering. Especially knowing what the whole point of this tourney was for you.
“I am not even sure if he will come. He seemed a bit hesitant.” was what you said in response, eyes focusing back on where more people entered and intentionally avoiding his question.
Lyonel’s head tilted in slight disbelief as he started at side of your head in silence for a few seconds. “Dear sister. Am I understanding right that you’ve been staring at the entrance of this tent like a lovesick fool for the past hour for a man you’re not even sure will even come?”
You pursed your lips as you turned your head to look at your brother. “Well, if you put it that way, it sounds rather pathetic.”
Lyonel was just about to say more when you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Glancing towards the threshold of the tent once more, you fully expected to be disappointed, again. Yet, this time a familiar head of brown hair ducked his way into the main hall of the tent, the silver strands on the side unmistakable.
A smile broke out onto your face as you moved to stand up from your chair. “Ah, there he is.” you exclaimed happily. Lyonel’s face blanked as he caught sight of who the literal man of the hour was. He mentally congratulated you. You’d just managed to achieve what many attempted yet always failed to do.
You’d rendered him absolutely speechless.
When he’d finally regained his senses, his hand shot out of curl in your sleeve, stopping you from waltzing off with two cups of wine in your hands. “You invited a crown prince?” he hissed. “This is who’s had you so dumbstruck the whole evening?”
You nodded, as if your were talking about something as trivial such as dinner. “Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, brother. I have to welcome my guest.” Pulling your arm out of his grip, leaving the table into the direction of the prince. Lyonel remained dumbfounded in his chair. “Unbelievable.” he muttered under his breath, his eyes never once leaving you as you approached the Targaryen.
Valarr had made it barely a few steps into the main hall of the tent when you arrived at his side. “You came.” you said, a smile on your face as you looked up at him. He returned the expression, gratefully accepting the cup you were holding out for him to take. “I couldn’t have left the lady undelighted in my absence, now could I?”
You huffed out a breath, something akin to a laugh. “Is that teasing I hear, your highness?”
“Possibly.” he returned.
“Well, feel free to keep on doing it. It suits you. Mayhaps not always at my expense?”
“I will make sure to keep that in mind.”
You led him back over to the table where you’d kept an empty chair beside you, just in case. Coming to a stop behind the seats, you laid a hand on your brother’s shoulder to get his attention, not that it had been anywhere else ever since you’d gone to greet Valarr.
“May I introduce, my elder brother. Lord Lyonel Baratheon.”
Lyonel rose from his seat, a tight-lipped smile on his face as he shot you a gaze that clearly said We will talk about this later.
“An honour to meet you, your highness. My sister has been so kind as to inform me she’s invited you today. I was most delighted.” he lied, for the sake of politeness. Had it been up to him, the dragon prince would not have set foot near this tent.
The rest of that introduction went by rather well, albeit slightly tense.
Valarr eventually took a seat next to you. Neither of you had taken notice of it at first, but as he now had the chance to take a look around the tent, he saw that most eyes were firmly trained on him. You could tell that it clearly made him mildly uncomfortable, to have so any eyes on him in a rather small space.
You sighed in annoyance, standing up once more as the chair scratched over the floor behind you slightly. “Stop gaping, you idiots. It’s almost as if you’ve never seen a prince before.” You exclaimed. “Get back to your plates and drinks. This is a festivity, not an exhibition.”
Your words seemed effective, as all the people in the tent – now quite flustered at having been caught staring so bluntly, averted their eyes. You sat back down, turning to look at Valarr, who’s head was already tilted in your direction. He seemed impressed. “Thank you.” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. You nodded in return, giving him a smile.
The dinner itself went by rather smoothly, nothing out of the extraordinary. And as it always was in the Baratheon tent, after dining came dancing. Your brother, now rather unaffected by the prince’s presence, had left the table already to go and join the dancing crowd.
You’d stayed next to Valarr, who clearly seemed to not quite know what to do with himself. “Dancing not your cup of tea?” you asked him, tilting your head in curiosity.
“Not really.” he shook his head ever so slightly, taking another sip from his cup of wine, which still had contents from when you’d first given it to him earlier in the evening. You hummed in acknowledgement, craning your head to look around you a few times – to make sure no one was watching you.
When you were sure that no watchful eyes were trained on the two of you, you took ahold of his wrist, getting out of your fur-lined chaise. “Come on. I have a better idea.” you nodded your head into a different direction, urging him to get up and follow you. You led him towards the back of the tent, where you pulled a loose flap to the side, ushering him out of the tent while ensuring that no one had noticed.
