~わくわく~

21, she/her, I write when I feel like, a sickly victorian child, call me mai

[strawberry0verlord]

Masterlist:

Fandom: AKOTSK

Valarr Targaryen x FemReader

The Things We Never Said (Modern AU series)

Valarr Targaryen x FemReader x ???

A Song of Fire and Blood (series) tba

FemReader x men of akotsk

choose your own fate

Do You Not Like Lemoncakes? (short series) tba

Valarr Targaryen x FemReader

Honey (drabble)

Valarr Targaryen x FemReader

[strawberry0verlord]

𖤜 HONEY

(Drabble)

꒦꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒦

.✦ ݁˖ SYNOPSIS: A short journey to the Riverlands sees your utterly in love and devoted husband, gentle beyond measure and blessed with the kindest of hearts, Valarr, traveling alongside his cousin, Daeron.

An unexpected conversation along the road leaves him returning home with a quiet, newfound curiosity that he is too bashful to voice boldy.

.✦ ݁˖ PAIRING: Valarr Targaryen x wife/Reader

.✦ ݁˖ CONTENT: 18+ insinuating sexual acts, no description of reader, no mention of reader's lineage, no use of y/n.

꒦꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷

The afternoon had settled over the Red Keep with a gentleness seldom afforded to King's Landing, the summer heat yielding at last to a cool breeze that wandered through the open casement windows, stirring the pale curtains and carrying with it the distant cries of gulls circling Blackwater Bay.

Sunlight splayed lazily across the polished floor and upon the length of the elegant settee upon which you reclined, its graceful frame fashioned by the most celebrated craftsmen in the capital at your husband's insistence.

Every inch of it spoke of princely extravagance, from the smooth dark timber painstakingly carved with winding vines and dragons to the sumptuous cushions upholstered in crimson velvets from Qohor and lace so exquisitely woven in Myr that they flaunted their vivid hues whenever the light caressed them.

It had been but four moons since your marriage, and though your union had begun, as so many noble matches did, beneath the careful guidance of politics and family expectation, companionship had blossomed between you with astonishing ease. There had been none of the uncomfortable distance whispered about in courtly gossip, nor the tedious obligation that burdened so many newly wedded couples. Instead, you had found in Prince Valarr someone whose quiet temperament mirrored your own, whose fondness for histories, poetry, and philosophical discourse often kept the two of you awake in dark hours of the night.

He possessed a thoughtful, gentle and kind soul hidden beneath the dignity expected of a prince, and you had come to cherish the peculiar earnestness with which he approached even the smallest matters.

At Prince Baelor's urging, Valarr had ridden for the Riverlands accompanied by his cousin, Prince Daeron, to strengthen ties with several houses whose loyalties were ever worth tending. They had returned only yestermorning, weary from the long roads yet successful enough that the Hand himself had appeared quietly pleased.

Now, scarcely a day after his return, peace had once more settled over your shared chambers. Everything returning into its mundane course.

Curled comfortably upon the luxurious settee, one slipper discarded upon the carpet beneath you, you had become hopelessly engrossed in a particularly fascinating volume detailing the rise of Nymeria's ten thousand ships.

Until a peculiar sound began.

A soft thump. Then followed by another. Wood meeting leather against the floor in a steady rhythm.

You frowned faintly without lifting your gaze, convincing yourself the distraction would soon cease. To your chagrin it had not, and you found yourself reading the same line a second time. When the fifth thump came, you released the softest sigh imaginable and lowered your book.

Ordinarily, Valarr's return from his afternoon drills followed an almost sacred routine, one so familiar you could have recited every motion without looking. He would enter dressed in fresh clothing after washing away the dust and sweat of the training yard, quietly remove his boots by the door lest they dirty the carpets, cross the room with careful footsteps, and press a chaste kiss against your temple before uttering so much as a greeting. Knowing well how easily books carried you into another world, he never sought to interrupt unless necessity demanded it, and he often confessed he found your complete immersion endlessly endearing. Only afterward would he loosen his rather large leather escarcelle (bag), drape it neatly across the carved bedpost, stretch out upon the immaculate bed, and indulge in a brief nap before servants arrived to summon the two of you for supper.

Today, however, the ritual had been forgotten, much like the Old Gods of Valyria.

Rather than resting upon the bed, Valarr wandered the length of your chambers with deliberate, unhurried steps. He paced like a scholar wrestling with an impossibly stubborn question.

Back and forth he walked, hands clasped behind his back, each measured stride accompanied by the gentle rhythm of boots against the floor. The singular streak of silver running through his otherwise dark hair remained impeccably in place despite the afternoon bath, while shafts of sunlight caught within his mismatched eyes, making one appear almost molten amber while the other glimmered somewhere between pale blue and deep indigo depending upon the angle. His thoughts held him captive enough that he failed to notice you watching him.

"Husband," you called softly, careful not to startle him from whatever labyrinth his mind had sauntered into. "Is something the matter?"

He stopped so abruptly one might have believed he had forgotten you were present at all. Turning toward you, remorse immediately softened his sharp, handsome features.

"No... Seven, no," he answered hastily, shaking his head. "Forgive me, my love. I had not realized I was disturbing your reading."

"No harm has been done, my dear."

Offering him a reassuring smile, you lifted your book once more, intending to lose yourself again among Nymeria's fleet. You had scarcely reached the bottom of the page before his voice dragged you ashore.

"I was wondering..." He stopped. "...No." Another pause. "On my journey through the Riverlands, Daeron and I happened to discuss... certain matters."

His hands, which had remained folded neatly behind his back, finally dropped to his sides before one rose to cradle his chin while the other folded across his chest.

The unusual hesitation in his speech, together with the faint crease between his brows, convinced you that whatever occupied him deserved your full attention. Resting the book upon your lap, you lifted your gaze to give him your undivided attention.

"What matters, my love?"

Valarr lowered his gaze to the floor.

"My cousin informed me..." he began before stopping yet again. To your considerable astonishment, a delicate flush began to creep across his pale cheeks.

"...that within a certain Inn in the Riverlands..." Another pause followed, his embarrassment deepening visibly. "...the Pussywillow... certain men enjoy drizzling honey over the lady's.... pot... before licking it clean off."

Silence settled between you as you stared at him in disbelief. For a moment, your face rendered emotionless due to your husband's unexpected lewdness. Then ever so slowly your brows slowly drew together.

"...What did you just say?"

"I have never visited the establishment," he blurted before you could gather another thought. "Nor did I accompany Daeron to any. I swear it before the Seven. I would never betray or disgrace you in such a fashion."

Crossing the room in two hurried strides, he reached for both your hands with such earnest urgency that the suddenness of the gesture startled a quiet laugh from you.

"I believe you."

His shoulders loosened by a fraction.

"Go on, then."

"I merely wondered..." he said carefully, choosing every word as though navigating a field strewn with hidden snares. "Not because I possess any particular interest in the practice itself. When Daeron mentioned it, I simply found myself wondering what you might have thought."

The flush upon his face deepened until even the tips of his ears had surrendered to it.

"I am not asking that we attempt such debauchery," he hurried on, his hands now accompanying every sentence in increasingly animated gestures.

"It simply occurred to me that if, hypothetically, I were to place honey upon your.... pot... would you find the notion absurd? Would you think less of me? Would it upset you?"

He hesitated one final time. "...Or would you perhaps find yourself... interested?" His brows lifted in subtle hope.

You considered his question for a long moment before gathering your thoughts. A similar hush of pink tainting your cheeks.

"I do not believe it would upset me," you replied slowly. "Nor do I imagine it would alter my opinion of you."

The smallest victorious smile threatened the corner of his mouth before disappearing beneath his princely composure.

"Precisely," he said with entirely too much enthusiasm.

"You see, the Tyrells sent us carriages of jars of spring honey. An extraordinary amount, truly. It would be terribly wasteful to leave it untouched."

Your expression flattened. "So that is the argument you intend to present?"

"You understand, then?" His eyes brightened at once. "Such generosity deserves appreciation. It would be deeply discourteous to allow so fine a gift to languish upon the pantry shelves. House Tyrell has shown our family remarkable support throughout the years. It would border upon an insult."

"I see." You feigned a serious nod.

"We ought to use it."

"Is that truly what you wish?" You questioned regarding him with an exasperated smile.

"My love," he answered with the utmost dignity, clearing his throat despite the unmistakable colour still lingering upon his cheeks, "I assure you I have no desire whatsoever to lick the liquid from your.....pot" Another pause. "It was merely... an inquiry." He shifted awkwardly. "...Unless.... you are interested." Another pause. "But truly, it was only an inquiry of the heart."

A smile escaped you despite your efforts to supress it.

"Very well, my love." Satisfied that the matter had concluded, you reached once more for your book.

"'Very well' as in... you wish to?" His head snapped towards you. He crossed the room in three swift strides, eyes suddenly impossibly wide, his larg hands pressing your book back down onto your lap.

You laughed softly.

"No, Valarr. I meant only that I understood you were only asking."

"Oh."

The single syllable carried enough disappointment to shatter your heart. His shoulders sagged with unmistakable resignation as he turned away and wandered toward the bed with all the forlorn dignity of a knight returning from a lost tourney.

You watched him for several long moments before releasing a defeated sigh of your own. Closing your book, you placed it carefully upon the polished mahogany table beside the settee.

"I would like to try, husband."

The transformation was immediate. Where moments before stood a dejected prince now stood a delighted boy scarcely capable of containing himself.

His entire countenance brightened with irrepressible excitement, his mismatched eyes sparkling with unconcealed triumph as though he had just been informed his petrified dragon egg had hatched.

"Well," he declared, striving, and failing, to sound composed, "if my precious wife should happen to desire such an experiment, who would I be to deny her?"

Without another word, he strode purposefully toward the leather satchel he had carried into the chamber.

"Perfect. It is as though the gods intended it."

From within it, he triumphantly withdrew a neatly stoppered large jar of honey.

"I happened to have one here."

You stared at your husband once again. Speachless.

"Come on then, wife, lie on the bed. I also have silverware prepared."

Despite every attempt to preserve your composure, laughter escaped you in bright, helpless peals as you walked towards him.

[strawberry0verlord]

The latest chapter is fcking good and the suspense is killing meeeeeee😭😭 i just know valarr did a lot of suspicious shit behind her in order to have her in his arms completelyyyyy

Thank you so much 🥹🥹🥹🥹💖 you're going to make me cry at 9 in the morning. And also.... you're too smart for your own good. You must be silenced 🤫

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen x FemReader x ???

Chapter XV:

A DANCE WITH DRAGONS

Warning: MATURE CONTENT 18+

You remained rooted to the spot, every instinct abandoning you at once as shock rendered your limbs immobile.

Aerion Targaryen sat with infuriating ease in the shadowed corner of the bar, occupying a weathered wooden chair a mere few feet behind Rowan as though he had always belonged there. His long legs were spread in an unmistakably possessive display, one arm draped languidly across the backrest, while an inscrutable gleam shimmered within eyes of vivid lilac. Beneath the amber glow of the hanging bulbs, his silver hair gleamed and you could not look away.

A faint trace of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, as though your astonishment entertained him greatly, yet your own expression darkened into something decidedly less pleasant. Your thoughts collided in a chaotic torrent, each demanding attention before the last could be understood, until your mind proved incapable of comprehending the impossible sight before you.

Even when Rowan leaned close, her perfume soft and familiar contrasting the faint putrid sour scent of alcohol and polished wood, you scarcely registered her presence.

"I have to go," she whispered apologetically. "Raymund is waiting for me, but I think you should hear what he has to say. Valarr... he isn't quite the man you believe him to—" She faltered.

Uncertainty clouded her features, and for several moments she appeared to wage a silent battle with herself.

"I'll tell you the rest another time," she finished quietly at last.

You remained motionless even as she pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek and wrapped you in a brief embrace before departing the doors, leaving you alone amidst the distant notes of melancholic piano music drifting from an old gramophone.

"You seem to be doing well," Aerion's voice sliced effortlessly through your stupor. He reached for an old bottle of Scotch resting upon the table and poured himself a generous measure. Ice shifted within the crystal tumbler, producing a soft chiming sound as the liquid gold streamed over it.

"I suppose that obnoxious cousin of mine—"

"You will not speak of him that way." The interruption emerged sharper than you intended, though it took considerable effort merely to force the words past your lips.

Aerion pursed his lips thoughtfully before inclining his head in slow acknowledgment. Raising both hands in mock surrender, he exhaled through his nose in what might have been amusement.

"Of course." As his arms lowered once more, he gestured toward the vacant chair opposite him.

"Please, sit. I imagine you have rather a number of questions."

You stared at him in silence.

"If you would rather leave, you're free to do so," he continued, entirely unbothered by your hostility. "I have no intention of keeping you here against your will. One message, and your gallant knight will no doubt come charging to whisk you away."

Your instincts urged you to leave. Every lesson caution had ever taught you insisted that remaining here was foolish, that Valarr would not appreciate this meeting, and that nothing good could possibly come from speaking with Aerion Targaryen alone.

Yet there were simply too many unanswered questions. Curiosity, gnawing at your conscience insidiously and relentlessly, ultimately made the decision for you. With measured composure, you crossed the distance separating you and lowered yourself into the offered seat.

Aerion rewarded the decision with a satisfied nod. He poured a second glass before sliding it across the scarred tabletop. You watched the liquid swirl gently within the crystal before lifting your gaze to meet his.

"Why did you want me here?"

For the first time since your arrival, Aerion's expression shifted. His eyes lowered to his drink as he adjusted his posture, sitting straighter. One elbow came to rest upon the inexpensive table separating you while his other hand settled against his thigh for support. Gradually, he leaned forward, reducing the space between you.

"I should think the answer is obvious." One of those infuriatingly crooked smiles curved his mouth.

"I wanted to see that beautiful face of yours. Now I have."

Outwardly, you remained perfectly composed. Beneath the table, however, your fingers curled tightly against your palm as irritation unfurled within your chest. You watched him take another leisurely sip.

"Do you genuinely find this amusing?"

"Which part, my dear?" he asked, gaze roaming unabashedly across your features.

"Playing with women's feelings."

"I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific." Setting the glass aside, he reclined in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, his maddening smile never once abandoning him.

"You kissed me, rather passionately," you said evenly, "and then disappeared to Lys with another woman. Now you've returned as though nothing ever happened."

"And you truly believe that?"

"Believe what?"

"Whatever your..." His smile sharpened. "...betrothed has told you."

"It was everywhere. Every newspaper, every news station carried the story."

"The very news outlets my family owns?" he inquired, arching a silver brow.

"Your family doesn't own every station."

"No," he conceded smoothly, "but they possess more than enough influence to shape the narrative."

"And why would they?"

He did not answer. Instead, he resumed his previous position, leaning forward until the warm honey-coloured light illuminated the sharp lines of his face.

"By the Maiden," he murmured softly, "you're still breathtaking."

The subtle alteration in his expression unsettled you more than any smirk ever could. Something tightened painfully within your chest and you dismissed it without a second thought.

"I'm a Blackfyre, in case you've forgotten," you replied coolly. "My very existence is a crime punishable by fire."

Aerion looked away. For several long moments, he contemplated your words in silence, mouth drawn into a faint frown. When he finally met your gaze again, all traces of amusement had vanished. The seriousness you encountered there was startling in its intensity.

"And yet, all I want is you."

The bold unwavering confession struck you speechless. Your carefully maintained composure fractured instantly.

A shiver raced down your spine, raising gooseflesh across your skin, while your body betrayed you entirely by recoiling in startled disbelief. For a humiliating moment, you could do nothing except stare. You swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

"This is inappropriate," you managed at last. "I'm engaged to your cousin."

"For the now," he replied shamelessly. With a sigh, he straightened in his chair.

"I love Valarr, and I intend to marry him." You delivered the declaration boldly, refusing to allow even the slightest hesitation to taint it.

Aerion merely tilted his head.

"But does he love you?"

"He does."

"Then I assume he's told you the truth."

You paused.

"What truth?"

Recognition flickered across his features.

"Ah," he said quietly. "So he hasn't."

A humourless laugh escaped you.

"This is absurd. I have no interest in your games. Whatever story you used to convince Rowan, it won't work on me." You offered him a cool, sarcastic smile then prepared to rise.

"Perhaps you ought to ask your betrothed yourself."

"Valarr would never intentionally keep something from me," you said firmly. "We've had our differences in the past, but we worked through them and we care for one another deeply."

Memories surfaced unbidden then—soft laughter shared beneath silk sheets, stolen moments of tenderness in the darkness of night, whispered promises spoken when the rest of the world seemed impossibly distant. A smile involuntarily forming on your face, but Aerion's next words extinguished it immediately.

"It would seem you know my cousin far less well than you imagine."

Your gaze snapped toward him. Before you could respond, he rose. In several effortless strides he had crossed the narrow distance separating you. One powerful arm encircled your waist without warning, drawing you abruptly against him. You inhaled sharply. He bent scandalously close, his breath warm against your ear.

"You must remember," he whispered, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, "that he is a Targaryen."

A pause.

"And madness lives in all of us."

To your dismay, your body remembered him. It remembered his warmth, the intoxicating heat of standing this close. Your heart then began to thunder violently against your ribs while your pulse accelerated.

"Gods, I've missed you," he murmured. He drew back only slightly, studying your face with undisguised longing before his gaze descended, slow and unhurried, to your lips.

Horror at your own reaction restored your senses. Summoning every ounce of strength available to you, you shoved him away.

Aerion stumbled back half a step, genuine surprise flashing across his features before transforming into reluctant admiration.

A soft chuckle escaped him though you did not share his amusement. Your hands had already clenched into pale fists at your sides.

"You should leave," he said eventually, shaking his head. "I'd hate for the realm's beloved princeling to be worried." He walked and paused infront of you, pressing a folded slip of paper into your frigid palms with a deliberate firmness, curling your fingers around it before you could even think to resist. The parchment felt unnaturally warm from the heat of his skin, an insignificant thing that nevertheless seemed to burn against your own. His silver-lilac eyes lingered on you for a fraction longer than necessary.

"This is my new number," he said quietly, though there was nothing gentle about the look he gave you. "If you ever decide you're done living among lies, call me."

You parted your lips, a dozen questions clawing their way to the surface, yet none managed to escape. Aerion merely offered a faint, unreadable smile. And only when your backs faced one another did he speak again.

"Oh, and do be a dear and send that brazen cousin of mine a message, if you would."

You turned, but Aerion did not.

"He may have had a head start through the advantage of his rank and influence," then he slightly tilts his head towards your direction, "but the dragon ought never lose." Then he resumed to walk away.

You watched him disappear through the doors of the establishment, the darkness of the evening swallowing his retreating figure until there was nothing left of him at all.

Even after he was gone, you remained rooted to the spot. Confusion coiled through your chest like smoke, dense and suffocating. Shock rendered your limbs useless while countless unanswered questions thundered through your mind with relentless force.

You did not notice how long you stood there till the sudden sensation of hands gripping your shoulders and shaking you firmly dragged you back to reality.

"Y/N." The voice sounded distant. "Y/N."

You blinked and the world slowly sharpened into focus. Valarr stood before you, his brows drawn tightly together, mismatched eyes darkened with unmistakable distress. His lips were moving, concern etched deeply across his features, though his words still reached you as though muffled beneath water.

You could not understand him as you internally battled against fear and confusion. An unfamiliar ache that had settled somewhere deep inside your chest.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, arms wrapping around Valarr's torso with desperate urgency, clutching him as though he were the only solid thing left in a world that had abruptly become uncertain.

The action clearly startled him, feeling his entire body stiffen. Then, almost immediately, he softened.

"Sevens," he breathed shakily. His arms closed around you, strong and encompassing, drawing you flush against his chest. One hand cradled the back of your head while the other held your waist possessively. You could feel his heartbeat racing.

"Don't ever leave me again," he whispered against your hair and his embrace tightened further when a faint scent of sandalwood crawled unwarranted into his nostrils. He said nothing though his hold became nearly painful.

The drive home unfolded beneath an oppressive silence. Rain had begun to fall sometime during the journey, droplets streaking across the car windows in wavering silver lines while city lights blurred beyond them. Valarr sat beside you, one hand firmly and possessively intertwined with yours throughout the entire ride.

Occasionally, he spoke.

You knew he did because you saw his lips move and heard the low cadence of his voice. Yet not a single sentence truly registered.

Your thoughts remained hopelessly ensnared by Aerion's words.

Was Valarr truly hiding something? Or had this simply been another one of Aerion's manipulative games designed to drive a wedge between you? What had he meant when he asked whether you genuinely believed he had left?

And he missed you? Had he truly missed you? Or had Valarr been right all along? Was Aerion merely lonely, seeking comfort because no one else was available? Valarr had never concealed his disdain for his cousin, frequently referring to him as an incorrigible lecher incapable of genuine attachment.

Then there had been the other remark.

Valarr possesses a madness too. What madness?

And perhaps most perplexing of all:

Valarr may have a head start, but he does not intend to lose. Lose what?

The thought made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

There was also Rowan. What had she meant when she claimed she would tell you the rest later?

What details remained untold?

By the time you prepared for bed, your mind had become an exhausted haze.

Valarr stood in the adjoining bathroom, brushing his teeth while steam fogged the mirror. Taking advantage of the brief solitude, you retrieved your phone and immediately searched for Rowan's contact.

Only then did you notice the notifications.

Twenty-eight missed calls. All from Valarr.