You slipped out right after him, once more grabbing onto his wrist and quite literally dragging him with you. You walked through the terrain in between the tents, making sure to avoid any of the main paths. “Where are we going?” you heard Valarr ask from behind you. “You will see, my prince.” you shot over your shoulder, making another sharp turn and walking uphill through a thick section of trees, eventually reaching a clearing on top of the small hill.
From here, you could see almost the entirety of Ashford Meadow, the fields now lit up by all the lanterns and the tents which littered the terrain. And especially now, at night, it was an even more beautiful sight. Everything was pitch black except Ashford Meadow, illuminated by the gathering of so many houses. It was so full of life, yet so peaceful from up here, where the music could not be heard.
“Beautiful view, is it not?” you asked, turning to look at Valarr, who was still taking in the sight.
He nodded. “Beautiful indeed.” he pondered for a few moments, before turning his head in your direction. “Why did you bring me here, my lady?” he asked what had been on his mind ever since you all but ushered him out of the Baratheon tent.
You lowered yourself onto the grass, not caring about dirtying up your clothes. “We are alone, I’d prefer for you to simply call me Y/N, my prince.”
He took a seat on the grass next to you, nodding in response to your words. “Well then, Y/N, it is Valarr to you.” he returned the sentiment.
“To answer your question, Valarr, I could tell that you weren’t feeling all too well back in the tent. After you confirmed by suspicion that dancing was not something you enjoyed – an atrocity, by the way – I came to the conclusion that you do not seem to be fond of such festivities in general.” you explained your observations, a teasing glint in your eye as you called his distaste for dancing an atrocity.
“I am not. Not really.” he confirmed your suspicion.
“Then why did you come? I said there was no pressure. And I can assure you I would not have spoken ill of you, had you decided not to attend.” you returned in genuine curiosity.
“I wished to see you.”
Now you were the speechless one.
He cleared his throat, shuffling slightly in his place as if to search for the right words.
“When you walked up to me last night, or well, into me,” he gave you a pointed look, to which you sighed. “You will not let me live this down, will you?”
“Under no circumstances ever. Anyway, you conversed with me more or less as if we were commoners, rather than a lady of Storm’s End and a future king.” he paused. “It was refreshing. And I quite enjoyed your sense of humour. I wished to talk to you again.”
You smiled at him, his words filling you with warmth. Most of your life, you’d only heard that you were too unladly-like, too much, too loud, too bold. The list could go on. It was not becoming of a lady of your status to behave like you did. You never shied away from a fight, discussion or from a good cup of wine – or three. You did not refrain from making your opinion known, no matter what the topic may be. This was something a lot of people in court did not know how to handle. And they did not appreciate it either. An outspoken woman was almost as bad as a lost war to the self-esteem of men. The only one who had never truly judged you was your brother, Lyonel. But he did not care for propriety as such in general. Therefore, hearing Valarr, a man – a highborn at that – tell you that it were exactly those things that drew him to you was a good feeling.
And it seemed that your attitude in his presence made him feel a similar type of way. He was used to always have people bow before him and talk to him with utmost respect. Which would not exactly be a bad thing, would that respect not stem from mostly fear. The Targaryens were a family whose reputation certainly exceeded them. The madness that was said to flow through their veins left many frightened. They were either feared, or hated. Outside of his own family, he had no one that dared to talk eye-to-eye with him, without the constant reminder that he was a prince of the crown looming over his head. So having you, a lady of high becoming, talk with him as though you were friends that had known each other for years, gave him a much needed change from who he needed to be every other day.
“Well, for what it is worth, I am glad you came. I quite liked your company as well.” you replied softly.
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you stared ahead, taking in the life and bustle of the meadow below, the calmness up here a stark yet appreciated contrast. It was then, that a certain moment from last night sprang back into your mind.
“Say, Valarr, yesterday you muttered something. Right after I so ungraciously bumped into you.” you started, turning to look at him once again. “If I heard correctly, it was not the common tongue. What was it that you said?”
He looked confused at first, before you could practically watch the realization wash over his – now flushed – face.
“Oh- uhm… that is of no importance.” he muttered, trying to wave you off. For obvious reasons, this only made you more curious.
You sat up straighter, pointing at him accusingly. “Oh no. Just by walking into you like a blind donkey I’ve given you more than enough material to tease me with for practically all eternity. And you are already using it to your advantage, might I add. I would go as far as to say you owe me this, princeling. I would very much like to know what you said about me, in a foreign language at that.”
Your words may have come across as rude, but the slight grin on your face made it clear that you were not truly offended by him. He still troubled with letting his “prince-persona” fall like an armour removed from his body. But it seemed that your less than courteous and proper attitude wonderfully cracked through his façade.
He swatted at your finger, which was still pointing at him. “Princeling? Now that is bold, coming from – what did you call yourself? A blind donkey?” he retorted, his voice breaking into a laugh towards the end as you stared back at him, stunned.
“And as for what I said; the word was ‘gevie’. It is High Valyrian. The language of my ancestors.”
Your expression turned deadpan, unimpressed. “Well, I could have guessed that.” you replied, exasperated. “But what does that word mean?”
His grin turned smug as he simply shrugged in response. Rolling your eyes, you nudged his shoulder harshly with your hand, though the shove did not do much to move him. It only seemed to amuse him further.
“You are horrible. Truly horrible, do you know that?” you asked him.
“And here I thought you just said you enjoyed my company.” Valarr drawled, giving you a pointed look.
You shrugged. “I take it back, then.”
Now it was his turn to look stunned. “Take it back? You cannot just take it back.”
“Of course I can. I just did.” you scoffed.
You both stared at each other, expressions feigning seriousness, until you both broke into gentle laughter.
When you’d caught your breath, your eyes strayed to Valarr again. “Will you truly not tell me what g- whatever it is that you said means?” you asked, voice softer this time, void of the teasing tone from before.
His eyes turned gentle as he gazed at you with quiet fondness. “It means beautiful.” he gave your long-awaited answer, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your eyes remained trained on his mismatched ones as you were at a loss for words, utterly unsure how to reply to this.
Valarr did not give you the chance.
“I was exhausted from the joust. Therefore when you bumped into me, I was more than ready to curse you out. As you were, from what it seemed.” he paused as his eyes roamed over your face like it had done the day before. “But when I looked at you, everything I initially wished to say was forgotten.”
The tiniest smile twitched into your lips, uncharacteristically shy for you. “So the only thing you managed to say was beautiful?” you asked, barely audible.
A breathless and flustered chuckle escaped him as he nodded. “Yes. And as it seems, I forgot the common tongue altogether, given the word was said in High Valyrian.”
You stayed silent for a few moments, pondering over what to say next. You had never expected that seeking him out yesterday would lead to a conversation such as this. You weren’t in awe because you were currently sitting out on a field with a future king, in the dead of night. Something which would be considered highly inappropriate. You weren’t in awe because the future king of Westeros – a Targaryen prince – had called you beautiful. You were in awe because it was him – Valarr – who had said it, who was sitting here with you. His title did not matter to you in the slightest. You had known that he was arguably the most handsome man you’d ever seen before you even knew who he was. That he was a prince of the crown had changed nothing, better or worse.
“Just so you know,” you broke the silence. “When you first rode onto the lists yesterday, I am pretty sure I forgot how to speak for a few moments as well.”
For a reason you could not quite make out, because look at him, this seemed to surprise him. “You did?”
You chuckled. “Of course. I accompanied by brother to this tourney because I am due to find a suitor. For the past two days, I’ve dealt with nothing but old and arrogant lords who believe themselves to be above everyone else. Lords who boist an brag to show me how great they are so they can achieve the status of marrying a Baratheon. They make me want to retch, quite honestly.” you paused. “But then you came riding into the lists. Quiet, focused. Not looking for attention. I already liked that about you. And I was too busy staring at you like a simpering mutt to take a look at the crest on your armour. Up until I heard someone say your name behind me, I did not even know who you were. But I knew I wanted to talk to you. So I did. Regardless of your name.”
“I do not think anyone has ever truly seen past my family name and what it means. I cannot express how glad I am that you did.” Valarr responded, his hand inching closer to where yours laid on the ground to steady yourself, until his pinky brushed against yours.
As your conversation faded into silence, you tilted your head back to look up at the sky, void of clouds and littered with stars.
“You know,” you began. “As a child, I used to spend every night staring up past my assigned bed time, staring out at the stars from my window.”
“As did I.” Valarr responded, following your gaze into the sky. “There is something soothing about it. I think as I got older, I lost touch with the calm that it brought me.”
“Do you know a lot about stars, Valarr?” you asked him.
“No.” he shook his head. “I would have loved to know more, but all the time I really had was spent reading about my family’s legacy and what would await me once I ascended the throne.”
You hummed in response, letting him know you’d heard him.
Then you went ahead and spent what was probably the better part of the next few hours explaining everything you had read about stars during your childhood to him. You pointed out several constellations you remembered from the endless pages of parchment, telling him what each of them represented and meant.
While others may have grown bored of it after a while, Valarr hung onto your every word, interrupting you with questions whenever there was something he did not quite understand or that he wished to know more about. And whenever your voice faded into silence, unsure whether he still wanted to hear more, he’d mutter a soft. “Tell me more… please.”