Your heart lurched. He had likely been worried sick after your long departure. Considering everything that had happened, you could hardly blame him. Guilt pricked at you, though you quickly dismissed it, instead saving Aerion's new number under an unassuming name before messaging Rowan.

That night, Valarr held you unusually tight while you slept.

——

The following days only deepened your unease.

You attempted to speak with Rowan repeatedly regarding that evening at the bar, but her responses were... peculiar.

Whenever you brought up the conversation, Rowan appeared genuinely clueless and she behaved entirely normally, especially when Valarr accompanied you.

The entire ordeal left you feeling increasingly disoriented. Had Rowan simply been intoxicated that evening? Had you misunderstood? Or had none of it happened at all?

At times, the memory felt so surreal that you wondered whether exhaustion and ashblood had somehow fabricated the entire encounter.

Yet one thing prevented you from dismissing it completely. Something had irrevocably and silently changed.

Valarr.

At first, the alterations were subtle.

He seemed more tense than usual, perpetually carrying an invisible strain beneath his immaculate composure. He became extraordinarily attentive, rearranging his schedule simply to remain by your side.

He skipped meetings, ignored obligations, to the considerable displeasure of his father, and abandoned numerous responsibilities solely to accompany you.

He escorted you everywhere. When work prevented him from doing so personally, one of his security staff quietly assumed the task.

"It is only because I worry about your health," he would insist whenever you questioned him.

Considering your worsening Ashblood, the explanation seemed reasonable. The disease had progressed with alarming speed. Only a week prior, Valarr had discovered you unconscious on the bathroom floor.

You would have forgetten the expression on his face when you regained consciousness if it were not so inappropriately amusing to you.

Pure horror, utter devastation and oddly endearing. After some time you would often tease him but that would earn you a quick reprimand.

He had immediately enlisted every available resource to aid your recovery, even using his family's influence to recruit some of the brightest scholars across Westeros to assist Aemond with ongoing research, thereby allowing you an extended leave from university.

You suspected such interference was probably unethical. Then again, the university existed largely because of Targaryen funding. Rules tended to bend around families like theirs.

Yet as your health slowly improved, Valarr's protectiveness intensified rather than receded. And somewhere along the way, it ceased feeling comforting.

If you failed to answer his messages within five minutes, he became visibly upset. Should you decline the transportation arrangements he painstakingly organized, he would simply appear himself and drive you. Missing a call provoked palpable irritation. Leaving without informing him invariably resulted in an argument.

At first, you attributed everything to stress. His coming graduation, corporate obligations, your illness etc.

Any common soul would be overwhelmed.

However, increasingly, an uncomfortable sensation settled within you. It was as though an invisible leash had been fastened around your throat, as if every expression of affection carried unseen restraints.

The air around you felt heavier now, thicker to breathe, and you hated the comparison that surfaced unbidden.

You hated it enough that you never spoke it aloud. But the feeling reminded you painfully of your father's guardianship during childhood.

Controlling. Suffocating. And.

Unhealthy possessive.

——

Lunches with your friends remained one of the few constants in your life.

You, Valarr, Rowan, Raymund, Aemon and Loras gathered beneath sprawling oak trees, birdsong weaving through the warm afternoon air while laughter drifted across the gardens.

Everyone occupied their customary seats.

Valarr kept an arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you comfortably against his side.

Since your engagement, he had entirely abandoned any attempt at concealing his devotion. Not that he had ever truly hidden it.

Beside you sat Rowan and Raymund. Across from you, Aemon and Loras.

As usual, Rowan and Loras had already descended into spirited bickering while Aemon enjoyed his meal with the detached amusement of a man witnessing theatre.

Until he arrived, like an unexpected, unwelxomed storm. Silver hair gleaming beneath sunlight, he sauntered toward the table and casually draped himself over Aemon's shoulders.

"Brother," he lamented dramatically. "Surely you missed me?"

Aemon, posture suddenly rigid and smile strained, looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. The discomfort couldn't have been more evident. Aerion appeared completely unaware.

"Distance has taught me to appreciate family far more," before sitting himself down.

More unsettling still, he seemed utterly indifferent to your intimacy with Valarr. Where once he might have provoked or taunted, now he simply watched.

Often, you would find Valarr regarding him with that perfectly polished smile he reserved for adversaries and Aerion invariably answered with a smug, infuriatingly amused expression.

The silent war persisted for months. All the while Aerion appeared everywhere. Whether it was business meetings, family functions, charity galas. Events he had historically avoided with remarkable consistency.

Maekar seemed thrilled by his son's newfound enthusiasm for familial obligations. You and Baelor, however, saw something else entirely. A storm gathering behind Valarr's eyes.

Baelor merely sighed with weary resignation, while you simply squeezed Valarr's hand beneath the table, stroking your thumb across his knuckles in silent reassurance.

Thus, when Baelor proposed hosting a proper engagement celebration after Valarr completed his degree and his workload finally lessened, you welcomed the idea wholeheartedly.

A night devoted solely to joy sounded heavenly.

Fine wine, laughter, friends and... family.

——

The celebration was held at an extraordinary estate overlooking the Blackwater Rush.

Though technically situated beside a river, extensive landscaping had transformed the shoreline into something resembling a private beachfront. Baelor had purchased the property as a graduation and engagement gift for you and Valarr.

The estate was breathtaking. Elegant stone pathways wound through expanses of emerald lawn bursting with vibrant flowers. Ornately carved gazebos dotted the grounds while immense glass walls offered uninterrupted views of the gardens, artificial shoreline and shimmering water beyond.

It was paradise, at least until the guests arrived.

You had invited Rowan and Raymund, naturally, and Valarr, the Tyrells.

Your father had declined, not to your suprise, and several relatives followed suit. Though you had to admit you were relieved.

The majority of the Targaryens, however, attended. And therein laid all your problems. Well, Valarr's mostly.

The evening began perfectly. Golden sunlight filtered through towering oaks, their immense canopies casting dappled shade while cool breezes drifted from the river.

You and Valarr greeted guests together.

Your fiancé looked devastatingly handsome. A fitted white knit accentuated the broad planes of his chest while dark tailored trousers elongated his already impressive frame. A few curls of dark chest hair disappeared beneath the collar, lending him an almost unfair allure and attractiveness. Beside him, you wore a lavender silk gown whose soft colour drew attention to your eyes.

By the time the final guests arrived, dusk had surrendered entirely to night.

That was when she appeared. A young blonde woman. Beautiful could hardly suffice, though unsettlingly familiar.

You frowned. Where had you seen her before? Valarr noticed immediately.

"Prunella Celtigar," he explained. "One of my father's assistants."

You nodded slowly and she smiled warmly. Perhaps a little too warmly.

Worse still, she and Valarr appeared remarkably familiar with one another. Manicured hands often brushing his arms while she giggled at the comments he made. You could not help the bitter feeling unpleasantly brewing within your chest. Before you could dwell on it, another hand captured yours.

Warm lips brushed your knuckles. You looked up.

"My lady," he murmured, amusement dancing shamelessly within his violet eyes. "You look absolutely radiant tonight."

And suddenly, despite the music, the laughter and the glittering lights reflected upon the river, the evening no longer felt quite so perfect.

The instant Aerion's lips brushed across your knuckles, the atmosphere shifted.

It was subtle. So subtle that none of the guests scattered across the sprawling estate would have noticed.

Yet you felt it immediately. Valarr's arm, which had rested comfortably around your waist moments before, tightened almost imperceptibly and slightly painfully. The movement was slight enough to appear affectionate to any observer, but you knew him well enough to recognize the truth hidden beneath that elegant composure.

Possession, a slight threat and warning. The faint upward curve of his mouth proved Aerion had noticed.

"How fortunate my cousin is," Aerion mused, straightening to his full height. Moonlight spilled across his silver hair, rendering him almost ethereal against the dark waters of the Blackwater Rush. "Everyone seems to pale in comparison whenever you attend."

Valarr's impeccably refined smile appeared instantly.

"You are too kind, cousin," Valarr replied smoothly. "Though I imagine prolonged absences have made you somewhat sentimental."

Aerion chuckled softly.

"Perhaps." His gaze never left yours. "Distance has a curious way of clarifying what one values. And for that I thank you."

Something cold unfurled within your stomach though you could not explain why. Perhaps it was because the exchange sounded innocuous enough to anyone listening, yet every instinct in your body screamed that you were witnessing something else entirely.

"You should greet the other guests," Valarr suggested, his tone unfailingly courteous. "Your father was eager to speak with you."

Aerion's eyes finally drifted toward him.

"Certainly." Without another word, Aerion stepped away.

——

Valarr remained tense throughout the entirety of the evening.

To anyone else, he appeared immaculate as ever—the picture of aristocratic composure and cultivated grace. He smiled when required, exchanged pleasantries with guests effortlessly, and entertained conversations with the polished ease expected of Baelor Targaryen's heir. Yet you knew him too intimately not to notice the fractures beginning to form beneath that flawless exterior. The carefully maintained façade was thinning.

Each passing hour seemed to draw it tighter, stretching it dangerously close to breaking. Even the excellent food, the flowing wine, and the celebratory atmosphere failed to alleviate whatever storm churned beneath his composed expression. You could see it in the occasional tightening of his jaw, in the way his fingers would unconsciously flex around his glass, and in how frequently his gaze wandered across the grounds in search of a particular silver-haired guest.

The only thing that seemed capable of easing him, even momentarily, was you.

Whenever you leaned close to brush a soft kiss against his cheek or rested your hand over his chest, Valarr invariably relaxed. His arm would immediately slide around your waist, drawing you securely against him as though proximity alone could anchor him.

As twilight deepened into a velvet night strewn with stars, a small ensemble situated beneath one of the illuminated gazebos began playing a gentle melody.

Gradually, guests abandoned their conversations and drifted toward the dance floor assembled upon the stone terrace overlooking the Blackwater Rush. Golden lanterns suspended amongst the trees cast warm pools of light across the estate while the distant murmur of the river blended seamlessly with the music.

Valarr rose gracefully from his seat. Extending a hand toward you, he offered a faint but genuine smile.

"May I have this dance, my love?"

You could not suppress the smile that immediately bloomed across your face.

"I thought you'd never ask." Your hand slipped into his, and he guided you onto the dance floor with effortless confidence. For the first time that evening, he appeared truly relaxed.

As the two of you began swaying to the slow melody, you found yourself studying him.

Moonlight filtered through the branches overhead, silvering the dark waves of his hair and accentuating the striking contrast of the pale streak that framed one side of his face. It caught the light like spun moonlight woven amongst dark silk.

Without thinking, you lifted your hand, brushing your fingers gently through the distinctive silver lock. Valarr's eyes softened instantly upon contact. He caught your hand before you could withdraw it and pressed a lingering kiss against your knuckles ever so lightly, never once breaking eye contact.

The expression that accompanied the gesture was devastatingly affectionate. He looked utterly besotted and you suspected you looked no different.

As the music slowed further, you rested your head against his chest, surrendering yourself to the moment entirely.

The cool evening breeze carried with it the fragrance of fresh blooms from the surrounding gardens, mingling with the familiar scent of Valarr's cologne. Beneath your cheek, warmth radiated from him in comforting waves while his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear.

Wrapped in his embrace, swaying gently beneath a canopy of stars, you almost forgot the unease that had shadowed the past few months.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself immensely tonight, my love," Valarr murmured, unmistakable pride colouring his voice as he looked down at you nestled against him.

You answered with a contented hum.

"Why wouldn't I? I have the perfect man, living in my dream house wrapped up in his, dare i say, muscular arms....," you said softly, tightening your arms around him while you look up to meet his gaze before returning to rest your head once more. "Let's stay like this forever... You're so warm."

Valarr's breath caught. Your perfect man.

For one fleeting, precious moment, your words nearly erased the turmoil that had plagued him throughout the evening.

Nearly.

Unfortunately, the turmoil itself appeared determined not to be forgotten.

"If I may steal a dance with the bride-to-be?" The familiar voice came from directly behind you.

So enveloped had you been in the moment that you failed to recognize the speaker immediately.

But Valarr did and you felt it at once. Every inch of muscle beneath your touch abruptly tensed. Slowly, you turned to face pale hands extending toward you in invitation.

Aerion, dressed dashingly in black, with silver hair gleaming beneath the lantern light, he looked infuriatingly handsome and entirely too pleased with himself.

You quickly take a glance at Valarr. The look in his mismatched eyes made your stomach twist. Still, refusing Aerion publicly would undoubtedly create a scene. One that half the Targaryens would undoubtedly unwillingly witness.

Reluctantly, you rose onto your toes and pressed a brief kiss to Valarr's lips.

"I'll only be a moment," you whispered.

Aerion offered Valarr a knowing smile that bordered on insolent before smoothly leading you away.

From across the terrace, Valarr watched. Watched as Aerion's hand settled far lower upon the exposed skin of your back. Watched as his cousin held your hand with a familiarity that felt deeply inappropriate.

A champagne flute in Valarr's grasp emitted a faint, ominous creak.

"Oh, spare the poor glass, would you?" Loras drawled, his dry voice effortlessly piercing through Valarr's darkening thoughts. "You are holding it as though it personally insulted your lineage."

Dressed in loose cream linen and matching trousers, the Tyrell heir looked entirely too entertained for Valarr's liking. Valarr did not even acknowledge his presence. His gaze remained unwaveringly fixed upon the dance floor.

"And you will suffer the same consequence if you do not exercise the exceedingly rare virtue of silence."

Loras snorted inelegantly.

"Sevens, jealousy makes you intolerably dull."

Valarr scoffed, finally tearing his eyes away from the sight before him long enough to regard his friend with palpable disdain.

"I possess a law degree from the foremost university in Westeros. I am heir to the most affluent family on the continent. Jealousy is irrational, born from psychological insecurity and deficient self-actualization." He paused, taking a measured sip of champagne. "Men such as myself simply do not experience such primitive responses."

A beat of silence followed.

Loras released a long, dramatic sigh.

"Naturally. And I, for my part, am a celibate ascetic who derives absolutely no pleasure from the company of beautiful women."

Valarr's left eye twitched which became fodder to Loras's smile.

"He is touching her."

Loras dutifully followed his line of sight.

"Yes, as one would when dancing." He paused, feigning contemplation. "Perhaps I should ask her for the next dance myself. For educational purposes, of course, to discover precisely what it is about her that has reduced two Targaryen heirs to the brink of madness. And that dress on her is remarkably tempting. "

That finally earned him a reaction. Valarr turned. The look he gave Loras was positively murderous. Loras immediately raised both hands in surrender.

"I jest. Mostly."

Valarr returned his attention to the dance floor. Across the terrace, Aerion guided you through another turn, his hand resting altogether, still, too low upon the exposed skin of your back.

Another quiet crack echoed from the champagne flute.

Loras stared.

"You really are going to break it."

"I am merely assessing the structural integrity of the crystal," he mutters through gritted teeth.

"How fascinating." Loras took an unhurried sip of his wine. "Do let me know your conclusions. If the glass survives your current temperament, I shall purchase the same set when I renounce all earthly pleasures and take my vows with the Night's Watch."

Valarr's jaw tightened.

"Continue speaking, Tyrell, and I shall personally assist you with your goals."

Even from a safe distance, you could practically feel Valarr's stare scorching your back.

The dance itself was nothing less than awkward. You remained tense throughout, acutely aware that your betrothed's patience possessed limits and that Aerion seemed intent on discovering precisely where those limits lay.

"I must confess," Aerion said smoothly as he guided you through a turn, "I find myself rather envious of my cousin." He released your hand just long enough to spin you elegantly before drawing you back.

"No," he amended thoughtfully. "Envious is woefully insufficient."

As you turned, your suspicions were confirmed. Across the terrace, Valarr stood like a statue, utterly pale and motionless. The scene causes you to nearly stumbled backwards but aerion catches you.

You opened your mouth to reply when his hand suddenly slid lower along your back, grazing the top of your bottom, causing your breath to hitch involuntarily as Aerion drew you closer, eliminating nearly every trace of respectable distance between your bodies and leaving scarcely enough room for you to breathe comfortably.

Acting on instinct, you attempted to step away, only to discover that retreat was impossible because he held you firmly in place. There was nothing painful about his grip, nor was it overtly forceful, yet there was an unmistakable decisiveness to it, as though he had anticipated your withdrawal long before you had considered making it.

"Aerion, you're—"

"If you would grace me with a dance, old friend?" The voice interrupted before you could finish your sentence.

You turned immediately, only to find Loras standing a few feet away with one hand extended toward you in invitation. The sight of his golden hair and perpetually mischievous expression filled you with an almost embarrassing sense of relief, while the theatrical bow he offered was so exaggerated that it nearly coaxed a laugh from you despite your discomfort.

Without waiting for Aerion's response, you quickly slipped your hand into Loras's, acutely aware that somewhere across the terrace Valarr was undoubtedly observing the exchange with distinct displeasure.

Fortunately, Aerion offered no objection. Instead, he merely regarded the two of you for a prolonged moment, something unreadable flickering across his features before he inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.

"As you wish."

To your immense relief, he turned and walked away without another word. Only after he had disappeared into the crowd did you realize that you had been unconsciously holding your breath.

"Saving damsels in distress now, are we?" you asked as Loras guided you toward the dance floor.

Loras's lips curved into a knowing smile.

"Please," he drawled. "I merely wished to discover for myself what is about you that has two accomplished heirs of the great House Targaryen behaving like rabid hounds in heat. Now that I've had the opportunity to admire you up close, however, I must say that silk gown is positively dangerous on you."

"Loras Tyrell!" you exclaimed, staring at him in utter disbelief, your eyes widening as your jaw nearly fell open at his shameless audacity

"You truly wish to die tonight. Valarr would have your head for that comment."

"Then, should my untimely demise occur this evening would you do me the honors of telling my father his taste in wine is absolute shit?" He leans in conspiratorially closer earning a giggle and light slap on his chest.

"You have had too much to drink."

As the musicians transitioned into another slow melody and Loras positioned himself to begin the dance, a hand suddenly closed around your wrist with startling swiftness.

Before either of you could properly react, you found yourself being unceremoniously whisked away.

"Excuse us."

"Wha—?" The bewildered sound scarcely left Loras's lips before you were already being led rapidly across the terrace.

When you risked a glance over your shoulder, you found the young blonde still standing precisely where you had left him, appearing not in the least surprised by the interruption.

You turned towards your captor. Your own fiancé, Valarr. Although he had neither raised his voice nor uttered a single harsh word, the expression burning within his mismatched eyes sent a shiver through you because it was immediately apparent that he was furious.

Without speaking, Valarr guided, if one wished to be charitable, or rather dragged you through the estate and into the house, while the sounds of laughter, conversation, and music gradually faded behind you until only silence remained.

Eventually, he stopped inside an abandoned kitchen overlooking the river.

The room was deserted, illuminated only by scattered shafts of moonlight filtering through immense floor-to-ceiling glass panes, which cast silver reflections across polished marble surfaces and painted long shadows throughout the otherwise empty space. Beyond the windows, the body of water flowed endlessly beneath the night sky, its dark surface glimmering beneath the moon with quiet indifference.

Only then did Valarr release you.

Almost immediately, he began pacing the length of the kitchen, moving restlessly from one end of the room to the other as though motion alone might somehow assist to extinguish the inferno raging within him.

You watched him for several moments before speaking softly.

"What's wrong, my love?"

"You know exactly what is wrong." He did not look at you as he answered, nor did he cease pacing.

Releasing a quiet sigh, you crossed the room and gently caught his hands in your own, forcing him to stop moving. Despite the fury radiating from him, his fingers felt remarkably cold against your skin, yet you laced your hands through his without hesitation.

"Loras was only playing."

"I am not referring to Loras, although I admit the temptation to wring that insufferable neck of his grows stronger with each passing second," he muttered, turning his face away in poorly concealed irritation.

The corners of your lips threatened to betray you, but you swallowed the laugh before it could escape. Releasing a quiet sigh, you gently reached for his attention once more.

"Aerion only does these things to provoke you," you said gently. "You know that."

Valarr finally lifted his gaze to meet yours.

"I know," he admitted quietly, "but-"

"Then do not allow him to win," you urged, your brows knitting together with concern. "Do not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he can affect you so deeply." Then, rising onto your toes, you pressed a series of lingering, tender kisses against the column of his neck, sending a cascade of shivers racing down his spine that culminated in a low groan of satisfaction.

Almost instinctively, Valarr's hands settled upon your waist, forehead rested against yours, eyes closed for a deep inhale.

For several moments, neither of you spoke. Eventually, you lifted your hands and gently cupped his face, encouraging him to look at you properly. Drawing him slightly closer, you softened your voice.

"You know that I love you." You watched the tension in his expression falter ever so slightly. "Whatever existed between Aerion and me belongs firmly in the past."

A fleeting shadow crossed his features, but you continued before he could interrupt.

"You are my betrothed, Valarr. You are the man I chose to marry." Maintaining his gaze, you watched as the tempest raging behind his blue and brown eyes slowly began to recede, while the rigid set of his shoulders gradually softened beneath your touch.

"Remember that," you whispered.

Rising once again upon your tiptoes, you press one last kiss against his lips, but you are instantly overwhelmed as he leans in, capturing your mouth with an alarming speed and a ravenous hunger. His palms glide downward, tracing the expanse of your exposed back with a possessive heat that makes you gasp sharply against his mouth, the suddenness of his touch sending a jolt of pleasure through your spine and down to your core. Your eyelids flutter closed, surrendering to the sensation as his hands begin a skillful, reverent worship of your form, mapping every curve with an urgency. When his lips finally release yours, you exhale a breathy, trembling sigh, your chest heaving in the cool air of the kitchen.

"Valarr... someone could wander in here," you murmur, though your voice lacks any real conviction and you make no genuine attempt to push him away, for the mounting tension of the evening has rendered the prospect of his touch far too tempting to resist.

"I need you right now, my love," he grunts against the sensitive column of your neck, his voice intoxicatingly low. He begins to suck reverently at the tender skin there, marking you, while his fingers fumble with frantic precision to bunch the silk of your gown upward and loosen the zippers of his trousers. You grip his broad shoulders tightly, seeking stability as you are pressed firmly against the frigid marble of the kitchen counter, the cold edge of stone slightly pressing into your back.

The moment his pants has lowered, he swiftly displaces your undergarments and slides into your warmth in one fluid, commanding motion, eliciting a synchronized moan of profound relief from both of your throats.

"You are already wet for me?" he asks, lifting his head to search your eyes, his expression a mixture of triumph and raw desire.

"Shut up and fuck me," you reply with a breathless smile, pulling him back into a searing kiss that seals the command. He obeys with a primal intensity, thrusting into you with a strength and velocity that rattles your frame against the marble.

"Who gave you permission to wear such a dress?" he mutters between heavy, rhythmic thrusts, his voice thick with a possessive jealousy.

"I guess you'll simply have to punish me for my insolence," you manage to gasp between a mixture of moans and gasps as the pleasure peaks within.

You feel his cadence shift, his thrusts becoming uneven and erratic as his control slips, his kisses upon your neck growing sloppier and more desperate. You slide one arm from his shoulder to bury your fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer to maximize the friction as you tilt your head back, feeling a molten heat coil tightly within your core. Just as your internal walls begin to tighten in anticipation of release, you open your eyes to adjust your position on the counter, only to freeze as you catch sight of a familiar lilac gaze watching from the distance.

The figure stands shrouded in the moonlight, his expression an unreadable mask, yet he does not avert his eyes, watching with a clinical, haunting intensity as Valarr fucks you senseless. He simply raises a glass to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip while his eyes remains locked upon your vulnerable form.

"Valarr..." you moan, tapping his chest in a frantic attempt to alert him and bring this dangerous encounter to a halt. However, he is far too lost in the throes of passion to notice.

"I am almost there, love. Come with me," he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his climax.

"Valarr..." you whisper one last time, but ultimately you close your eyes and bury your face into the crook of his shoulder, surrendering to the inevitable. He pumps into you with several powerful, devastating thrusts that shatter your remaining composure, and together, you both come undone in a crashing wave of euphoria.

As the echoes of your pleasure fade, Valarr lifts his gaze to look at you, pressing one final, lingering kiss to your lips before he withdraws and begins to adjust his clothing. While he is preoccupied, you turn your head to look toward the distance once more; pale lilac eyes still watching, his presence a heavy weight in the air. Only then does he turn and vanish into the darkness of the gardens. You quickly smooth the rumpled silk of your dress and arrange your hair with trembling fingers just as Valarr asks if you are alright, his voice returning to its usual tender tone.

Once both your hair and attire had been restored to some semblance of order, you and Valarr made your way back toward the venue.

The walk was quiet, though not unpleasant. Valarr appeared noticeably lighter, as though an immense burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders and cast aside. The tension that had shadowed him for much of the evening had lessened considerably, allowing a rare ease to settle over his features, and for the first time that night, he looked almost at peace.

You, however, could not claim the same.

No matter how fiercely you attempted to redirect your thoughts, they invariably returned to Aerion. More specifically, they returned to his eyes.

You had endured countless stares throughout your life—curious glances, sympathetic looks, scrutinizing assessments from those who believed themselves subtle—but none had ever unsettled you quite as much as Aerion's had. There had been something unnerving. Those striking lilac eyes, impossibly vivid beneath the evening lights, had left an imprint upon your mind that refused to fade.

By the time the two of you returned, the dancing had long since ceased. Soft music still drifted through the night air, though it now served merely as a gentle backdrop to the subdued laughter and easy conversations unfolding around the venue. Guests mingled beneath strings of warm golden lights suspended overhead, their glasses glimmering like scattered stars, while event staff moved discreetly through the crowd carrying fresh drinks and small plates.

You had scarcely resumed your place beside Valarr when Baelor appeared.

"May I borrow my son for a moment?" he asked, his expression apologetic yet warm.

Valarr instinctively glanced toward you.

You offered him a reassuring smile. "Of course. I do not mind."

Though he appeared reluctant to leave you, he eventually inclined his head and followed his father into the distance.

The moment he disappeared from sight, an overwhelming desire for solitude settled over you.

Without drawing attention to yourself, you quietly slipped away from the celebration and followed the path leading toward the shoreline, seeking refuge from the noise, the expectations, and the suffocating emotions threatening to overwhelm you. The further you ventured from the venue, the quieter the world became, until only the distant murmur of voices and the rhythmic cadence of waves remained.

The sea stretched endlessly before you, dark and vast beneath the night sky. Moonlight shimmered across the water in fractured ribbons of silver, while the cool breeze carried the scent of salt and distant rain. Standing there, enveloped by darkness and the ceaseless song of the tide, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

And as a few moments pass, you felt it. Warmth. Not upon your skin, but behind you.

You did not turn. Remaining where you stood, your eyes fixed upon the water, you sensed Aerion step beside you. His hand hovered near your shoulder, close enough for you to feel its warmth without making contact, and for several moments neither of you spoke, allowing silence to settle between you like an old, familiar companion.

"You must stop doing this," you murmured eventually, your gaze never leaving the sea as a solemn smile touched your lips.

"I will not back down." His response came quietly, yet there was nothing uncertain about it.

A moment later, his hand settled gently against the side of your shoulder, his thumb brushing softly over the exposed skin there as he leaned slightly closer.

You released a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

"Aerion," you said softly, shaking your head, "I have already made my choice. I am going to marry Valarr."

Your voice faltered ever so slightly before you continued.

"You should find someone else. Someone perfectly suited for you. Someone you love and can stand beside proudly, without hesitation or regret."

"I already have."

Your breath caught.

"She reminds me of the person I once wished to become." Unable to stop yourself, you finally turned to face him. Aerion stood impossibly close, silver hair stirred by the sea breeze, his features softened beneath the distant glow spilling from the venue behind him. For once, there was no trace of his usual arrogance, no teasing glimmer dancing within those remarkable lilac eyes.

Only honesty.

"For years," he began quietly, "I made the world suffer because I could not forgive it for taking from me the person I loved most. My mother."

He exhaled slowly.

"Hatred was easier to carry than grief, so I embraced it. I hid behind recklessness and disgrace because acknowledging my fears would have meant confronting them."

His gaze remained unwavering.

"Then I met you." The words settled heavily between you.

"The world took from you too. Far more than it ever should have, and yet you refused to let it define you." A faint smile touched his lips, equal parts admiration and sadness. "You endured. You rebuilt yourself piece by piece even when surrender would have been infinitely easier."

He stepped closer.

"You fought for your life with a ferocity I have never witnessed in anyone else. I watched you. And you fought as a dragon ought to."

Emotion tightened painfully within your chest.

"But I underestimated my cousin," Aerion admitted quietly. "That was my mistake."

You searched his face carefully, looking for mockery, manipulation, or some hidden motive concealed beneath his confession, but found none.

What stared back at you was devastatingly sincere. Perhaps sensing your hesitation, perhaps fearing he would never again be granted such an opportunity, Aerion acted.

One hand slipped gently around your waist, drawing you toward him, and suddenly his lips were upon yours.

The kiss was unexpectedly soft, warm, tender and very unlike him. The familiar scent of sandalwood enveloped you instantly, clouding your thoughts as your mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened. For one suspended moment, time itself seemed to falter, leaving you incapable of movement.

Then reality returned with startling force. You pushed him away.

"Aerion—"

"You have some nerve." The voice emerged from the darkness carrying enough venom that one could almost believe the flowers and grass lining the path would wither beneath its touch.

Before you could react, you found yourself gently but firmly pulled aside. Valarr stepping in front of you. You had never seen him like this.

Gone was your composed, reserved man who carried himself with effortless dignity. Standing before Aerion now was someone altogether different.

Moonlight illuminated the sharp planes of his face, revealing eyes ablaze with a fury so cold and absolute that it frightened you far more than shouting ever could.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolled the sleeves of his knit sweater past his forearms, exposing powerful arms corded with tension.

The gesture was deceptively calm. At that moment, you could not decide which Targaryen standing before you was more terrifying.

"It seems," Valarr said quietly, "you have yet to learn your lesson."

Aerion merely laughed, though there was no humor within the sound.

"There is no need for violence," he replied. "Surely we are capable of discussing this with civility."

"Civilized men do not kiss the bethrode of others."

"No," Aerion said, his eyes never leaving Valarr's. "I was not speaking to you. I was speaking to her. Whatever civility remained in you disappeared long before tonight." A sharp smile appeared.

"I must admit, cousin, you surprised me. I never expected the son of the honorable Baelor Targaryen to stoop so low. You truly caught me off guard."

"What is he talking about?" Your gaze immediately shifted to Valarr.

He did not answer. But for the first time since you had known him, Valarr looked incapable of concealing what he felt. His jaw had tightened so severely that you feared his perfectly arranged teeth might shatter.

"Tell her." Aerion's composure finally fractured.

"Go on," he demanded, his voice rising. "Why don't you tell her what you did?!"

Valarr remained silent.

You watched Aerion's expression darken.

"I wonder," he continued, every word sharpened by resentment, "whether she would still have chosen you if she knew!"

Before anyone could react, Valarr surged forward and seized the front of Aerion's jacket. Aerion immediately grabbed Valarr's in return.

"Tell her the truth, Valarr!" Aerion shouted.

"Please, stop!" you cried desperately. Panic seized you with merciless force. Your entire body trembled violently as tears stung your eyes, terrifying images of the two men tearing each other apart flashing relentlessly through your mind.

Fortunately, the commotion had not gone unnoticed. Baelor and Maekar arrived almost immediately, each striding toward his son with unmistakable purpose.

The music gradually faltered and conversations ceased.

Across the venue, confused guests and staff alike had turned to witness the unfolding spectacle from afar, uncertainty and soft gasps spreading rapidly throughout the gathering.

"Aerion, stop this fucking madness," Maekar hissed, wrenching his son's arm backward.

"Valarr," Baelor said sharply, his voice carrying enough authority to command immediate obedience, "let him go."

Maekar looked between them with poorly concealed disbelief.

"Both of you are behaving like complete fucking idiots in front of everyone. Pull yourselves together."

For several agonizing moments, neither man moved. Then, with obvious reluctance, they released one another.

Without another word, they stormed off in opposite directions, both still radiating fury. Maekar immediately followed after Aerion, evidently concerned that his son might yet do something catastrophically impulsive.

You quickly moved to follow Valarr.

A sudden pain, however, lanced through your chest, haulting you and causing you to stumble.

Strong hands caught you before you could collapse. It was Baelor.

Without hesitation, he removed his coat and draped it gently across your shoulders, the gesture so instinctively paternal that it nearly undid what little composure you still possessed.

He raised a hand, signaling for Rowan and Raymund, who had been watching anxiously from a distance.

Once they reached you, he quietly instructed them to assist you to a nearby table. Only then did he turn his full attention back to you.

His mismatched eyes—so achingly similar to Valarr's—regarded you with reassuring steadiness.

"Everything will be all right. You stay here and rest," he said softly. "I shall speak with him."

Perhaps it was those familiar eyes, or perhaps it was simply Baelor himself, whose gentle authority had always possessed a strangely calming quality. Whatever the reason, some of your panic finally began to recede.

You nodded weakly.

"Thank you."

Baelor offered you a gentle pat against your back before turning and disappearing into the night after his son.

Rowan and Raymund guided you toward one of the quieter seating areas situated near the edge of the venue, far enough from the growing murmurs of the guests that you could breathe without feeling every curious glance upon you.

The moment you sat down, Rowan immediately lowered herself beside you. Without a word, she began tracing slow, soothing circles against your back.

"Easy," she murmured softly. "Just breathe."

You nodded, struggling to steady the erratic rhythm of your breathing as the flare gradually loosened its taut grip around your chest.

"Raymund," Rowan instructed, never removing her hand from your back, "would you please get her some water?"

Raymund disappeared without argument and returned moments later with a glass, which he promptly pressed into your hands.

You accepted it gratefully.

For several minutes, the three of you remained in silence, the only sounds accompanying you being the distant whispers of confused guests, rustling of leaves against the night breeze and the faint crash of waves against the shore.

Only when both Rowan and Raymund appeared satisfied that you had finally calmed did Raymund decide to speak.

"That man is mad."

You blinked.

"Aerion can be very reckless," you agreed quietly before taking another sip of water.

Raymund frowned.

"Oh, Aerion is absolutely a nut job," he said. "But I wasn't talking about him."

Your hand stilled.

"What?" You looked up at him, brows furrowing.

Across from you, Raymund suddenly seemed to realize precisely what he had just said.

"Raymund," Rowan warned immediately, shooting him a daunting look. "Not now."

He visibly shrank beneath her glare. You slowly turned toward Rowan. She was staring at Raymund as though she were seriously contemplating strangling him with her powerful bare hands.

"You both know something."

Neither answered. "Tell me what you know."

The silence that followed felt interminable. Then Raymund sighed, and what they revealed left you altogether stunned, betrayed and confused for the remainder of the evening.

The festivities concluded not long thereafter. Baelor personally addressed the guests, offering his sincerest apologies for the unfortunate disturbance before formally bringing the evening to a close. One by one, guests began departing until the once vibrant venue slowly emptied, leaving behind only exhausted staff clearing away the remnants of celebration.

Valarr returned to your side shortly after being informed of your Ashblood episode. Any trace of anger had vanished entirely. In its place remained only concern and remorse.

The moment he saw you, his expression softened so completely that guilt immediately twisted within your chest. He scarcely left your side thereafter.

Eventually, Rowan and Raymund bid both of you goodnight. You embraced Rowan tightly before watching the couple disappear toward the waiting cars.

Valarr was preparing to escort you upstairs when Prunella appeared.

She approached with her usual poised elegance, her dark coat wrapped neatly around her shoulders. Valarr glanced toward her before turning back to you.

"My love, would you mind heading upstairs without me?" he asked gently. "Prunella and I need to discuss one last matter before the night ends."

Something bitter gnawed within you once again. Still, you nodded and ascended alone.

As you reached the upper landing, however, an inexplicable feeling compelled you toward one of the large windows overlooking the yard below.

You arrived just in time. As Prunella leaned forward, pressing a kiss against Valarr's cheek.

Whatever Rowan and Raymund had told you earlier vanished instantly from your thoughts.

Dread flooded your entire body and rage followed swiftly behind. You remained standing beside the window long after they separated, your pulse pounding so violently that you scarcely noticed the passing minutes.

When Valarr eventually entered the bedroom, toweling damp hands absently, he smiled the moment he saw you.

"Hello, my love," he said warmly. "I apologize. That took longer than expected." He bent to remove his shoes.

"Who is Prunella?"

Valarr paused.

"I have already told you," he replied, straightening. "She is one of Father's assistants."

"Is she really?"

The question finally prompted him to lift his gaze fully. The moment he registered your expression, concern immediately crossed his features.

"My love?" He crossed the room quickly. "What is wrong?" His hands spontaneously rose to cup your face. You turned away. A crease appeared between his brows.

"My sweet girl," he murmured softly, searching your features with increasing concern. "What is this about?"

You swallowed painfully.

"Are you hiding something from me?"

His expression faltered.

"You and her..." Your voice broke. Horror immediately overtook his features.

"No." The answer came so quickly that it startled you. "No, my love. Never." He looked genuinely stricken.

"I would never do that to you. Not to you." His voice had become unsteady. "Why would you even think—" He stopped, seemingly incapable of finishing the sentence.

Instead, he pulled you into his arms and held you desperately tight. As though he feared that loosening his grip for even a moment might somehow result in losing you entirely.

Eventually, he leaned back just enough to cradle your face between both hands.

"I could never," he said quietly. Every syllable carried absolute conviction.

"Do you understand me? When I told you that you are the only woman for me, I meant every word."

You searched his face and slowly nodded. Then you wrapped your arms around him once more. Yet something within you remained unconvinced.

Because Prunella felt familiar.

After settling you comfortably upon the sofa positioned near the bedroom window, Valarr disappeared briefly before returning with a steaming cup of medicinal tea.

"This should help with the flare-up."

"Thank you," you said weakly.

He smiled softly, adjusting the blanket draped over your legs with practiced tenderness.

"I am going to shower," he said. "Would you like to join me?"

You shook your head.

"I think I will wait until I feel a little better."

"Very well." He pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead. "I won't be long." The bathroom door closed behind him moments later.

Left alone, you sat staring blankly through the window, watching distant lights shimmer against the darkness.

Then his phone vibrated.

Your gaze immediately shifted toward the device resting atop the bedside table. A terrible coldness spread through you.

You remembered Prunella's smile. The ease with which she had touched his hands and arms earlier that evening. The kiss on the cheek. The familiarity.

Curiosity swiftly became unbearable. You truly hated the thought of invading Valarr's privacy. But Aerion's words echoed relentlessly within your mind.

Tell her the truth.

Before you could reconsider, you crossed the room and picked up the phone.

Your relief was immediate.

The newest message was merely from Baelor, reminding Valarr of several important business meetings scheduled throughout the coming week.

You nearly laughed at yourself. Ashamed, you moved to lock the device, until you saw her name.

Prunella.

A brief internal battle ensued, though curiosity prevailed yet again. Your fingers trembled as you opened their conversation.

The further you scrolled, the colder you became.

Suddenly, you understood. The familiarity, Aerion's rage, Valarr's silence.... And your heart plummeted.

With shaking hands, you reached for your own phone and frantically searched through your recently viewed articles until you found the one you had been looking for.

Your worst suspicions were confirmed. The shock was so profound that you failed to hear the bathroom door open. Failed to hear approaching footsteps. And failed to notice his presence entirely.

Only when several silent seconds passed did you finally lift your gaze.

Mismatched eyes met yours. And at last, you found your voice.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

Your voice sounding distant and fragile.

"You were the one who sent Aerion away to Lys the day after the gala, with Prunella."

<PREVIOUS||NEXT >

Notes: The next two chapters The Things We Never Said (Original Ending) and The Things We Never Said (Alternate Ending) will be released together so readers can choose their preffered endings.

Valarr focused = original ending.

Aerion focused = alternate ending.

Taglist: @uixhzzzi @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2 @qardasngan @ivynotreally

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen x FemReader x ???

Chapter XIV:

KILLER

Warning: MATURE CONTENT !!! 18+ a reminder that my works are not for minors.

Recap: Aemon confirms Aerion had indeed departed for Lys. You do not question whether he left with a woman. Valarr makes a genuine, heartfelt apology that ends with the both of you finally crossing the line between.

The muted, rhythmic chime of your alarm pierces through the heavy veil of sleep, but it is the tactile sensations that truly pull you back to consciousness. You are enveloped in a cocoon of warmth, the air around you thick with the scent of musk and lingering intimacy. Soft, fluttering kisses dance across the sensitive skin of your neck, accompanied by low, melodic whispers that vibrate against your skin, coaxing you awake.

As you shift, a dull, pulsing soreness radiates through your lower half—a visceral reminder of the previous night's intensity. Yet, the heat radiating from the body pressed against your back is an irresistible siren call. With a soft, contented sigh, you surrender to the gravity of desire, pressing your back into the furnace of his warmth. In response, a powerful arm snakes around your waist, the grip firm and possessive, hauling you flush against him. You feel his unmistakable, rigid length poking insistently between your upper thighs, a hard promise of what he wants.

"Valarr..." you groan, your voice thick with sleep and a burgeoning hunger.

"Morning, beautiful," he whispers, his breath a hot caress against your ear. He doesn't stop. His lips continue their slow, worshipful migration across your neck and shoulders, marking you with searing heat. His hands, slowly begin to massage of your abdomen, fingers dipping lower to knead the tender flesh of your upper thighs. The sensation of his soft chest hairs tickling your bare back sends a delicate shiver cascading throughout you.

Squinting against the morning light, you reach out with a languid arm to the nightstand, grabbing your phone to silence the persistent alarm. As the screen illuminates, a flurry of messages from your father's secretary greets you. With a sigh, you dial her back.

"Yes, I'm fine," you answer, your voice sounding deceptively composed. Beneath the surface, however, you are fighting a losing battle.

Valarr is relentless, his kisses growing more insistent, his hands sliding lower, fingers grazing the entrance of your aching heat. You push against him slightly, a silent plea for restraint, your knuckles digging into his forearm as you struggle to suppress the moans bubbling in your throat. He is a force of nature, too strong and too determined to be deterred; he ignores your half-hearted protest, his mouth finding a particularly sensitive spot on your neck and sucking firmly.

"I'll return in thirty minutes," you manage to tell her, your voice trembling slightly before you hang up.

The moment the call ends, Valarr shifts. In one fluid, athletic motion, he hovers over you, his weight supported by his arms, pinning you against the cool embrace of silk. He returns to your neck, his tongue swirling and his lips pulling at your skin with a hunger that makes your toes curl.