It was in the very early hours of the morning, when the stars you’d talked so much about slowly started to disappear, that the two of your realised you’d been out here the entire night.
“We should head back, most likely.” Valarr spoke up, yawning slightly as he stood back up. You’d been awake the whole night, after all.
You heaved yourself up as well, gladly using his extended hand as aid to get on your feet. “We should.” you agreed, yet neither of you moved, your hand still in his.
“Yeah.” the word came out as nothing more than a faint breath as his eyes flickered between your own and your lips, before ultimately settling on the latter. You returned the sentiment, a ragged breath slipping past your parted lips.
You glanced up at his eyes once more, seeing them still firmly trained on your mouth. With another shaky breath you raised your free hand to rest on the side of his neck, fingers curling around the back, before you leaned up and connected your lips to his.
It was almost uncertain at first, until he relaxed against you, his lips beginning to move against yours. The hand that engulfed yours let go, instead coming to rest on the side of your face as he pulled you closer against him, his lips never once leaving yours. Your arms ultimately wound themselves around his neck, leaving no space between the two of you.
After what felt like an eternity and yet not nearly long enough, you parted for air. When Valarr had somewhat caught his breath, he breathed against your lips: “This is highly inappropriate.”
You chuckled, a breathless sound. “Do you regret it?”
“No.” his response came instantly as he kissed you once more, this one shorter and more timid.
“Good.” you muttered into the kiss before returning it.
The two of you had ultimately, albeit unwillingly, parted ways with a solemn Until we meet again. Unfortunately, you hadn’t had another chance to have even one moment with him for the rest of the tourney, much to your dismay.
Now, a moon later, you were sat in the dining hall of Storm’s End – enjoying your breakfast – as your brother came literally storming in with a roll of parchment in his hand.
“Sist- Ah, there you are.” he had already started shouting in his typical demeanour before catching sight of you. “A raven has just arrived.”
You swallowed a bite of your food, raising an eyebrow. “And?”
“It is a marriage proposal.”
You groaned, falling back into your seat. “This is what? The third one this week? Why are you even still informing me about these? They’ve all been horrendous, thus far.”
A smug grin etched onto Lyonel’s face as he pointed the roll of parchment at you. “Ah, ah. I think you will quite like this one, sister. This one is from King’s Landing. Prince Valarr Targaryen asks for your hand.”
You choked on the sip of your drink you were taking, breaking into a coughing fit as your brother approached and clapped you on the back a few times. “Aye, maybe I should have waited for you to swallow.”
“You think?” you croaked out, slowly gaining back your ability to breathe.
“And this is not a joke?” you asked, a hopeful glint in your eyes.
Lyonel placed the opened roll of parchment in front of you on the table. “There, read it yourself.”
You did, and oh.
Oh.
He certainly was not lying.
You cleared your throat, containing yourself. “I assume we will not deny such an offer?” you asked.
Lyonel only gave you a pointed look in response. “Do not take me for a fool, Y/N. You think I did not notice you sneaking out of the tent with the prince hot on your heels back in Ashford? And do not even get me started on that lovesick expression on your face once you returned – in the early morning, might I add.”
“I-“ you were just about to protest, but only sighed. “Alright, alright. I want to accept this proposal. Is that what you wish to hear?”
“Yes, thank you.” Lyonel replied, with a look that said Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?
He then sighed, loud and clearly overexaggerated as he leaned back into the backrest of the chair next to you.
“Unbelievable. My sister, a future queen of the seven kingdoms. Who would have thought? When even Lord Hightower did not want to take you as bride.”
You smacked the side of his arm in response to which he only laughed heartily.
“I am happy for you, for what it’s worth. I may not like the dragon-fellows, but from what I’ve heard, Valarr is a good man. And you seem to fancy him.” You gave him a small smile. “That I do.”
song: mad about you - toto
(this is one of my fav songs of all time and somehow using it for valarr felt right)
EVEN LONGER THAN “MAD ABOUT YOU” 😈😈😈😈 say less. I’m so sat. I fucking LOVE long ass one shots so so much.
yeeesss, most likely hahah
me too, me too. when i see stuff that's like 10-15k+ my mouth waters, seriously. that shit's so good.
and this time we're getting a lot more Valarr moments than last time, because he's already present much earlier. i always love to focus on reader's dynamic w/ other characters too, which i'm doing again, but Valarr moments will be way more often.
depending on how long it will be i'll maybe make it a two-parter, which i will only publish when the whole thing is finished, obviously. but we'll see. i'm really excited.
And I'm so glad that you're excited too, hahah <3 i'm really here vibrating in my seat when i get messages like this