"My love, I'm still sore," you whine, though your hips betray you by arching upward, seeking more.

"Mmm... why don't you take the day off and stay here with me?" he murmurs between wet, open-mouthed kisses. You can feel him hardening further. A soft, broken moan escapes you, echoing in the quiet room.

"I can't... I have classes today," you breathe, though your resolve is crumbling.

He captures your lips once more in a deep, demanding kiss, tasting of sleep and obsession.

"Cancel them," he commands against your mouth. The temptation is an oppressive weight; the soreness in your core feels like a craving, and the sanctuary of the bed is far more alluring than a lecture hall.

"You have classes as well," you remind him, trying to reclaim some semblance of logic.

"Do I?" he feigns cluelessness, a playful, smile dancing on his lips as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. It is evident he knows exactly where he is supposed to be, but the desire to keep you trapped in this hedonistic haze is stronger.

"Valarr," you roll your eyes, finally summoning the strength to push him off. He lets out a low, disappointed groan, the sound of a man deprived of his favorite feast.

"Once more before we leave?" he asks, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze heavy with lust.

"No. I can't be late," you insist, using every ounce of your willpower to force yourself off the bed. As you stand, the cool air hits your damp skin, but you can feel his eyes on you.

Valarr remains motionless on the sheets, his gaze traveling slowly, hungrily, and proudly over every inch of your naked form—the curve of your hips, the sway of your backside, and the lingering flush of pleasure on your skin—as you walk toward the bathroom.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," you tell him over your shoulder.

"Should I take that as an invitation?" he calls after you.

"Absolutely not. Behave yourself."

A fleeting shadow of disappointment crosses his features, though it vanishes almost immediately beneath unmistakable contentment. Waking beside you still feels unreal to Valarr, as though he has somehow stepped into one of the countless dreams he had entertained over the years. For so long, mornings such as these had existed only within the realm of longing; imagined moments woven together during sleepless nights. Now, with sunlight spilling through the expansive windows of his penthouse and your presence lingering in every corner of the room, he treasures each second with quiet reverence.

While you disappear into the shower, he retreats to the guest bathroom to prepare himself. It takes him little time. By the moment he emerges, impeccably groomed as always, breakfast has already been arranged. Coffee and freshly made sandwiches await downstairs, ready to accompany the two of you on the drive.

Judging by the hour, there will be no opportunity to enjoy the luxury of dining leisurely within the comfort of his penthouse.

He dresses in his usual attire: a finely tailored polo knit paired with dark trousers that complement his broad frame effortlessly. By the time you step out of the bathroom, he has already gathered your belongings, every item neatly arranged and waiting.

A quiet swell of pride rises within him when he sees what you have chosen to wear. Another one of his clothes. An oversized hoodie, soft and far too large for your frame, nearly engulfing you entirely.

The sight tests the very limits of his restraint. Every instinct urges him to abandon the day's obligations, drag you back beneath the sheets, and keep you there until evening. Only years of immense, practiced self-control prevents him from acting upon the impulse.

As you make your way toward the private elevator, Valarr slips an arm around your waist. To anyone watching, the gesture might appear possessive. Its true purpose, however, is infinitely gentler. He knows precisely how sore you are and adjusts his pace accordingly, supporting you without drawing attention to it.

Once you are comfortably seated inside the gleaming luxury car, he reluctantly raises the convertible hood overhead. The mechanism glides into place soundlessly, shielding you from curious eyes. Privacy has become a necessity neither of you can afford to neglect.

Only after ensuring your comfort does he hand you your coffee, breakfast, and belongings, all of which he had somehow managed to carry simultaneously. Yet despite everything, the engine remains silent.

You glance toward him.

"What's wrong?"

"My car refuses to run without proper payment."

You arch a brow. "And what exactly qualifies as payment?"

"Affection."

You groan. "That might be the worst line you've ever used."

"Yet you're still considering it."

You shake your head, though a supressed smile tugs at your lips before you lean over and kiss him anyway.

"Shameless."

"I prefer romantic." His answering grin is positively radiant. Satisfied, he finally starts the vehicle and drives toward the hotel where you are currently residing.

Morning has only just begun to awaken the city. Golden sunlight glances off towering glass facades. Ordinary commuters move about their routines, blissfully unaware that one of Westeros's most scrutinized heirs is driving through the city with an expression of absolute devotion etched across his face.

When he eventually parks near the entrance of your hotel, Valarr remains motionless. Instead, he leans across the center console, close enough for you to feel his warmth.

"When will you come over again, my love?"

The endearment catches you off guard. Heat immediately blooms across your cheeks. Despite everything you have shared, hearing him call you that still feels unfamiliar.

"When I'm free," you reply, gathering your belongings.

"Then may I come see you?" His gaze drifts, inevitably, toward your lips.

"No. It's far too risky."

His mouth immediately forms a sulk. The expression disappears entirely the moment you lean forward and brush a quick kiss against his lips. Without another word, you slip out of the vehicle.

"I'll call you!" he calls after you.

"Please don't," you answer while the door shuts on its own, though the smile curving your lips betrays you completely.

You greet the concierge warmly and make your way toward the elevators. Before you can even step inside, your phone rings. You answer without checking the screen.

"I missed you."

Your expression immediately flattens.

"Valarr, I left your car less than two minutes ago."

"And I've suffered through every second of it." A frustrated exhale crackles through the speaker.

You roll your eyes, fighting back laughter.

"Always with the theatrics."

"Remind me again why you can't simply move in with me?"

You sigh as the elevator doors slide open.

"Perhaps because we're the heirs of Westeros's most infamous rivals?"

Even through the phone, you can feel the atmosphere shift.

"Listen, my love," you murmur softly, instinctively soothing the storm gathering on the other end.

His silence stretches.

"When the attention dies down, we'll figure something out, all right? Just... not now. There's already too much at stake. Our fathers would never allow it."

"I spoke with my father. He agreed."

"You threatened him. And that was before he knew who I actually was."

Silence greets you once more.

"I promise," you say gently. "We'll find a way."

"Fine." The resentment in his voice is unmistakable.

"I love you."

His reply comes immediately, every trace of displeasure dissolving.

"I love you more."

You are moments away from ending the call when he speaks again.

"Could you also, perhaps, unblock my other number?"

A laugh escapes you as you step into your suite.

——

Days gradually turn into weeks, and you begin to wonder whether you and Valarr possess entirely different definitions of the words subtle and discreet.

Because if secrecy is truly the goal, Valarr Targaryen has failed spectacularly.

He cannot keep his hands—or his presence—away from you.

Not at school.

Not outside of school.

Certainly not during dates.

Dating itself has become increasingly difficult ever since photographs began circulating of the Targaryen heir repeatedly appearing alongside an unidentified woman. Consequently, the two of you often settle for quieter alternatives: meals at small local establishments tucked away from public scrutiny or evenings spent cooking together in his penthouse.

Valarr voices his frustration about this enforced isolation almost constantly, pacing the floor as he explains how desperately he wants to escort you to somewhere truly grand. He longs to see you dressed in fine clothing, liberated at last from the heavy hoodies and low-slung caps meant to hide your face from the world.

Most of all, his pride demands that the entire realm witness you standing openly by his side, a beautiful dream that remains completely impossible for the foreseeable future.

Academics proves infinitely worse. Eyes are everywhere. Hallways become battlefields. He pulls you into his embrace whenever the opportunity presents itself. He steals kisses whenever your guard slips. Every reminder about discretion is met with the same infuriatingly serious response.

"Every man here looks at you as though they've been starved for years. Someone has to remind them you're taken."

The declaration usually earns him a light smack against the chest, though the reprimand never actually deters his bold behavior.

As though matters could not become any worse, he and Loras begin joining you and Aemon during lunch breaks.

Valarr insists he is merely there to spend time with his cousin. No one believes him. Not when he spends the entire lunch period standing behind you with his arms wrapped firmly around your waist. Even as you eat.

If his habit of buying meals and gifts for you had once seemed excessive, it pales in comparison to his current behaviour.

You thank the Seven daily for your father's astonishing lack of involvement in your life because otherwise, the endless bouquets arriving every single morning would certainly raise questions.

At one point, you are forced to distribute flowers to neighboring suites simply because there were too many.

Should you skip a meal, food appears almost instantly, accompanied by handwritten reminders to take your medication. If your father's scheduled ride home is delayed by even a single minute, a sleek alternative vehicle is already idling at the curb, sent by him to ensure you never have to wait in the cold.

Valarr has even started carrying a soft knit cardigan over his arm wherever he goes, a habit that has nothing to do with his own comfort since Valarr Targaryen rarely feels cold. Especially when summer was approaching. The extra layer is kept strictly for your fragile frame, ready to shield you the exact moment your painful ashblood symptoms begin to flare up without warning.

Hidden away in his deep pockets is a complete emergency kit filled with spare pills, chemical heat packs, clean linens, and soothing ointments, proving that he is thoroughly prepared for any sudden physical crisis. He notices every slight change in your posture and misses absolutely nothing, an overwhelming level of attentiveness that feels both deeply intimidating and incredibly sweet. Being cherished with such fierce, unbroken devotion feels undeniably wonderful to your tired soul, yet somewhere beneath the heavy warmth of his affection, a tiny instinct whispers a warning, leaving you with the faint, unsettling feeli—

"Do you love me?"

You glance up from your book.

"Hm?"

He remains seated against the dark oak headboard, bare back resting comfortably as morning light spills across sculpted shoulders. Crumpled sheets cover his lower half.

"Do you love me?" he repeats quietly.

You stare at him incredulously as you are splayed on his leather couch, wearing nothing but his button up, in his penthouse bedroom.

"Valarr, where is this coming from?"

"Just answer me."

With a sigh, you set your book aside and cross the room.

"Of course I love you."

"No." His gaze remains fixed upon the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling panes. "You're perfectly comfortable being seen with everyone except me."

Realization dawns.

"Is this about Aemon?"

His silence confirms it.

"Valarr Targaryen..." You stare at him in disbelief. "Are you jealous of Aemon?"

His silence and sudden indifference answers your curiosity.

"You're jealous of Aemon Targaryen?"

He finally turns toward you, genuinely unable to understand your astonishment.

"Aemon is my baby."

His eye snaps open with startling speed.

"Valarr," you say slowly, struggling to suppress a laugh, "he's practically my brother."

"He's still a Targaryen."

"And?"

"You refuse to be seen with me, yet everyone sees you with him."

"Valarr, he's a child."

"He's over eighteen."

"You looked up his age?"

"He's family. It seemed prudent."

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Exactly. He's your family. Why would I ever—" You stop, inhaling slowly.

"Aemon is Aemon. Everyone in Westeros knows he wants nothing to do with politics, succession, or business. Honestly, Egg shows more ambition than he does. If it weren't for the silver hair and lilac eyes, no one would even associate him to dragonblood."

The mattress dips as you kneel beside him.

His jealousy may be dramatic, but you understand it.

Long before that night, long before you had become his, Valarr had dreamed of presenting you proudly to the world. Now that you are finally his, he cannot. And this reality is consuming him.

You thread your fingers through his silver in his hair, gently massaging his scalp. He responds immediately. The tension melts away.

He leans into your touch without hesitation, resting his head against your stomach while his arms circle your thighs.

"How much longer?" he murmurs.

"Soon."

"Soon is a very vague answer."

"It's the only one I have."

He lifts his head, mismatched eyes luminous with longing. For a moment, he looks heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Then he ruins it.

"The view from down here is remarkable." he murmurs, his voice laced with a predatory sort of admiration.

A sharp slap landed against his skin— a reflexive response to his boldneds —as a vivid, rosy flush crept upward from the hollow of your throat to the apples of your cheeks. He watches the bloom of your embarrassment with a knowing smirk, fully aware that you wore nothing beneath the clothes to shield yourself from his gaze. However, the faux-indignation quickly dissolved into breathless laughter, as he pulls you down. Earning a soft yelp as you both collapsed back onto the mattress, your limbs intertwining in a chaotic, affectionate tangle of warmth and soft giggles.

——

The annual charity gala marking the end of spring had always been one of the most anticipated social events in Westeros. Every prominent House attended without exception. The evening was an intricate dance of wealth, influence, and carefully curated appearances, all concealed beneath the noble guise of philanthropy.

Your father had attended reluctantly and, much to your displeasure, had insisted that you accompany him.

"It is good for our image," he had informed you earlier that evening, leaving little room for argument. "People adore generosity, especially when it comes from those fortunate enough to afford it."

You knew, however, that charity was merely a pleasant embellishment, while the true purpose of the gala lay elsewhere: politics, alliances, and prospective marriages carefully disguised beneath layers of polished civility.

The heirs of nearly every distinguished House in Westeros were present, gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers of the grand hall like pieces arranged upon an elaborate cyvasse board. In the eyes of the public, you— the sole heiress of a House whose wealth and influence rivaled even that of House Targaryen— remained very much unattached, and your father’s intentions could not have been more obvious.

Ordinarily, such schemes would have irritated you, though tonight your concern was elsewhere.

Valarr Targaryen, for all his intelligence, had apparently abandoned any understanding of subtlety and discretion the moment you entered the venue, as though restraint itself had become an afterthought in your presence.

The gala unfolded within the resplendent halls of the Royal Conservatory, where towering crystal chandeliers cast warm, amber light across polished marble floors, and the air itself seemed steeped in the delicate fragrance of fresh roses and expensive perfume, while a string quartet performed softly from an elevated platform, their music weaving through the constant murmur of aristocratic conversation.

Under different circumstances, the evening might even have been enjoyable, yet instead a quiet tension had settled heavily across your shoulders from the moment you arrived, coiling there with increasing insistence.

You knew Valarr far too well, and Valarr Targaryen was someone who did not share, at least not when it came to things, or people, he considered his.

The immediate problem was that nearly every eligible bachelor in attendance seemed to have noticed your arrival, forcing you to feel the constant weight of their gazes across the room; some discreetly fleeting, while others proved considerably bolder, scarcely concealing their ambition behind polite smiles and courteous introductions that Valarr tracked with lethal precision.

Though his public composure had not yet fractured, the warning signs were entirely unmistakable to you, manifesting in the sharp tightening of his jaw whenever another lord's son monopolized your attention, or the tense posture of his shoulders whenever you laughed at someone else's joke.

Furthermore, his appearances at your flank were becoming increasingly frequent, utterly shattering any illusion of distance between the two of you. He constantly abandoned all pretense of spacing, brushing past you just closely enough for his fingers to ghost against the small of your back under the guise of navigating the dense crowd, while his gaze sought yours from across the floor, lingering far longer than strict propriety allowed. No matter how you shifted through the room or with whom you engaged in conversation, he somehow always managed to materialize nearby only moments later.

Consequently, when a courteous young gentleman from House Tully approached and struck up a conversation, you decided it was prudent to retreat before Valarr’s patience deteriorated entirely. You offered the young lord an apologetic smile.

"I must excuse myself for a moment," you said graciously. "I need to find the restroom."

"Of course," the Tully heir replied immediately. "Would you like me to accompany you? These halls can be rather difficult to navigate."

From several feet away, Valarr, who had been pretending with remarkable unconvincingness to listen to another conversation, went utterly still.

You saw it instantly as his shoulders stiffened. The champagne glass in his hand creaked ominously beneath the pressure of his grip.

You quickly intervened before an international incident could occur.

"That is very kind of you," you replied warmly, "but I shall manage perfectly well on my own."

The young man accepted the refusal with a polite nod. You offered your farewells and swiftly turned away, acutely aware of the pair of mismatched eyes following your every step as you disappeared into the sea of nobility.

The moment the corridor stretched empty before you, a powerful arm coiled around your waist with instinctive precision, hauling you backward into a familiar warmth. There was no necessity in turning to identify the person with the scent of cedar clinging to him. As you pivoted, Valarr collided with you, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that tasted of desperation and an insatiable, starving need.

His palms wandered with a possessive urgency, tracing the contours of your silhouette as if claiming a territory he feared might be stolen.

"He was practically salivating at the sight of you," Valarr murmured against your lips, his voice a jagged edge of frustration that vibrated through your very bones.

"Valarr—" you attempted to breathe, but he silenced you with another bruising kiss.

"Fuck... you are intoxicating tonight," he groaned, the words sounding like a confession of defeat.

"Valarr, we cannot do this here," you whispered, the risk of discovery sending a frantic pulse through your veins.

"If I possessed the means to rip the eyes from their despicable faces for daring to look at you, I would do so without hesitation," he snarled, his possessiveness flaring like a sudden wildfire.

Recognizing the volatility of his temper, you reached up to cradle his face in your palms, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"You need to calm down," you urged softly, your voice a soothing balm to his agitation. "You know I only have eyes for you. I am yours remember."

The reverence in your eyes acted as a catalyst, awakening a primal hunger within him that surpassed mere jealousy. The admission that you were his property ignited a dark flame in his pupils, and with a sudden, fluid motion, he pinned you against the cold stone wall.

He drove one powerful thigh between your legs, forcing them apart to create a space where he could press his hardening length against you. Through the delicate fabric of your gown, he began to grind his hips in a slow, rhythmic torture that threatened to unravel your composure.

"Valarr," a breathless moan escapes your throat, echoing softly in the vaulted silence of the hall.

"They will see us..." you gasped, your hands pressing against the broad expanse of his chest in a futile attempt to create distance, yet your fingers betrayed you by clutching at the fabric of his suit.

"I need you," he rasped, trailing a line of searing kisses along your jawline. "Right now, my love."

He descended further, his lips claiming the sensitive column of your neck with a ferocity that bordered on aggression. As you fought the escalating war between mounting pleasure and sharp panic, you could feel the rigid bulge in his trousers pulsing against your thigh.

Suddenly, the rhythmic click of leather soles and the distant hum of polite conversation drifted through the air, growing louder with every passing second.

"Valarr, people are approaching," you hissed, shoving at his chest with renewed desperation, but he only let out a low, guttural groan, his teeth grazing your skin as he marked you as his own.

"Let them look," he countered, his voice thick with a defiant arrogance that brooked no argument.

"Valarr!" With one final, concerted effort, you managed to wrench yourself from his embrace just as the silhouettes of two gentlemen rounded the corner.

The men halted abruptly, their expressions flickering with alarm and curiosity at the sight of your flushed face and slightly disheveled attire. However, before a single word of inquiry could be uttered, they collided with the predatory glare of the Targaryen heir. Valarr stood his ground, his eyes narrowed into slits of cold warning that promised violence to anyone who dared linger. Sensing the dense atmosphere, the gentlemen offered a curt, respectful nod and hurried past, leaving the two of you alone in the shimmering tension of the hallway.

When both men disappear into one of the quieter corridors branching away from the ballroom, a hand closes firmly around your wrist. Valarr guides you swiftly away from the wandering eyes of nobles and servers alike. The distant strains of the orchestra drift faintly through the marble halls, muted by the heavy silence that settles between the two of you. Once the both of you reach a secluded area of the venue, you immediately wrench your hand free.

"What is the matter with you?" you ask, keeping your voice low, though an unmistakable edge of irritation sharpens each word. "Those men could've seen us." You stare at him.

"And?" His brown and sapphire eyes blaze with restrained fury.

"And?" You echo incredulously. "We've spoken about—"

"How long?" he suddenly demands, frustration overtaking him. One hand drags across his mouth as he begins pacing the narrow space. "How much longer is this supposed to continue?"

"Valarr—"

"No." He cuts you off immediately. "You always say the same thing. Soon, soon, soon." He laughs bitterly, though there is no humor in the sound. "But when is soon? A month? A year? Five years from now? I cannot stand this anymore. It's driving me insane watching those vultures circle you as though they actually stand a chance."

"Valarr, you know my heart is only for you," you tell him softly. The anger has already begun to drain from your voice, leaving behind only weary understanding.

He stops pacing.

"Do you?"

Your brows knit together.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He merely stares at you, and suddenly a dreadful suspicion begins to take shape.

"Is this really about the media?" he asks quietly.

"What?" Your patience begins to fray, evident in your tone.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"No, I don't," you reply coolly, folding your arms across your chest. "Pray tell, my love."

Under different circumstances, Valarr would have found the sight breathtaking. Your defiance had always fascinated him. The proud tilt of your chin, the fire simmering behind your violet eyes, he had fallen in love with that spirit long ago. Tonight, however, something darker rears its head.

"This is about him."

Your heart stutters, though nervousness has nothing to do with it. Anger rises instead. Because you have a sickening suspicion of whom he refers to.

"Who?" you ask through clenched teeth.

His expression hardens as he leans closer.

"Aerion."

A breathless laugh escapes you.

"You are unbelievable."

"Am I?" he counters immediately. "You still feel something for him, do you not? Even after he left you. Might you still waiting for him to come back—"

The sharp crack reverberates through the corridor. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Valarr slowly turns his face back toward you, stunned. Tears are already gathering beneath your eyes.

"How dare you," you whisper, your voice trembling violently. "I may carry the blood of your family's bastards, but I am no whore."

The moment the words leave your lips, regret flashes across his features. It vanishes just as quickly.

"Then why did you allow him to parade you across the entire kingdom?" he demands.

"It was all a charade, Valarr!" you exclaim, exasperation and heartbreak tangling together within your voice.

"For what?" he asks dubious.

"To rile you up."

He shakes his head immediately.

"No. You expect me to believe it was all an act?" His voice lowers. "Not after the way he grabbed my arm."

You remain silent.

"I may know very little about relationships," he continues, "but I know what anger looks like. I know what a man looks like when someone touches something he believes belongs to him." His jaw tightens.

"And the look Aerion gave me that night..." He pauses. "The look my notoriously philanderer of a cousin gave me was exactly that."

You feel your breath catch.

"For the first time in his life, he looked certain of something," Valarr says quietly. "I saw it. Whatever existed between the two of you, it was never a game to him. I'm certain of it."

Anger still burns within you, yet another emotion begins creeping beneath it. Pain. Hurt. Uncertainty. Because if Valarr is right, if Aerion truly had loved you, then why had he disappeared without a single explanation?

Valarr notices the shift immediately. He sees it in the way your shoulders lose some of their rigidity. He sees it in your silence, in the uncertainty flickering across your features.

Something inside him turns cold.

"I'm right, aren't I?" he asks quietly, though the anger in his voice has returned with renewed force. "You felt something for him too."

Your gaze falls to the marble floor.

"Perhaps I did."

His hands clench into fists at his sides. Knuckles bleached white. You notice.

"Perhaps I did once," you continue softly. "I don't know anymore." You wipe at your tears. "But things change." Silence stretches between the two of you.

"For now," you whisper, finally lifting your gaze to meet his, "I am certain of one thing." Your lilac eyes hold his. "I am in love with you." The confession should have eased the ache within him. Instead, it only deepens it.

"No matter how cruel you can be sometimes."

Without waiting for a response, you turn and walk away.

Valarr remains frozen where he stands. His anger has already dissipated, replaced by immediate regret and the overwhelming urge to chase after you, to apologize, to beg forgiveness.

Yet one thought roots him in place. You had not denied it. You had loved Aerion or perhaps some part of you still did. The realization leaves behind a bitterness so profound that he cannot bring himself to move.

The remainder of the evening passes beneath perfectly practiced smiles and graceful waves. You and Valarr do not speak again. From across the ballroom, however, you frequently catch him looking at you, his gaze lingering for a second too long before darting away.

By the time you finally return home, exhaustion has settled deep within your bones. After showering and changing into something comfortable, you find yourself standing before Balerion's enclosure. For a long while, you simply watch him eat.

The creature remains blissfully unaware of the turmoil consuming you, devouring his meal with single-minded contentment. Your fingers drift absently across the cool glass. Despite your best efforts, thoughts of Aerion return. Thoughts of his disappearance and Valarr's words. Long after Balerion finishes eating, the questions still remain unanswered.

Eventually, with a weary sigh, you retreat to bed, carrying those unanswered questions with you into the darkness.

——

Two excruciating weeks slipped by, and somewhere amidst festering pride, wounded affection, and words neither of you could take back, the two of you lapsed into a silent war of attrition that neither possessed the fortitude to end.

Valarr ceased appearing during lunch breaks. His absence, however, proved far less effective than he had doubtless intended.

Every afternoon, meals continued to arrive with unfailing punctuality, each one carefully selected according to your preferences and accompanied by the same meticulous thoughtfulness you had long since come to associate with him. You never touched them though. Instead, you quietly redirected the offerings to Aemon, who accepted them with mounting awkwardness and an expression suggesting he would rather face a nest of vipers than involve himself further in the romantic discord of his relatives.

Those fourteen days were among the most miserable either of you had endured in recent memory.

Love, you discovered, possessed a singular talent for surviving even the ugliest of quarrels. You still loved him and he still loved you. That immutable truth rendered the separation all the more unbearable.

Valarr, however, bore the estrangement far more poorly than he would ever willingly confess.

Each passing day found him reaching for his phone with humiliating regularity, foolishly hoping your name would finally illuminate the screen. Some stubborn, irrational corner of his heart remained convinced that eventually you would call, tell him he had been wrong, reassure him that Aerion had never truly occupied your affections, and confess that whatever feelings had once existed had long since withered away.

No such message ever came.

Sunday afternoon found you seated cross-legged upon your bed, absently studying the illuminated screen of your phone. Your thumb hovered uncertainly over Valarr's contact. You missed him with an intensity that pride could no longer sufficiently obscure.

You missed the reassuring warmth of his embrace, the low timbre of his laughter, the ridiculous extravagance with which he loved, and even the infuriating possessiveness that so often drove you to exasperation.

Pride had sustained you for precisely fourteen days and loneliness had finally prevailed in all it's infuriating glory.

Just as you had summoned enough courage to press the call button, a knock echoed softly throughout your suite.

Three gentle taps.

Your heart leapt instantly. Abandoning your phone upon the mattress, you hurried across the room, entirely unconcerned by the fact that you remained clad in little more than your nightgown. Instinct had already informed you of who waited on the other side.

The moment you opened the door, every grievance so meticulously nurtured over the past fortnight dissolved. Without hesitation, you launched yourself into Valarr's arms. The sudden movement caught him thoroughly unprepared.

Your height difference compelled him to bend instinctively as your arms wound tightly around his neck. Surprise briefly flashed across his striking features before melting into unmistakable relief. His own arms immediately encircled your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the ground as though he feared you might vanish should he relinquish his hold.

For several long moments, neither of you spoke. Weeks of longing, resentment, and heartache quietly dissolved within the sanctuary of one another's embrace.

"Forgive me, my love," Valarr whispers, one hand reverently stroking your silver hair. "Those words, those thoughts should never have crossed my mind and lips."

You burrowed further into the familiar warmth of him.

"I suppose a year's worth of free coffee might suffice as restitution," you mumbled against the hollow of his throat. A soft laugh escaped him.

"You negotiate with a ruthlessness I find deeply concerning."

"I am my father'sdaughter, unfortunately."

His arms tightened almost imperceptibly. At present, he found you so unbearably endearing that it bordered upon cruelty.

"I missed you," you confessed quietly. The admission lingered between you, tender and painfully honest.

"I missed you as well, my love," he murmurs, resting his chin atop your head before pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead. "Far more profoundly than language could ever adequately convey."

You hesitated.

"I'm sorry I slapped you."

"It's alright," he replied immediately. "I deserved it."

"You truly had."

A rich laugh reverberated through his chest.

"Shall we agree never to resolve our disagreements through physical violence again?" You nodded and nestled deeper into his embrace, allowing yourself, for the first time in weeks, to simply exist within the comfort you had denied yourself.

Then reality returned with brutal swiftness. Your entire body stiffened.

Today was Sunday!

Which meant—

You abruptly pulled away.

"My father is here," you blurted, panic immediately overtaking your previously serene features. "You must leave at now. He could walk in at any moment and—"

"Easy, my love." Valarr's expression remained curiously composed.

"What do you mean easy?" you demanded, bewildered by his calm.

"Y/N." There was something unfamiliar in his voice.

You stilled. Stepping back, Valarr offered you a smile touched by unmistakable nerves.

"I have spent the better part of the last two weeks considering how best to approach this."

"What?" you asked, genuinely perplexed.

"I had originally envisioned a considerably grander setting," he admitted. "Somewhere memorable, with rather more ceremony involved. Unfortunately, circumstances seldom accommodate my preferences, and I have long suspected that you would despise excessive theatrics."

Confusion still clouded your thoughts. Your heart, however, had already begun thundering so violently against your ribs that you were convinced the entire building could hear it.

"Y/N Blackfyre." He gently took your hand. For perhaps the first time since you had known him, Valarr Targaryen appeared nervous. You could feel it in the faint tremor of his fingers and the accelerated rhythm of his pulse.

"All my life, I was taught that legacy was everything," he began softly. "I was raised to believe that a man's worth could be measured by the kingdoms he governed, the wealth he accumulated, and the name he bequeathed to posterity. Every decision was weighed against duty, while every personal desire was expected to yield before obligation. For most of my life, I believed that affection was something earned through excellence, and that anything less than perfection rendered a man unworthy of being cherished." His gaze softened immeasurably.

"Until I met you."

Tears immediately welled within your eyes.

"For the first time, I desired something no crown could bestow and no conquest could secure. You offered me sanctuary, a place where I could lay aside the crushing weight of expecttion and simply exist, perhaps for the first time, as myself. Beneath the titles, beneath the obligations, beneath the blood in my veins, I am merely a man." His fingers tightened around yours.

"And somehow, that man is enough, because he is loved by you."

A solitary tear escaped down your cheek.

"Whenever Ashblood left you fearful of the future, whenever you looked at me with sorrow because you believed you could not give me what you imagined I deserved, it broke my heart." He gently shook his head.

"You could give me no heirs, no fortune, and no kingdom, and I would still choose you every single time. Should my father strip me of my name, my inheritance, and every privilege I possess, I would still consider myself the richest man alive so long as I woke each morning beside you. Your hands in mine." Emotion thickened his voice.

"History may remember my victories. Men may remember my titles and accomplishments. Should you one day grant me the extraordinary privilege of children, however, I wish for them always to know where my greatest fortune truly began." A tender smile touched his lips as his voice grows softer.

"It began the day you chose me." Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself onto one knee.

"I wish for every dawn, every triumph, every sorrow, and every dying sunset to be shared with you." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small black velvet box.

Opening it revealed an exquisite pink diamond whose facets captured the afternoon light like imprisoned starlight.

"Will you do me the greatest honor I could ever ask of another soul?" His voice trembled.

"Will you marry me?"

Tears streamed freely down your face, blurring your vision until Valarr became little more than a shimmering silhouette kneeling before you.

You had every intention of accepting immediately. Then panic struck.

"But my father!" you exclaimed between unsteady sobs, hastily releasing one of his hands in order to wipe at the tears relentlessly spilling down your cheeks.

To your astonishment, Valarr merely smiled.

"My father is already on his way," he revealed, rising gracefully to his feet while still refusing to relinquish your hand. "We have arranged a meeting. My father intends to present yours with an offer he is unlikely to refuse."

Your eyes widened.

"What?"

"Perhaps," he continued, a note of cautious hope threading through his voice, "our union may finally succeed where generations have failed and bring an end to a century long feud."

Then, almost boyishly, he added, "Though, should you decline, I can always call my father and spare him the journey."

"Yes!" you blurted immediately, laughter mingling freely with your tears. "Yes, I do!"

For a singular moment, Valarr simply stared. Then the carefully maintained composure for which he was renowned shattered completely.

A brilliant, disbelieving smile illuminated his features even as tears gathered within his own mismatched eyes and slipped unabashedly down his cheeks. With hands that trembled ever so slightly, he removed the ring from its velvet casing and gently slid it onto your finger.

It was, you thought, an extraordinary sight.

Valarr Targaryen—the kingdom's immaculate golden heir, the very embodiment of poise and perfection—stood before you as nothing more than an overwhelmed, trembling man hopelessly in love. The realization alone nearly brought forth another flood of tears.

The instant he rose to his full height, he cupped your face with reverent tenderness and captured your lips in a kiss so achingly profound that it seemed to contain every unsaid confession, every yearning, every lonely night spent apart.

When the kiss finally ended, both of you remained reluctant to separate.

Eventually, however, your gaze inevitably drifted downward. The ring adorning your finger was breathtaking.

Its exquisite pink diamond caught the afternoon sunlight and scattered it across the room in delicate prismatic fragments.

"It's beautiful," you whispered, awe softening your voice. Valarr smiled, his gaze lingering upon your expression rather than the jewel itself.

"Its beauty scarcely withstands comparison with that of its wearer, though I suppose it is acceptable."

You laughed softly.

"Do you like it?" he asked, sounding suddenly uncertain. "I chose it because it reminded me of your pink tote bag. The one you carry to lectures."

You blinked.

"My tote bag?"

"Yes."

You stared at him for several seconds before laughter escaped you in earnest.

"You proposed with a ring inspired by my worn-out university bag?"

A faint flush rose to his cheeks.

"When you phrase it like that, it sounds considerably less romantic."

Your heart performed an embarrassing little somersault.

"Are you entirely certain it was not simply because it happened to be the most expensive ring available on the market?" you asked skeptically.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

"No." Though it was.

Reaching up, he gently tilted your chin until your eyes met his.

"I chose it because I wanted you to remember precisely who I fell in love with." His voice soft and smooth.

"I did not fall in love with the heiress of one of Westeros' most prominent Houses. Nor did I fall in love with a woman because she possessed Valyrian blood or extraordinary beauty and the voice of a siren." His thumb brushed tenderly across your cheek.

"I fell in love with an impossibly stubborn Reach girl who insisted on carrying an utterly ridiculous worn out pink tote bag everywhere she went; a girl who faced an unforgiving world entirely on her own and nevertheless met it with remarkable grace and quiet resilience. I want you to never forget that."

Fresh tears immediately gathered in your eyes. This time, you pulled him into a kiss.

——

The announcement sent Westeros into absolute pandemonium. Within hours, every major publication carried some variation of the same headline.

THE CENTURIES-LONG FEUD ENDS: HEIRS OF HOUSES TARGARYEN AND BLACKFYRE ANNOUNCE ENGAGEMENT.

Political commentators heralded the union as one of the most significant developments in recent history. Analysts eagerly speculated about the implications such an alliance would have upon the balance of power throughout the Seven Kingdoms, while social media became inundated with endless discussions, celebrations, and theories.

Publicly, both Houses projected an image of unanimous satisfaction. Privately, however, the truth proved considerably less idyllic.

Daemon II had only agreed after Baelor discreetly informed him that House Targaryen was fully aware of your Ashblood diagnosis and the increasingly precarious position House Blackfyre would eventually occupy should no legitimate heir be produced. Without a secure succession, support for your House would inevitably diminish, while whispers of weakness and decline would spread throughout the realm.

Simultaneously, prospects abroad had collapsed. Maekar had already promised his eldest son to Kiera, effectively eliminating any possibility of securing a Tyroshi alliance. Matters deteriorated further when your father's attempts to garner support among several of the greater Houses yielded disappointing results. Many considered him too young, while persistent rumors concerning his preference for male companionship had only complicated negotiations.

Presented with increasingly limited alternatives and mounting political pressure, your father ultimately accepted the arrangement.

You and Valarr, however, could scarcely have been happier. The transition into shared domesticity occurred with astonishing speed.

Valarr personally supervised the relocation of every single one of your belongings into his penthouse, displaying an alarming degree of enthusiasm throughout the entire process.

You, in turn, insisted upon bringing Balerion. Valarr was decidedly less enthusiastic.

"He is my son," you declared dramatically, clutching the fish tank protectively against your chest. "I shall not abandon him. What sort of mother would that make me?"

Valarr regarded the fish with undisguised suspicion.

"It is not the fish that troubles me," he muttered darkly. "It is the identity of his father."

You immediately pouted. Setting the tank on a vacant table.

"Aw, my poor handsome prince is jealous. Whatever shall I do?" Rising onto your toes, you pressed a quick kiss against his lips.

The gesture proved a grave tactical error. Before you could retreat, both of his arms had already wrapped securely around your waist, and with scandalous ease he deposited you onto the bed.

Your startled yelp dissolved instantly into laughter.

"You derive entirely too much amusement from my suffering," he informed you while peppering your face with retaliatory kisses.

"I must admit," you giggled, brushing the tip of your nose against his, "you look positively adorable when you're jealous."

"You shall answer for such insolence." He replies in refined accent, assault resumed immediately.

Laughter filled the bedroom as you squirmed futilely beneath him, alternating between indignant protests and helpless giggles.

The moment might have continued indefinitely had your phone not suddenly begun vibrating with startling insistence.

"Wait, wait!" you gasped through laughter. "My phone!"

Valarr reluctantly released you. The instant your gaze landed upon the screen, your entire demeanor changed. The cheerful mood dissipate into shock. Valarr noticed immediately.

"Y/N?" Concern instantly entered his voice. "What's wrong?"

You stared at the message in disbelief.

After months spent avoiding you, ignoring your messages, and seemingly vanishing from your life entirely, Rowan had finally reached out. And the message was painfully brief.

Can we meet at the bar?

— Rowan

You swallow visibly, immediately recognizing the location. It was the small local establishment you had often accompanied her to after particularly difficult weeks in nursing classes, when stress and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her.

"It's Rowan," you said at once, already climbing from the bed. "I need to see her."

"Baby, it is late," Valarr replied, concern unmistakable in his cadence as he rose and followed after you. "It will be dark soon."

"I don't care." You hurried toward your wardrobe, already searching for something suitable to wear. "It's Rowan, love. I need to see her. Please." You turned toward him, eyes glimmered with unmistakable pleading.

Valarr's expression softens. This, unfortunately for him, had always been his greatest weakness. He found it nearly impossible to deny you anything when you looked at him in precisely that manner.

"Very well," he relented at last. "Then I'm coming with you."

"You cannot." You shook your head immediately. "It needs to be just us."

Disapproval appeared upon his features without delay.

"Please, my love," you implored softly, taking his hand and pressing a tender kiss against his knuckles.

Valarr closes his eyes as a long, defeated sigh escapes him.

"Fine," he finally conceded. "However, you are taking one of the drivers."

Relief flooded through you.

"Thank you."

Judging by his expression, he was already reconsidering his decision.

Fortunately, years of experience had taught you precisely how to prevent such regrettable developments. Your swift kiss rendered any further objections entirely impossible.

——

As the vehicle eased to a gradual stop near the familiar, dimly lit bar, its worn façade wavering beneath hazy streetlamps and drifting night mist, your gaze immediately caught sight of a familiar silhouette waiting in the distance.

For a brief, reckless instant, every instinct within you urged you to throw open the door and rush forward without hesitation.

Yet caution anchored you in place with quiet insistence, the thought of Valarr’s displeasure rising unbidden in your mind. You knew with unsettling clarity that if anything were to happen to you through carelessness, he would not merely be worried; he would become unrelenting, never again permitting you to venture out alone, his protectiveness tightening into something inescapable.

When the car finally came to a complete stop, you turned toward the driver.

"Please give me a few minutes," you said softly, already reaching into your purse. You pressed several folded notes into his hand with gentle urgency. "Take this and have yourself a proper dinner. You may go for now, and I will message you when I am finished."

He accepted the money with a polite nod, offering his thanks before driving away into the quiet street, leaving you alone beneath the subdued glow of flickering lights.

Only then did you turn forward.

Rowan stood exactly where she had always waited, her figure framed by the weak golden spill of a nearby lamp. She wore simple oversized shirt with joggers and had gathered her red hair into a loose bun, her posture still, her gaze already fixed on you as though she had been waiting far longer than the night itself.

For several seconds, neither of you moved.

The distance between you felt unbearably fragile, as though a single step carried the weight to either mend or destroy everything that had once existed between you.

Then something broke. Her lower lip trembled, and before thought could restrain emotion, you were already moving forward.

Rowan met you halfway. You collided into one another with breathless urgency, arms locking around shoulders and waist in a desperate embrace that carried every unspoken apology, every night of silence, every fractured piece of friendship.

"I’m sorry," she sobbed first, voice breaking against your shoulder.

"No, no, I’m sorry," you cried just as quickly, clinging to her as though afraid she might dissolve again. "I should have told you everything. From the very beginning. Instead, I kept it from you."

She shook her head violently, tears slipping freely down her cheeks.

"No, sweetheart, I understand," she choked out. "Your father was horrifying. The way he struck you— I should have done something. I should have stopped it. Instead I just stood there and watched them take you away."

"Please stop," you whispered urgently, pulling back just enough to press your forehead against hers. "It was never your responsibility. None of this was your fault."

Her breath hitched unevenly.

"I wanted to reach out," she admitted shakily, "but every time I thought about how you had hidden things from me, I just… I could not separate the hurt from everything else. I think I understand it now, though. Raymund always complains about the expectations placed on him, and his family is nowhere near as… you know… yours." She pauses to sniffle. "Still, I was hurt, and I stayed away because I did not know how to forgive without breaking something else."

"I know," you murmured softly, stroking her cheek in reassurance. "And I am sorry as well. I never meant to shut you out."

Her shoulders trembled.

"I missed you," she whispered, voice fragile.

A faint, tear-stained laugh escaped you.

"I missed you too. So so so so much."

For a moment, silence settled between you, no longer sharp but softened by shared grief and hesitant relief. Then you let out a breath that seemed to carry the last of her restraint.

"I love Aemon," you say almost defensively through lingering tears, "but I cannot talk to him about having my panties stuck in the confines of my bottom. I have missed having you."

A laugh escapes her despite everything.

"I understand that entirely," she replied. "I find myself in the same predicament with Raymund."

A fragile warmth flickered between you, easing the tension just enough to breathe again.

Emerald eyes met lilac beneath the weak flicker of the bar’s sign.

"I missed this," Rowan said at last, quieter now.

This time, when you embraced, neither of you rushed to release the other. Eventually, you pulled back and gestured gently toward the bar.

"We should sit," you suggested. "We can have a drink, talk properly. For you tonight, my Lady,I would make an exception."

Rowan pulls you inside, the bar is vacant tonight, then hesitated briefly, before shaking her head. Her gaze drifted downward. It paused.

"That is right," she murmured, voice suddenly subdued. "You are engaged now." Her eyes lingered on the ring as it caught the glow of the streetlight.

"Yes," you replied softly. "Valarr and I reconciled, and some time later after we dated he proposed."

The gemstone shimmered faintly, suddenly heavier in meaning than beauty alone.

"It must have been expensive," she whispered, almost reverently.

"He can be… rather excessive," you answered with a small, uncertain laugh.

But Rowan did not laugh. Instead, something in her expression shifted, tightening into quiet apprehension.

"You cannot marry him," she said softly, a solemn smile suddenly gracing her features.

The words landed with immediate weight and your breath caught.

"What?" you asked, confusion threading through your voice.

She shook her head, almost as if struggling with herself.

"I am not in any position to interfere," she said carefully, voice trembling with restraint, "but you deserve to hear this from him yourself."

Her head turns past her shoulder. And only then did you notice it. The presence within the shadows.

A figure seated just beyond the reach of the dim light, unmoving, composed, patient.

Then a pair of lilac eyes lifted, meeting yours with unsettling calm.

A voice followed, low and unhurried, carrying a familiarity that drained the warmth from the night.

“It has been a while, my little dragon.”

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Taglist: @uixhzzzi @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2 @qardasngan @ivynotreally

[strawberry0verlord]

A Song of Fire and Blood

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (series)

Synopsis: As the last surviving remnant of the first dragonlords to have ruled the Valyrian Freehold, your father — a misogynistic purist, bloodlust warlord — has set his ambitious gaze towards the kindoms of the West and offers you to a dynasty as leverage, casting a lone lamb into a den of dragons, forcing you into the deadly game of thrones.

Yet years beneathe his and your late mother's cruel and ruthless hands you are no fool to the game. For you understand the rules of engagement and harbor an ancient secret bound from the crimson depths of Old Valyria.

Whether you conquer the game... or allow the madness to consume you—

The choice is yours...

Pairings: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen × Reader

Maekar Targaryen x Reader

Valarr Targaryen x Reader

Daeron the Drunken Targaryen x Reader

Aerion Brightflame Targaryen x Reader

slight Ser Roland Crakehall x Reader slight Ser Donnel of Duskindale x Reader slight Lyonel Baratheon x Reader

Warnings: 18+ blood, death, gore, abuse, misogyny, supremacy, purism, eventual smut, angst, mentions of war, mentions of rape, jealousy, pining, slow burn

Chapters:

I. The Voyage (tba)

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen x FemReader x ???

Chapter XIII:

THE LINE BETWEEN

Warning: MATURE CONTENT!!! For those who aren't comfortable with nsfw I will put a pink asterisk from where it begins and leave a brief summary of this chapter in the beginning of the next one. That way you can skip it entirely.

Silence reigned within the expansive penthouse, a peculiar sort of quietude so profound that it seemed almost corporeal as it pressed itself into the polished marble floors and settled heavily amongst the sleek furnishings of the master suite.

Beyond the towering glass panes that formed an entire wall of the room, the city glittered beneath the midnight sky, its countless lights strewn across the darkness like fallen stars scattered upon the earth. Though Valarr ordinarily found solace in that breathtaking view, tonight he scarcely even noticed it, choosing instead to sit entirely alone upon the black leather couch positioned before the windows, accompanied only by his three faithful companions: guilt, regret, and self-reproach.

With his elbows resting heavily upon his knees and his hands loosely clasped before him, he stared unseeingly into the urban expanse beyond, well aware that midnight had long since passed and that despite the utter exhaustion wrought by the day's turbulent events, sleep remained impossibly distant.

Whenever he closed his eyes, your voice returned to haunt him through agonizing echoes of your sobs, the fragile hitch in your breathing, the ragged gasps you fought so valiantly to suppress, and the soft sniffles reverberating through the abandoned lecture hall long after your confession ended. Whenever he dared surrender to sleep, your image vividly materialized before him with tears streaming unchecked down your face, silver strands of hair plastered against damp cheeks like threads of moonlight caught in rain. He envisioned the profound agony etched into every trembling line of your expression as you forced yourself to relive the painful memory of the fateful night you confessed your love to him, the exact night he had callously abandoned you.

As a sharp breath escaped him, pain gathered within his chest with such relentless intensity that it became entirely unbearable, prompting Valarr to release a strangled sound of frustration and drive his fist into the reinforced glass table before him. The heavy impact reverberated throughout the vacant suite as a web of fine fractures immediately spread across the expensive surface, weaving crystalline veins that permanently marred what had once been immaculate perfection. Yet he felt absolutely nothing, for no physical injury could possibly rival the emotional torment devouring him from within.

'I wished, for one selfish moment, that I could become someone else entirely if it meant you would love me.'

Gods, how he despised those agonizing words, which could not have been further from the truth— given that he had loved you entirely for exactly who you were.

He had cherished how you laughed too loudly whenever something genuinely amused you, how you rambled nervously whenever anxiety took hold, and how your deep-seated compassion led you to offer pieces of yourself to others without ever pausing to consider what such immense generosity might cost you. He had adored your resilience, your stubbornness, your kindness, and even your infuriating habit of placing everyone else's happiness before your own, loving every impossible, extraordinary facet of your being, yet you had never been allowed to see it solely because of his own cowardice.

Gods, he wished he could erase those heartbreaking words from your memory, longing to hold your face between his hands and implore you never to utter such abhorrent falsehoods again, knowing with absolute certainty that he would have loved you in any lifetime, wearing any guise, and traversing any world imaginable.

Suddenly, another memory surfaced from the night his own world had collapsed beneath the crushing weight of duty and expectation, reminding him of how you had remained faithfully beside him until dawn. You had listened intently and held him close while gathering the fractured remnants of his soul with gentle hands and steadfast devotion, never once asking for anything in return.

The truth remained agonizingly simple: you had always been there, unfailingly present whenever grief threatened to hollow him from within or when duty became unbearable, particularly when loneliness crept insidiously into his life and convinced him that no one could ever truly understand the man beneath the crown.

Every single time, you had reached for him without hesitation, without condition, and without ever demanding that he do the same in return. Yet when you had stood upon the precipice of your own despair—when physicians had placed what you believed to be a death sentence into your trembling hands, when terror and grief threatened to consume you whole, and when you needed him with a desperation so profound that it still echoed within your sobs years later—he had not merely abandoned you. No, abandonment would have been a merciful fate; instead, he had ripped your heart from your chest, trampled upon it, and spat upon the shattered remains without ever realizing the gravity of what he was doing. Then, while you bled in absolute silence, he had watched you walk away and allowed darkness to swallow you whole.

The realization struck with such merciless force that Valarr could scarcely breathe, because he finally understood that while he had hidden behind duty, fulfilling empty obligations and participating in courtships he never desired, you had been confronting your mortality entirely alone. You had carried that heavy burden in isolation, fled your father without aid, endured the horrors of Ashblood in secret, and mourned him in immense solitude, yet somehow, despite all of that immense suffering, you had still found the strength to love him.

Gods, what had he done to you? Self-reproach, regret, and guilt coiled around his lungs and heart until, for one terrible moment, he genuinely thought the weight might break him entirely.

As rage surged anew, Valarr struck the table repeatedly with escalating fury, the heavy thuds echoing throughout the vacant room as each impact reverberated through the stillness like distant thunder. More fractures spread wildly across the reinforced glass while a faint smear of crimson eventually appeared across his reddened knuckles where repeated blows had finally split the skin, yet he continued unabated because he believed this pain was thoroughly deserved. Then, gradually, the chaotic wheels of his mind began to turn as he remembered the signs. Sevens, there had been so many glaring signs that he had completely overlooked.

On the first night he had unexpectedly slept in your apartment until daylight, he had awoken to an indifferent attitude, assuming you found laying with him undesirable when, in reality, you had simply been terrified that he would see through your facade, look into your unveiled lilac eyes, and recognize precisely who you were. Regarding the unexplained disappearances that followed, he had foolishly convinced himself that you were avoiding his company, completely oblivious to the fact that you were battling a severe illness. Every clue—from the countless occasions you adamantly refused to wet your hair to your sudden absences, exhaustion, and the dramatic incident aboard the yacht—suddenly aligned with devastating clarity.

The clues had always been right in front of him, yet he simply had not seen them because while you quietly bled, suffered, and carried burdens no young woman should ever bear, he had been entirely preoccupied with superficial appearances, hollow obligations, and the endless demands of an heir's duty. You had wanted to tell him for years, but revealing the truth would have endangered the only opportunity you possessed to overcome your demise.

The realization of how utterly alone you must have been nearly undid him, seizing him with a startlingly intense desire to hear your voice and speak with you immediately. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for his phone, noting that a dull sting pulsed through his bruised knuckles as his fingers curled around the device, drawing his attention at last to the angry redness spreading across his hand.

"Seven hells," he muttered quietly.

Using his other hand, he unlocked the screen and scrolled down to your contact information, experiencing that familiar, achingly tender sensation within his chest the moment your name appeared. For several anxious moments, his thumb hovered above the call icon before he finally pressed it, only to find that the line failed to connect entirely. Valarr stared blankly at the phone as something deep inside him sank, remembering with a frustrated groan that you had undoubtedly blocked him, a consequence he knew he thoroughly earned. Before abandoning the attempt entirely, he dragged a hand through his disheveled hair and dialed another number instead, which his assistant answered almost immediately.

"Sir?"

Valarr's gaze drifted toward the shattered table.

"I require antiseptics. And arrange for my table to be fixed." he said wearily.

A pause.

"Also I need you to purchase another phone."

——

The following morning brought yet another unwelcome reminder that your former life had been irrevocably severed, especially when, shortly after breakfast, one of your father's men informed you that your apartment had been broken into. You merely stared at the guard for several moments, feeling strangely detached from the revelation and wondering why in god's name anyone would wish to steal from your old residence.

Daemon, naturally, responded with immediate efficiency, ensuring that within the hour, a team of Blackfyre guards had been dispatched to retrieve your belongings. The effort proved almost laughably unnecessary given that your possessions consisted primarily of books, research papers, and notebooks overflowing with observations regarding Ashblood. Everything else had already been replaced several times over by your father, who had taken one horrified survey of your former wardrobe and declared it, with characteristic disdain, "an atrocious affront and an utter disgrace to the dignity of House Blackfyre." You had responded by rolling your eyes so dramatically that even the surrounding servants struggled to suppress their amusement.

The days that followed unfolded in an exhausting succession of meetings as prominent companies and houses that supported Blackfyre arrived one after another, each eager to meet the long-lost heiress whose existence had remained shrouded in secrecy for decades. While some greeted you with genuine warmth, others regarded you with the careful scrutiny reserved for investments of uncertain value, yet most of the meetings proceeded remarkably well regardless. Your sharp intellect, business acumen, and deep familiarity with economic affairs quickly silenced many reservations, though others remained completely unconvinced. Recognizing immediately that their skepticism stemmed from the fact that you were a woman inheriting an empire forged entirely by men, you remained largely untroubled, having endured far harsher judgments throughout your life.

Compounding your stress, Ashblood had worsened dramatically, extracting a steeper price from your fragile body with each passing day. Several nights found you curled tightly beneath silk sheets, trembling violently as waves of agony coursed through your limbs with relentless cruelty. The medications prescribed by the physicians offered only a fleeting reprieve, dulling the sharp pain just enough to permit brief intervals of restless sleep before it inevitably returned, yet even that immense physical suffering paled beside the ache lodged perpetually within your chest.

When you finally gathered the courage to ask, Aemon confirmed that Aerion had indeed departed for Lys, though you refrained from inquiring whether he traveled with another woman. Since some wounds remained far too tender to probe. You had not intended to confess the true nature of your relationship with his brother, leaving the secret buried strictly between you and Aerion alone.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, you found yourself wondering whether he hated you, questioning whether his contempt stemmed from your deception or whether it arose from something far older and infinitely more insurmountable.

'The mere existence of a Blackfyre is a crime punishable only by fire.'

You remembered his words at the gala with painful clarity as the memory resurfaced while you sat before your vanity, absentmindedly guiding a brush through lengths of silver-white hair that cascaded over your shoulders.

Your phone rested upon the polished surface before you, the article remaining wide open because you had yet to find the strength to close it. Photographs accompanied the detailed report, and in every image, Aerion appeared perfectly composed, impeccably dressed, and infuriatingly beautiful.

In one particular photograph, his hand rested casually upon the waist of a mysterious woman whose face remained concealed beneath the broad brim of an oversized brown sunhat. Believing—or perhaps merely imagining—that the corners of his lips curved ever so slightly upward, you felt the sight hollow out something deep within you, allowing the familiar numbness to settle inside your chest as you welcomed it almost gratefully since numbness hurt far less than heartbreak.

Eventually, deciding you had sufficiently tortured yourself for one evening, you reluctantly abandoned the article and began reviewing economic reports concerning Westeros and the Free Cities, knowing your father would undoubtedly expect a comprehensive analysis.

Several minutes later, a flood of notifications abruptly illuminated the screen, reading:

BREAKING NEWS: TYROSH ARCHON FURIOUS AS HOUSE TARGARYEN ABRUPTLY TERMINATES ENGAGEMENT NEGOTIATIONS

Blinking rapidly under the assumption that you must have misread the text through the tears blurring your vision, you hastily wiped your face before bringing the screen so close that it nearly brushed your nose. Your brows knit together as article after article conveyed the same astonishing information regarding how House Targaryen had abruptly and without warning severed negotiations with Tyrosh.

Political analysts across Westeros appeared equally bewildered, though rumors suggested that the decision had, in fact, been made prior to the gala itself. However, given the significance of the event, the family had allegedly postponed the announcement to avoid overshadowing the occasion.

Many commentators condemned the decision as politically catastrophic, noting that the outrage emanating from Tyrosh was already substantial and warning that House Blackfyre stood uniquely positioned to exploit the deteriorating relationship. After all, House Blackfyre possessed longstanding Tyroshi connections since Daemon I Blackfyre had married Rohanne of Tyrosh, a noble woman, meaning Daemon II himself was born of Tyroshi nobility.

Should your father successfully capitalize upon the diplomatic rupture, the Blackfyres could potentially secure access to critical trade ports throughout the Free Cities, creating staggering implications where control of Tyroshi trade routes would provide immense economic leverage while simultaneously placing House Targaryen at a severe disadvantage.

You stared at the screen in complete disbelief, wondering why they would willingly relinquish such an advantage when no seasoned statesman, or even an amateur businessman, would ever surrender something so incredibly valuable. If the rumors were accurate and these plans truly predated the gala, you wondered if Valarr had something to do with it.

You extinguished the stirring hope immediately because you refused to build castles from speculation only to watch them collapse, having already learned the steep cost of misplaced hope. Just as you prepared to set your phone aside, a message appeared from an unfamiliar number.

Can we please talk? It's me. Valarr.

— Unknown Number

Your breath caught as a second message arrived scarcely moments later.

Please, Y/N. I wish to speak with you. I truly need to speak with you.

— Unknown Number

You stared at the illuminated screen while a heavy silence enveloped the room, noting that beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the suite, the city shimmered beneath the night sky, completely oblivious to the war unfolding within your heart.

You wanted answers desperately, longing to know why he chose duty over you, whether any part of what existed between you had been real, and whether he regretted breaking your heart. Perhaps, you reasoned, speaking with him might finally grant you closure, yet a far more dangerous voice whispered within you because despite the betrayal and the months spent mourning him, a part of you still belonged to him terrifyingly and irrevocably.

You feared that if you allowed yourself to see him again or look into those mismatched eyes you had once adored, that fragile, foolish part of you would surrender immediately, and you simply could not survive being abandoned a second time. With trembling fingers, you locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the bed, and slipped into your bed, beneath the covers, choosing not to reply even though you could not bring yourself to block the number.

Several weeks slipped by with a curious sort of swiftness, each day completely consumed by negotiations, dinners, business proposals, and endless introductions to houses whose loyalties had remained steadfastly aligned with your father's cause for generations.

You had become increasingly accustomed to the rhythm of Blackfyre politics, learning to navigate rooms overflowing with influential financiers, landed nobility, and ambitious industrial magnates with an ease that pleasantly surprised even Daemon II. It was on a Saturday evening, following yet another dinner engagement with one of the lesser houses sworn to House Blackfyre, that your carefully cultivated composure finally fractured.

The dinner had concluded splendidly. As farewells commenced, the elegantly dressed attendees gradually rose from their seats, exchanging firm handshakes and polite parting remarks while you stood amongst them as every inch the Blackfyre heiress. The fitted black dress you wore embraced your figure with effortless sophistication, its modest silhouette concealing more than it revealed while still lending you an undeniable elegance that contrasted beautifully with the silver-white hair falling in soft waves down your back.

When your purse vibrated, you initially thought nothing of it, absently retrieving the device only to feel your expression falter the moment your eyes fell upon the screen displaying the name.

Loras Tyrell.

Confusion immediately surfaced since Loras had never called you once, prompting you to press the illuminated screen discreetly against the folds of your dress to conceal the caller's identity from prying eyes, especially since the Tyrells remained fiercely loyal to House Targaryen and you had learned quickly that political optics mattered.

Declining the call, you resumed exchanging farewells with practiced smiles until the phone vibrated a second time with the exact same name, causing a small crease to form between your brows.

Murmuring your apologies, you quietly excused yourself and stepped outside the restaurant, where the cool evening air greeted you immediately on a prestigious corner within the financial district. The exterior was illuminated by warm golden sconces that cast elongated shadows across the otherwise deserted pavement, where several luxury vehicles waited patiently nearby as their chauffeurs conversed quietly beneath the dim glow of streetlights.

After ensuring you were completely alone, you answered cautiously.

"Loras?"

"My apologies for calling unexpectedly," came his hurried reply. "I wouldn't have disturbed you if it weren't important."

Alarm immediately sharpened your attention.

"What happened?"

A weary exhale sounded through the receiver.

"It's Valarr."

Your stomach tightened.

"What about him?"

"He's drunk."

Remaining silent, you listened as Loras continued before you could even attempt to respond.

"Hopelessly drunk, and currently threatening to rip out the throat of a stranger at a bar with his bare hands."

You blinked.

"What?"

"He is making an absolute spectacle of himself," Loras said frantically. "The security staff cannot restrain him without risking exposure, and given recent events, if photographs emerge—"

"Loras," you interrupted coolly, "I fail to understand how this concerns me."

"A group of men at the bar were discussing the discovery of the Blackfyre heiress," Loras explained. "They were not particularly charitable in their descriptions of you. Valarr overheard them."

Following a brief pause, Loras explained that the heir in question began threatening to murder said gentlemen because they insulted you. You frowned deeply.

A heavy silence greeted his explanation as something softened within your chest, making you hate yourself for the fact that it still affected you so deeply.

"I am busy," you said quietly.

"Please." Loras sounded desperate. "He refuses to listen to anyone."

Closing your eyes in bitter resignation at the realization that of course he wouldn't listen, a long, defeated sigh escaped you before you requested

"Send me the address."

——

Your driver delivered you to the location scarcely twenty minutes later, revealing an establishment that proved considerably less refined than the restaurants and conference halls you had frequented since returning to your father's side.

Warm light spilled from weathered windows onto worn wooden pavements while muffled laughter and music drifted intermittently through the entrance, prompting you to thank your driver and hurry from the vehicle. The fitted dress, though exquisite, had not been designed for urgency, forcing you to gather part of the fabric in one hand and navigate the pavement as quickly as your heels permitted while their sharp cadence echoed against the wood.

The moment you entered the bar, absolute chaos greeted you as several men were being restrained by their companions near the center of the establishment, and amongst them stood Valarr.

Fortunately, he had donned a dark cap pulled low over his head to conceal the distinctive silver streak within his hair that would have immediately betrayed his identity, but you, regrettably, had arrived entirely undisguised. As conversation gradually faltered, heads turned one by one until the men nearest Valarr fell completely silent, your silver-white hair rendering anonymity impossible.

Recognition dawned almost immediately, causing the tension to dissipate just as Valarr turned and froze, everything stopping as he simply stared for one suspended moment. His expression shifted rapidly from anger to confusion, and then to something so disbelieving that your chest tightened painfully while he began walking slowly, almost cautiously, toward you with his eyes fixed entirely on your face.

It was as though he feared even blinking might cause you to disappear, and when he finally reached you, one trembling hand lifted to hover mere inches from your cheek, though fear restrained him from making actual contact because he worried that if he touched you and you vanished, it would prove to be another cruel hallucination conjured by grief and whiskey.

"I..." His voice cracked. He swallowed. "I loved a girl who looked exactly like you."

Your heart stuttered.

Valarr smiled weakly.

"She was beautiful." His eyes glistened.

"But I—"

A familiar gagging noise abruptly interrupted him, triggering your years of medical training to take over instantly as you sidestepped mere moments before Valarr emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

"Gods above," you muttered.

Loras appeared beside you almost immediately, and together you managed to catch Valarr before he collapsed entirely, guiding the thoroughly incapacitated princeling outside while he mumbled something completely unintelligible.

Offering profuse apologies to both the horrified bartender and the establishment's security staff, you and Loras stepped into the cool evening air, which struck your face as Loras directed you toward his vehicle where his driver already waited beside the open door. Thankfully, the journey to Valarr's penthouse required less than ten minutes because the bar had been chosen precisely for its proximity, neither of you trusting Valarr to travel any farther in his current condition.

By the time you reached the penthouse and successfully maneuvered him toward his bedroom, he had become almost entirely unresponsive, prompting you and Loras to carefully lower him onto the enormous bed. Just as you attempted to step away, Valarr's hand suddenly closed around yours, causing you to still as his grip held fast despite its lack of physical strength.

"Please don't leave," he murmured hoarsely. A soft, broken sound escaped him.

"I'm sorry."

The words scarcely resembled speech, sounding more like a desperate plea right before unconsciousness reclaimed him entirely, though his hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.

And so you found yourself seated awkwardly upon the edge of his king-sized bed, barefoot after having abandoned your heels somewhere near the entrance, while the future heir of Westeros slept beside you clutching your hand like a clingy child.

Loras watched the scene quietly, and when you finally looked up, you discovered an unfamiliar solemnity upon his features that matched the heavy atmosphere of the room.

"He's been like this for days," he said softly.

Your gaze returned to Valarr, allowing you to truly notice the weight loss, the faint hollows beneath his cheekbones, the shadows lingering beneath his eyes, and the sheer exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

"He barely eats," Loras continued. "He scarcely sleeps. Most days, he drinks until he passes out. When he wakes, he begins again."

Your throat tightened.

"I reprimanded him repeatedly," Loras said with a humourless laugh. "I informed him that, at this rate, he may very well surpass Daeron at his own game."

A faint smile ghosted across his features.

"He told me he deserved it."

Silence settled between you. Eventually Loras moved towards the door. Before leaving, however, he paused.

"I'm not certain what transpired between the two of you," he said quietly. "Whatever happened, he must have done something truly unforgivable, and I am not suggesting that you owe him anything."

He hesitated.

"Nevertheless, I have known Valarr for nearly my entire life. We grew up together. He is, for all intents and purposes, a brother."

Loras glanced toward his sleeping friend.

"And never—not once in all those years—have I witnessed him go this far for anyone."

He smiled faintly.

"I think you mean something rather extraordinary to him."

Your expression remained unreadable.

Loras chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Seven save us, he even threatened to run away if his father refused to annul the engagement negotiations."

Your eyes widened.

Loras merely shrugged.

"If you need a ride home, send me a message. I can arrange for one of my drivers to escort you. That way, you won't need to notify your father's men."

You nodded quietly.

"Thank you."

"No," Loras said, offering you a gentle smile. "Thank you for tonight."

With that, he slipped from the room, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him.

You lowered your gaze to the man sleeping beside you as Loras's words regarding how Valarr had threatened to disappear entirely if his father refused to dissolve the engagement negotiations lingered unpleasantly within your mind.

This confirmed that the rumors had been true and that Valarr had truly stood against Baelor. Something inside your chest ached intensely, leaving you unable to determine whether the sensation stemmed from hope, sorrow, or something infinitely more dangerous as your free hand rose and brushed against the distinctive silver streak woven through his dark hair. A small smile found its way onto your lips because you had always adored that particular feature, remembering how Valarr had spent years complaining about it while insisting it made him appear odd amongst his relatives, whereas you had found it endearing from the very beginning as a solitary streak of moonlight threaded through midnight.

Your fingers lingered for a moment while Valarr shifted slightly beneath your touch, his brows relaxing as though he were deeply satisfied by the contact even in sleep.

The sight was so absurdly familiar that a disbelieving shake of your head escaped you, making you softly chuckle as your attention fell to your imprisoned hand, which remained stubbornly locked within his intact grip. A sigh slipped from your lips as you became aware of the dull ache radiating through your spine, the exhausting consequence of enduring hours of meetings, negotiations, and endless political maneuvering alongside the relentless torment Ashblood had inflicted upon you in recent weeks.

Recognizing that the bed beneath you was indecently comfortable, you erred on the side of caution and reasoned that you would rest only briefly, perhaps ten minutes, long enough to ease the stiffness in your back before contacting Loras for transportation home.

Carefully shifting onto the mattress beside him so as not to disturb his slumber, you had every intention of remaining awake, yet somewhere between tracing the familiar contours of his sleeping face with your eyes and listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, exhaustion claimed you entirely as the combined burden of Ashblood, political obligations, and heartbreak finally proved too great to withstand, allowing sleep to descend swiftly.

——

Valarr surfaced from unconsciousness with a low, pained grunt as his stomach protested immediately, the meagre breakfast he had forced himself to consume that morning having long since vanished from his system. Judging by the darkness engulfing the room, it was well past midnight, with only the distant glow of the city illuminating the penthouse as thousands of lights glittered beyond the immense glass panes, transforming the skyline into a sea of stars suspended upon the earth.

Groaning softly, Valarr attempted to sit upright by bracing himself upon one elbow, but the effort proved disastrous as a violent headache exploded behind his eyes, forcing him to freeze lest the room begin spinning altogether.

It was then that he realized he was not alone, noticing a soft, delicate, and slightly cool warmth against his hand that caused his brow to furrow as he slowly lowered his gaze, initially believing he was still dreaming. Carefully, almost fearfully, he released the hand he had apparently been clutching and rubbed at his eyes, a movement that only aggravated the migraine threatening to split his skull apart while nausea churned ominously within his stomach.

Readjusting his focus, he looked again and confirmed that you remained there, lying peacefully upon your side and facing him with your silver-white hair strewn across his pillow in luminous disarray. Gentle breaths lifted and lowered your chest in an unhurried rhythm while the faint moonlight filtering through the windows bathed your sleeping features in a soft, ethereal glow, leaving Valarr to simply stare in absolute comprehension that you were actually here, rather than a dream or another hallucination conjured by whiskey and regret.

With painstaking caution, he lifted one hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed several stray strands away from your face until you stirred, releasing a soft, sleepy groan that immediately locked every muscle in Valarr's body. His heart lurched violently against his ribs because you looked unbearably adorable, forcing him to employ every ounce of restraint he possessed to prevent himself from leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

The temptation was overwhelming because this was truly the real you—breathing, sleeping, and close enough to touch—which flooded his mind with a thousand questions regarding what you were doing here, why you had come, and why you had stayed.

Then his gaze drifted, scanning the remaining contours of your form. You were draped in a simple yet chic fitted black dress, a garment that didn't so much clothe you as it did map the exquisite geography of your body, clinging to every curve with a provocative precision.

The low-cut neckline, combined with the heavy, languid slump of your sleeping form, pressed your supple breasts together in a tantalizing display. They were pushed upward, swelling against the fabric in a way that felt dangerously precarious; it seemed as though a single, sudden movement, a sharp intake of breath or a restless shift in sleep, would cause them to spill over the edge and expose their full, aching glory to his waiting eyes.

Valarr tore his gaze away with a sharp, guttural exhale, the effort of the redirection nearly physical. The sudden surge of heat radiating through his veins was instantaneous, and he felt the oppressive strain against the fabric of his trousers.

Fortunately, his stomach chose that precise moment to revolt, bringing the nausea back with such alarming intensity that Valarr paled, suppressed a groan, and rose from the bed with remarkable speed for a man suffering both intoxication and a catastrophic headache before hurrying toward the adjoining bathroom.

Years of political training had gifted him with an exceptional ability to move silently when necessary, and even though he remained profoundly grateful for the soundproofing installed throughout the penthouse, he paused at the partially opened bathroom door to glance back toward the bed, finding that you had not moved and were still fast asleep, a sight that alone made his chest ache.

——

Buzz buzz

The soft, persistent vibration of a phone gradually intruded upon your consciousness, a sound that at first seemed distant and woven seamlessly into the remnants of your dream until it continued with unwavering insistence and finally dragged you from sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open to amber light, prompting you to instinctively raise a hand to shield your face from the warm glow flooding the room while you stared for several moments.

Beyond the immense glass panes of Valarr's penthouse, the sky had transformed into a magnificent tapestry of violet, rose, and molten gold where the sun lingered low upon the horizon, casting the city below in hues so rich they appeared almost unreal. You froze as a heavy dread began to creep into your chest, forcing you to frantically search for your purse amongst the sheets and surrounding cushions before finally locating it on the nightstand.

Your fingers trembled as you unlocked your phone.

4:03 PM

Your eyes widened in surging panic at the realization that you had slept through nearly the entire day, leaving you with eight missed calls from your father and an ominous message sitting beneath them.

Where in the hell are you?

— Father

You swallowed hard, and with shaking fingers and the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind your eyes, you hurriedly typed a response.

I had some business to attend to

Pressing send immediately before shoving the phone back into your purse as though it had personally offended you. Rising from the bed with equal haste proved to be a highly regrettable decision, as the sudden movement caused the room to tilt violently, blurring your vision and causing you to stumble until strong hands caught you before you could collapse.

"Easy," came a familiar voice, laced with concern. "Are you alright?"

You raised a hand to your temple, willing the dizziness to subside so that when your vision finally cleared, you found yourself staring directly into Valarr's mismatched eyes. He stood before you dressed casually in dark lounge clothes, both of his hands remained firmly upon your shoulders to steady your balance.

"Take it easy," he murmured. "You stood up far too quickly."

"I have to go," you said immediately, attempting to move around him.

"Go where?" he asked gently. "You haven't eaten."

"I'm fine." You managed to slip from his grasp and headed toward the bedroom door.

"You intend to leave dressed like that?"

His voice halted you instantly, prompting you to look down as the realization struck that you were still wearing the exact same black dress from the previous evening. Returning to your residence in identical attire after disappearing for an entire night would undoubtedly invite questions, and since your father rarely asked questions but instead chose to investigate, you sighed internally at the predicament.

At that precise moment, a heavenly aroma of fresh pastries, warm bread, your favorite teas, and something cinnamon-based drifted through the room, causing your stomach to choose betrayal as a loud, unmistakable rumble echoed throughout the suite. A faint blush immediately dusted your cheeks while Valarr's lips twitched slightly.

"Come eat," he said, pretending remarkable ignorance regarding your embarrassment. "I had the chef prepare something for you. I considered waking you, but..." his hand rose awkwardly to scratch the back of his neck, "you looked exhausted."

Despite yourself, your gaze wandered toward the large coffee table in his room, though you immediately regretted it upon seeing that it had been transformed into an absolute feast where your favorite foods and desserts sat carefully arranged beside warm drinks.

Curse this man for remembering everything.

"Please?" Valarr asked quietly.

You turned to find that he had not moved, remaining perfectly still as though fearful that any sudden movement might startle you into fleeing the penthouse.

"I've prepared a bath," he continued softly. "You can freshen up first. There are spare clothes in my closet. Then you can eat before you leave."

Remaining silent, you withdrew your phone and opened your calendar only to realize it was Sunday, leaving you with no meetings, no obligations, and no excuses, which caused your eyes to drift once more toward the desserts. Valarr noticed the movement immediately and held in a laugh, prompting you to release a defeated sigh.

"Fine."

The sheer relief that crossed his face was almost embarrassing.

"Thank you," he said quickly. "The bathroom is over there. The closet is beside it."

You nodded before disappearing into the adjoining rooms.

As the faint sound of running water echoed throughout his bedroom, Valarr immediately sprang into motion, his eyes sweeping frantically across the room as a discarded sweater disappeared into a hamper, several files were stacked neatly, and a glass left carelessly upon the coffee table vanished into the kitchen.

Everything had to be absolutely perfect because this was your first time inside his penthouse, and more importantly, it was the first time the two of you had shared uninterrupted time together in years without any disguises, lies, hidden identities, or secrets between you.

The realization ignited every dormant nerve within his body, making him absurdly nervous as he acknowledged that you would likely leave immediately after the meal, yet excitement continued to build relentlessly within him regardless.

Unable to tolerate his own anxiety, he retreated to the guest bathroom to examine himself in the mirror, adjusting several unruly strands of dark hair, straightening the silver streak, and checking his eyes because you had once told him they were beautiful, a memory that alone caused his heart to stumble. Valarr lowered his gaze to the sink, breathing in and out deeply to calm his racing thoughts.

"You can do this," he muttered quietly.

Ever since awakening to find you sleeping peacefully beside him, something profound within him had shifted, allowing him to feel genuinely hungry for the first time in weeks as food no longer tasted like ash and the crushing weight inside his chest had eased. Learning from Loras that you had abandoned your evening obligations to help him had only worsened the condition of his already treacherous heart, prompting him to close his eyes and attempt to soothe his nerves.

"Valarr?"

Your voice echoed through the suite, causing his eyes to fly open instantly as he hurried toward the sound without a single moment of hesitation. He opened the bedroom door and promptly forgot how to think, discovering you standing before him with your silver hair remaining slightly damp despite your obvious attempts to dry it, the soft strands framing your face in beautiful disarray while water droplets still clung stubbornly to others. You had chosen one of his white dress shirts.

His dress shirt.

His.

Did he mention it was his?

A garment that swallowed your frame entirely with the hem ending scandalously high upon your thighs, while the faint traces of warmth from the bath still lingered upon your skin to leave delicate flushes of pink across your cheeks and collarbones. Valarr swallowed hard as every coherent thought abandoned him completely.

"Are you going to eat with me?" you asked awkwardly. "Or..."

Your eyes wandered around the enormous room, noting that the master suite was excessive even by royal standards, complete with its own sitting area and panoramic views of the city.

"Yes."

The answer emerged far louder than intended, prompting Valarr to clear his throat with unnecessary force while you cast him a skeptical glance, sensing that something about him seemed distinctly strange.

The two of you settled near the table, where he remained painfully rigid throughout the meal, an awkward posture you noticed immediately because every few bites found him staring resolutely anywhere except directly at you. Focusing instead on the windows, the ceiling, the marble floors, or the distant skyline. He also cleared his throat far more often than any healthy person reasonably should, which puzzled you and allowed your attention to wander around the immaculate, impersonal, and deeply lonely suite.

Beneath the expansive white ceiling, discreet recessed lighting cast a soft glow across the polished marble floors, while floor-to-ceiling glass walls wrapped around two sides of the penthouse to offer breathtaking views of the city below. The king sized bed itself occupied an elevated platform against dark wood paneling while you sat in the elegant seating area rested below, centered around a dark leather sofas and a glass coffee table filled with all your favorite cuisines.

Your eyes drifted toward Valarr, who had begun shaking one leg restlessly beneath the table, prompting the heavy thought to settle inside your chest that perhaps he simply wanted you to leave, but was too polite to ask. Though you desperately wanted another pastry, you reluctantly finished the final bite currently on your plate and quietly set down your fork.

"I should go."

"No." The response arrived so quickly that both of you stared at one another in surprise.

Valarr laughed awkwardly.

"Please," he amended. "You haven't finished dessert yet. I know those are your favorites."

"Are you sure?" you asked carefully. "You seem... preoccupied. Perhaps I'm taking up too much of your time."

"No," he said immediately. "I'm free this evening." He pointed toward the pastries. He swallows visibly.

"I had those made especially for you."

You blinked in surprise, slowly sitting back down.

"Thank you."

Valarr resumed his seat only after you had settled, prompting you to study the carefully arranged dishes.

"You remembered," you said quietly, studying the carefully arranged dishes.

"How could I forget?"

A small smile touched his lips, and then you noticed a simple disposable coffee cup....

You to reach for it almost unconsciously. You took a sip. Valarr watched. Your eyes slowly widen as realization creeps in.

"Venti caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra caramel drizzle..." you whispered.

"Two pumps of vanilla," Valarr finished softly, "one pump of hazelnut, light ice, and a single shot of espresso."

Your head snapped toward him as you beheld his heartbreakingly sad smile, causing you to suddenly remember your first meeting and the absurdly complicated coffee order you had coerced him into purchasing. An order whose details you had forgotten years ago while he had remembered them flawlessly.

Emotion surged violently within you, and before the gathering tears could betray your composure, you set the cup down and rose abruptly.

"I need to leave."

"Please don't."

Valarr moved immediately to place himself between you and the door, his hands resting lightly upon your shoulders while you kept your head lowered to prevent him from seeing the tears that had already begun to gather. Realizing your distress, Valarr slowly released his hold.

"Please, Y/N," he said quietly. "Just hear me out." His voice wavered significantly. "After that, you may leave and ignore me for the rest of your life if that's what you want. But please... let me say this first."

Unable to trust your voice, you simply nodded while a soft sniffle escaped you.

"Thank you."

Neither of you moved while night fell entirely beyond the windows, the city glittering beneath the darkness as Valarr inhaled deeply to steady his shaking breath.

"I'm sorry." He stopped, pressing a hand against his mouth before exhaling shakily. "I'm sorry you had to endure everything on your own... No... that isn't enough. I don't even know where to begin." He paced several steps before turning back toward you.

"I wasn't brave enough to fight for you then, and that will remain the greatest mistake of my life." His voice cracked.

"I regret it every single day." He looked directly at you.

"I hate myself for what I did to you. I hate that I stood there and watched you cry when I had promised to protect you. I hate that I let you walk away alone that night." His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"But most of all, I hate that I made you believe you were not good enough for me. That you ever wished to become someone else just to earn my love. Because nothing could be further from the truth."

"Valarr—"

"No, please." He shook his head desperately. "Please let me finish."

With those final words, he fell to his knees before you.

"You have always been enough. More than enough. " A tear escaped, tracing the sharp line of his cheek.

"It has always been you. It could never have been anyone else." His voice trembled with raw emotion as tears slipped freely down his face.

"I cannot love anyone else. There could never be anyone else, for I do not possess the capacity to love another as I love you." He lowered his head in deep shame. Slowly, he looked back up to hold your gaze.

"I do not ask for your forgiveness. I know there exists no apology profound enough to mend what I have broken, no penance severe enough to erase the pain I inflicted upon you. Every wound bears my name, and I will carry that shame for the remainder of my days. But before you leave, before you cast me from your life forever, I need you to know this one truth." He swallowed hard.

"You have always been enough. You were never lacking. Never inadequate. Never less than extraordinary. The fault was never yours." His voice broke entirely.

"It was mine." A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and self-condemning.

"I was a coward. A pathetic, selfish fool. Every regret I bear stems from my own weakness, my own idiocy." His shoulders trembled beneath the weight of years spent carrying words he should have spoken long ago.

"So please, my love... do not for one second entertain the thoughts that you were never good enough. Do not allow my failures to convince you that you were anything less than everything I ever wanted. Do not diminish your worth for the sake of my cowardice and idiosyncrasies. If there is one kindness you grant me, let it be that."

Silence settled between you.

You studied his face, searching the features you had known for so long. Your gaze lingered upon those mismatched eyes, now blurred by tears that spilled freely down his cheeks.

And at last, you saw him.

Not the polished to perfection and sculpted by duty heir admired by courtiers and envied by kingdoms.

You saw the man beneath the crown.

A flawed man. A broken man. Yet a man whose heart had always belonged to you, even as fear had driven him to destroy the very thing he cherished most.

You finally saw him.

Valarr Targaryen.

The realization struck with a cruelty all its own. Your own tears slipped free then, silent and unstoppable, as the last remnants of anger gave way to something infinitely more painful.

Grief.

"I was simply too much of a coward to deserve you."

A shroud of sobs and sniffles envelopes you both.

"The annulment," you asked softly. "Of the Tyroshi engagement. Was that your doing?"

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't do it." He gently took your hands into his own.

"I couldn't marry her." His gaze held yours completely. In pure devotion.

"Not when I'm in love with you."

"No." You stepped away from his touch, leaving him looking utterly stricken.

"Your father needs Tyrosh's support. If my father learns the truth, he'll exploit this."

"Fuck them."

You stared at him in pure astonishment.

"What?"

"Fuck duty. Fuck the dynasty." Frustration flashed across his features. "Gods, I was such an idiot." He turned away momentarily, running his hands through his once neatly styled hair.

"I never introduced you to them because I didn't want them influencing you." He finally looked back at you.

"You were the only part of my life that ever felt real." His voice softened significantly.

"The only thing untouched by politics, expectations, and family obligations."

Understanding slowly dawned within your mind as you realized that he had never been ashamed of you, but had instead been actively protecting you and shielding you from the merciless world that had shaped him. Valarr laughed softly, shaking his head.

"Do you know how badly I wanted to parade you around and let the entire realm know you were mine? The way Aerion did." His face twists bitterly at the mention of the name.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"But it was too dangerous. You hated that world, and I couldn't risk losing the one pure thing I had."

"Why didn't you tell me?" you asked gently.

Valarr shook his head in regret.

"I don't know." He grimaced.

"I am stupid."

The raw honesty of his admission startled a sudden laugh from you, prompting you to wipe your eyes.

"I'm sorry too." You looked toward the glittering city. "Part of this was also my fault. I lied to you. I pushed you away." You inhaled deeply.

"But you still need Tyrosh."

"No." He stepped much closer to you. "I failed you once. I won't abandon you again."

You felt his warm presence only inches behind you.

"I'm willing to risk everything." His voice softened to a whisper. "Even if all you can ever offer me is friendship."

A sad smile touched your lips at his words before silence descends upon you both.

"The club," you whispered. "That night."

Valarr stilled completely.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Do you regret it? Would you regret that night even if all I can give you is a friendship?"

"No." The firmness and unwavering certainty stuns you.

A heavy silence once again settles between you before he askes quietly—

"Do you?"

**

The air within the penthouse seemed to thicken all at once, charged with a tension that has been simmering for years, thick enough to taste. You stand before the towering glass pane, the city lights shimmering like fallen stars behind you, but your entire world has narrowed down to the man standing inches from your back.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, a scorching presence that threatens to consume you. Then suddenly, swiftly his arms slide around you, locking you in place with a possessive gentlemess. You stare into the reflection of the glass, meeting his ominous gaze. His heterochromatic eyes, one a piercing blue, the other a deep, soulful brown, are dark with a hunger he can no longer mask.

"Valarr..." you gasp from the contact.

You turn in the circle of his arms to face him. He doesn't let go; his hands simply adjust, pulling you flush against his lean, muscular frame. One hand rises to the small of your back, rubbing slow, hypnotic circles that melt your resolve, while the other hovers, his veiny fingers lightly grazing the skin of your arms before sliding upward to the sensitive nape of your neck. Your eyelids grow heavy, your vision blurring as the feather-light touch sends sparks of electricity dancing across your nerves.

"Valarr..." you let out a breathy sigh, the sound half-plea, half-surrender.

He leans in, his dark brown hair brushing against your forehead. The scent of him—cedar, rain, and pure masculinity—fills your senses.

"Friends don't..." you start, but the sentence dies in your throat. The way his fingers are soothing your skin, the intensity of his stare, it all renders you speechless.

"Don't what?" he asks, his voice a husky, dangerous rumble. He steps even closer, erasing every millimeter of space. Because you are braless beneath the thin fabric of the shirt, your breasts brush against his chest. You suppress a moan as your stiff nipples graze the hard planes of his toned chest, the friction sending a jolt of pure heat throughout you. You can feel his shallow, ragged breath mirroring your own.

"Friends shouldn't..." Your eyes lazily drift to his lips. He is admiring you—the way your eyes are half-lidded with lust, the deep flush of your cheeks against your pale skin, the glistening moisture on your parted lips. He inches closer, his head tilting, his thumb tracing tender, agonizingly slow strokes across your cheekbone.

"Then stop me," he challenges in a ghost of a whisper.

Seeing that you don't move, that you are practically vibrating with need, he finally closes the gap. His lips press onto yours in a kiss that is both a question and an answer. It starts tenderly, but as you grant him access, he groans in deep satisfaction, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, dangerous dance. Saliva exchanges as the kiss deepens, becoming a desperate battle for air and intimacy. Chills race up his spine; you can feel him shuddering against you, overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure of finally touching you without boundaries.

His hands begin to explore, no longer hesitant. One hand slides down the curve of your spine, rubbing in smooth, possessive motions until he reaches the supple skin of your bare ass.

"Fuck," he hisses against your lips, realizing you aren't wearing anything underneath.

The discovery only fuels the fire. You lock your arms around his neck, pulling him back in with a hunger that matches his own. The kiss turns feral, teeth grazing lips, tongues tangling with a frantic urgency. Reluctantly, he pulls away just long enough to rip off his black shirt, discarding it carelessly on the floor.

You lean in automatically, your palm pressing against his bare, toned chest. You feel the low rumble of his satisfaction in his chest as you feel the soft hair there, your fingers curling into his skin. Still deep in the kiss, his fingers move frantically to the buttons of the white shirt. He presses his forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily, his body aching from the gruesome wait of years of longing.

As the shirt falls away, he freezes. He looks at you, his eyes widening with genuine wonder, almost salivating at the sight of your bare form.

"Sevens... you are perfect," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You blush, your nipples stiffening visibly in the cool air of the penthouse, and he responds by enveloping you in a rough, demanding kiss. He presses you hard against the cold glass, the contrast of the chilled pane against your back and his searing heat of his body against your front making you gasp. Your bare breasts rub against his chest, and muffled moans escape both of you.

With a sudden movement, he hooks his arms under both your thighs and hoists you up. You lock your legs tightly around his waist, clinging to him as he carries you toward the bed. He lays you down gently on the soft silk sheets, but the gentleness ends there. He is grinding his hips against you, his body a heavy, heated weight that you crave.

"Fuck," he hisses again, rising just enough to strip off his trousers with frantic speed. You reach out to help him, your fingers fumbling with the fabric in your haste.

When he is finally freed, you turn a shade of crimson. For the first time, you see him fully—his lengthy cock, thick and pulsing, fully erect and throbbing.... for you. The sight of him, the knowledge that he is this hard because of you, makes your core ache with an insufferable heat.

"Sevens, you are so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of genuine marvel as his eyes roam over every curve and contour of your form.

He doesn't wait for a response before leaning in again, capturing your lips in a kiss that is both hungry and worshipful. He breaks the seal of your lips, trailing a path of searing heat across your jawline. He descends to the sensitive curve of your shoulder, his lips grazing your skin with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. Then, he moves upward, his mouth finding the column of your neck. He doesn't just kiss you, he devours you. He sucks a patch of your skin, his lips creating a tight, hot vacuum that draws a sharp, needy moan from your throat. Your fingers tangle in his dark brown hair, pulling him closer as he leaves a vivid mark of his possession on your pale skin. A sharp, involuntary moan escapes your throat, your head tilting back to give him better access as you surrender to the sensation.

While his mouth continues to claim your neck with insistent sucks, one of his hands wanders upward. His palm cups the weight of your breast, his fingers splaying wide to massage the soft flesh. He kneads you with a masterful touch, his thumb circling and flicking over your hardening nipple through the air, teasing the peak into a tight, sensitive bud. The combination of the suction on your neck and the expert pressure on your breast creates a crescendo of pleasure that leaves you breathless. You are barely able to utter his name.

He slides further down, his tongue tracing a wet line over your collarbone before he finally reaches your breast. He opens his mouth wide, taking the entire engorged nipple inside. He sucks with a focused, intensity, swirling his tongue around the tip with a skill that borders on the divine. The sensation is too overwhelming. The precise flick of his tongue combined with the powerful pull of his lips sends waves of heat crashing through your lower belly.

You arch your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure peaks. Every suck is a calculated strike against your resolve, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Valarr..." you let out a soft whimper.

"Not yet, baby. I need to do this properly. I need to taste you." Valarr shifts his position. He lowers himself perfectly between your trembling thighs and looks up at you, mismatched eyes shimmering with an intensity that bordered on obsession. With his veiny, large hands, he grips your hips, his fingers digging slightly into your soft skin to anchor you, pulling you closer to him so that your center was hovering mere inches from his lips.

He doesn't rush. He begins by pressing lingering, searing kisses to the inner softness of your thighs, his breath hot against your skin, teasing the sensitive flesh. He could smell you—the intoxicating, musk-sweet scent of your arousal—and it drove him to a primal edge. When he finally reached the epicenter of your desire, he let out a low groan, his tongue darting out to taste the first bead of your cream.

Valarr begins to worship you with a masterful, rhythmic precision. He flattened his tongue, licking you from the base of your opening up to your swollen clitoris in long, slow strokes that made your back arch and your toes curl. He pauses for a moment, his voice a gravelly, reverent rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "You are so perfect," he whispered, his breath ghosting over your wetness. "Every inch of you is fucking perfection. I've spent years dreaming of how you'd taste, and you're sweeter than I ever imagined."

He focuses his attention on your clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub with a flickering speed that sent electric shocks through your nervous system. He sucks the tiny pearl of flesh into his mouth, applying a firm, pulsing suction that has you sobbing his name, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark brown hair, pulling him closer. Between laps of your cream, he looks up at you, his gaze filled with devotion.

"Look at you... so open for me, so drenched. You're so beautiful when you're coming apart like this. I want to drink every single drop of you.

When he notices that you have begun to shake, Valarr shifts his focus. While his tongue continued to lap at your clit, he slid two of his long, slender fingers deep inside your soaking wet channel. He felt the tight pulsing of your vigin walls gripping him, the heat inside you nearly scalding. He began to pump his fingers in a fast, driving motion, curling them upward to find the sensitive spot on your anterior wall, hitting it with a precision that made a strangled cry tear from your throat.

"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice thick with lust. "Give it all to me. You're so fucking perfect, the way you wrap around my fingers."

The combination was devastating. The relentless suction on your clitoris paired with the aggressive, deep penetration of his fingers pushed you over the edge. Yet Valarr didn't slow down; he increased the pace, his fingers hammering into you, stretching you open while his tongue worked your clit into a frenzy until the orgasm hit you violently. Your entire body convulsed, pelvic muscles clamping down on his fingers in powerful spasms.

"Valarr!" You wailed, head tossing back as a wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashed over you. Valarr stayed with you, refusing to let the sensation fade, continuing to lick and fuck you with his fingers until the very last tremor left your body.

He looks at his finger, glistening with your wetness, and then back to your flushed face, a smirk of pure, possessive satisfaction curving his lips.

He had done it. He had finally broken you open, and the sight of you undone, your lilac eyes glazed and unfocused, makes him visibly ache. You can see the tension in his lean, muscular frame, the way the silver streak in his dark hair catches the moonlight filtering through the glass walls.

Swiftly, he fumbles for a condom in the bedside drawer, his movements hurried but determined. The sound of the foil tearing is loud in the silence of the room. He had prepared for this—had dreamed of this—for years. As he rolls the latex over his thick, throbbing cock, his gaze never leaves yours.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sends a fresh shiver down your spine. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect."

He crawls over you, his weight a welcome pressure, his chest hair brushing against your sensitive nipples. He positions the head of his cock at your entrance, the heat of him searing against your swollen folds. Then, agonizingly slowly, he begins to push.

You gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. He doesn't rush. He slides in inch by agonizing inch, savoring the tight, gripping heat of your walls. He watches your face with an intensity that feels almost voyeuristic, tracking every flicker of pain, pleasure and shock.

"Look at me," he commands softly, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. "Tell me what you want."

"I... I want you, Valarr," you moan, your voice trembling. "Please... ."

The sound of your plea snaps something inside him, but he regains himself. He waits for you to adjust to his length. Waits for the creases of your brows to slowly dissipate. And as you do, your hips instinctively tilt upward to meet him, your moans shift from surprised gasps to needy whimpers. The sound drives him wild. He begins to increase the pace, slowly, cautiously, savoring every moment of your reaction. Then his thrusts become deeper, more purposeful. Every slide of his cock fills you completely, stretching you in a way that feels both overwhelming and right.

"You're so tight," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "God, you feel like a dream. I can't believe I'm finally inside you."

He shifts his weight, grabbing your left leg and hoisting it over his shoulder. The change in angle opens you up completely, allowing him to bury himself deeper than before. The intimacy is staggering; you can feel the loud thud of his heart against your chest and the friction of his strong fingers gripping your hip, bruising your skin in the best way possible.

The slow build-up vanishes, replaced by a raw, primal urgency. He begins to thrust roughly, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound that echoes through the bedroom. The pleasure is blinding, a white-hot current that surges from where you are joined and radiates to your fingertips.

He doesn't just fuck you. No. He claims you. Every aching part of you. Every time he slides out, he pulls back until only the head of his cock remains perched at your entrance, teasing the sensitive edges of your folds before slamming back in with a wet, heavy thrust. The sound is visceral—the rhythmic, slapping noise of his pelvis colliding with your ass, echoing through the silent room. It’s a primal percussion that syncs with the frantic drumming of your heart.

You can feel the sweat slicking your skin, making you slide against the sheets. Droplets of perspiration roll down his lean, muscular chest, dripping onto your breasts and mixing with the moisture between your thighs. He is glistening under the moonlight, the veins in his arms popping as he grips your hips, his fingers digging deep into your flesh to anchor you for the impact.

He slows down suddenly, letting go of your leg, shifting his weight to hover just inches above you. He begins to grind, rotating his hips in a slow, agonizing circle that rubs his cock against every internal ridge of your walls.

He’s playing with you, denying you the deep thrusts your body is screaming for.

"Say it," he growls, his breath hot against your ear, his voice dripping with desire. "Tell me who you belong to!"

"Please..." you whimper, your hips arching instinctively, trying to pull him back in. "Valarr, please, I need it...."

"Say it."

"You...!I'm yours, Valarr! Please, fuck me...." you sob.

"Beg for it, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to this tight little pussy."

"I want you to fuck me!" you cry, your voice breaking. "Please, I'm yours!"

The desperation in your voice is the trigger he was waiting for. He lets out a guttural growl and plunges back into you with a violence that knocks the breath from your lungs. He isn't being gentle anymore. He hammers into you, his movements fast and relentless, each thrust driving him deeper than the last. You can feel the head of his cock hitting your cervix, a blunt, pleasurable pressure that sends sparks of electricity shooting through your spine.

The sound is a chaotic symphony of wet friction and desperate gasps. Every time he bottoms out, you feel the stretch of your skin, the sheer fullness of him filling every available space inside you. You are completely undone, your silver hair plastered to your damp forehead and neck, your lilac eyes rolled back as you lose yourself in the sensation of being thoroughly possessed.

"You love it, don't you?" he pants, his breath hot and ragged. "You love how I'm stretching you out."

"Yes..." you moan, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, leaving red streaks on his skin.

"That's it, baby. Take it all," he pants, his movements becoming frantic, desperate. He is losing his grip on his control, driven to the edge by the sheer sight of your pleasure. He loves the way you are falling apart beneath him, the way your lilac eyes are rolled back in ecstasy.

As the tension reaches a breaking point, Valarr reaches down between your bodies. While continuing to hammer into you with relentless force, he finds your clitoris, rubbing his thumb in fast circles against the sensitive nub.

The double stimulation is too much. Your world narrows down to the feeling of his thumb buzzing against you and his cock filling you to the brim. You feel the pressure building, a tidal wave of heat gathering in your lower belly.

"I'm going to...Valarr I'm going to cum!" you shriek, your internal muscles clamping down on him in tight spasms.

"Do it for me, sweetheart. Say my name," he urges, his voice strained.

You let out a piercing cry, screaming his name as your orgasm crashes over you in violent, electric waves. You are shaking, your entire body vibrating with the intensity of the release. Seeing you peak, feeling your walls squeeze his cock in a desperate grip, pushes Valarr over the edge.

He lets out a low roar, his body stiffening as he delivers several final, deep thrusts, burying himself as far as he can go. He groans your name, his muscles locking as he cums violently into the condom.

As you drift in that hazy space between pleasure and consciousness, you feel him shift. He doesn't pull away; instead, he drives forward, pushing deeper into your heat with a sudden, deliberate surge.

You gasp, your eyes snapping open, the sound catching in your throat. You look up at him, shocked, your lilac eyes searching his. He is still rock hard, his body taut with a hunger that hasn't been sated. Valarr looks down at you, his long lashes casting soft shadows over his mismatched eyes. Both swirling with an untamable, predatory desire.

"You think I'm done with you?" he murmurs, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that sends a fresh shiver down your spine.

Before you can answer, he crashes his lips against yours. The kiss is desperate and demanding, tasting of salt and longing, a culmination of years of unspoken words and suppressed heat. His slender hands slide under your thighs, hoisting you up with effortless strength. You let out a small cry of surprise, your silver hair spilling across his shoulders like a waterfall as he carries you across the room.

He doesn't stop until your back hits the cold, floor-to-ceiling glass pane of the penthouse. The contrast is exhilerating. He slams back into you, his cock sliding home in one fluid, powerful motion that makes your toes curl.

"God, you're so tight," he groans against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. "So fucking perfect. I wish we could stay like this forever."

Your legs wrap instinctively around his hips, locking him in. The change in gravity alters everything; every upward thrust hits your spot with pinpoint accuracy, driving you toward another peak far faster than before. The city lights twinkle behind you through the glass, but your entire universe has shrunk to the feeling of Valarr’s chest hair brushing against your breasts and the rhythmic, wet slap of his pelvis hitting yours.

"Valarr... oh Sevens, Valarr," you moan, your head tossing back against the glass.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice thick with lust. You open your eyes to see him watching you, his expression one of pure adoration mixed with raw hunger. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Every inch of you... I love every fucking inch of you."

The compliments act like fuel to the fire. You feel the tension building again, a coil of heat tightening in your belly. The friction is intense, the pace accelerating as he fucks you with a desperate, driving rhythm, his hands gripping your ass to pull you even tighter against him.

"I can't..." you sob, your voice breaking as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. "I can't cum again..."

Valarr pauses for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you tremble. He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a seductive, pleading whisper.

"Yes you can," he breathes. "Just one more for me, baby. Give it all to me."

The plea breaks your last shred of resistance. As he begins to move again, slow and deep, then faster and harder, you surrender. The orgasm hits you more violent and consuming than any you've ever known. You tremble violently in his arms, your internal muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms.

"Fuck," he growls, his voice breaking as he finally loses his battle for control. He lets out a low groan of your name, thrusting one last time as he cums deep inside you. He collapses against you, both of you shaking with the force of the release.

For a long time, neither of you moves. You stay there, pinned against the glass, hearts drumming in unison, the silence of the penthouse filled only by your synchronized breathing. He begins to pepper your face with soft, lingering kisses, his hands gently stroking your silver hair.

"I love you." He whispers eyes settling into yours once more.

"I love you too." You whisper back. Resting your forehead against his chin.

That, however, was only the beginning. As the night stretched on, the glass walls of the penthouse witnessed a marathon of passion. You explored every curve and crevice of one another, making up for every year of longing, every stolen glance, and every suppressed touch. Between rounds of breathless sex and intimate touch, you whispered confessions of love into the dark, finally crossing the line between.

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Taglist: @uixhzzzi @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2 @qardasngan @ivynotreally

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen x FemReader x ???

Chapter XII:

THE PRICE OF DRAGONBLOOD

Warning: MATURE CONTENT!!! Minors be gone with you 😤

Note: Every dialogue in red and italicized are spoken in High Valyrian.

Daemon regarded you with a faintly impressed smirk that ghosted across his features with such brevity it might have been easily imagined, yet its subtle, unnerving presence lingered to lend an almost predatory gleam to his pale lilac eyes.

"Guards, escort my daughter to the vehicle. I think it is time we had our long-awaited reunion."

Every calculated syllable dripped with frigid displeasure as his attention shifted to the pair of black leather gloves he meticulously withdrew from the inner pocket of his dark coat, prompting several suited men to appear from the room's periphery and advance upon you with rehearsed precision.

"No. I will not go." The declaration emerged in High Valyrian, sounding strained yet undeniably resolute as you staggered backward to evade their grasp.

By that moment, Raymund had discreetly arrived to usher Rowan away from the center of the hall, effectively removing them from the rapidly gathering storm while the chamber itself appeared to claustrophobically contract until only you and Daemon occupied its epicenter.

Aerion remained several paces away, held unnaturally motionless by the guards, whereas Valarr had yet to recover from his shock, his entire frame paralyzed like unyielding stone beneath the weight of every gaze in the room settling firmly upon you.

"Cease this idiocy, girl. I have no time for games." Daemon yawned, a dismissive gesture that struck with far greater cruelty than any raised voice ever could. He proceeded to adjust the fit of his gloves with painstaking care, behaving as though the sole heir to his vast empire—missing for years and discovered merely moments ago—represented nothing more than a trivial inconvenience to his evening arrangements.

"Though I am impressed," he continued languidly. "You did put up quite the fight."

His gaze ascended at last, drifting lazily in your direction as he administered one final, decisive tug to the supple leather.

"Take her."

"No," you repeated, your voice betraying a precarious tremble. "I will not go with you."

"No?" His head inclined a fraction of an inch as his eyes narrowed imperceptibly for scarcely a heartbeat.

"Where, precisely, do you intend to run now?" A breathless, patronizing laugh escaped his throat.

"The Targaryens?" He cast a thoroughly dismissive glance around the expansive room. "Look at them. They regard you as inconsequential refuse."

Defying every rational instinct, your eyes immediately sought Aerion, where you instantly identified the profound hurt and betrayal mingling with a deeply concealed layer of disgust that you desperately wished were a mere figment of your imagination. A sharp breath lodged painfully within your throat while your knees threatened to buckle beneath the overwhelming weight of grief settling within your chest.

Miraculously, you managed to steady yourself, blinking rapidly to dispel the stinging tears before turning toward Valarr, who remained entirely motionless with an unreadable expression caught perilously between absolute disbelief and total devastation. Ultimately, lilac to lilac, your defiant gaze locked once more onto your father's.

"I will not remain under you," you said, each venomous word deliberately honed by years of festering bitterness. "You will only continue to punish me endlessly for my crimes."

Daemon laughed aloud, the sound ringing through the cavernous hall with startling ease, as though you had just uttered the most utterly absurd jest conceivable.

"Do not be ridiculous. I would never punish you for running away." His arrogant gaze swept fleetingly across the curious assembly of observing nobles.

"I am not speaking of running away."

The superficial amusement gradually drained from his stern features.

"No," you continued through tightly clenched teeth, an unyielding anger entangling every spoken syllable.

"I am guilty of a far greater crime."

"And what crime would that be?"

He stepped forward deliberately, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical gesture of mock inquiry as you defiantly elevated your chin.

"I am guilty of being a woman."

A heavy silence descended over the gathering while Daemon stared incredulously, and Baelor cast his eyes downward, intimately comprehending the crushing weight of duty perpetually forced upon women in high standings. Unvarnished disbelief flickered openly across your father's features just moments before he released a contemptuous scoff.

"You have punished me for it all my life," you said, your voice rising in volume despite your best efforts to maintain composure.

"You hid me. Locked me away. You tortured me because I was an embarrassment to you. House Blackfyre failed to produce a male heir, and you made certain I suffered for it. You punished me for becoming the liability of our dynasty."

The final traces of superficial amusement instantly evaporated as throbbing veins slowly surfaced beneath the pallid skin of his temples, revealing a ferocious anger that crept across his previously composed visage like jagged cracks splintering through a frozen lake. He closed the remaining distance between you with measured, menacingly deliberate strides.

"And you punished me with Mother's dea—"

An agonizing explosion of pain erupted across your face as his heavily gloved hand struck your cheek with such devastating force that the surrounding world lurched violently sideways, sending you collapsing to the polished floor while the metallic taste of blood blossomed instantly across your tongue. Horrified gasps echoed throughout the expansive hall as Valarr surged forward on pure instinct, his burgeoning rage finally eclipsing his paralysis, though Baelor's hand shot out to seize his son's forearm like a vice before another step could be taken.

When Valarr turned sharply in protest, Baelor met his furious gaze with mismatched eyes brimming with grim understanding, offering a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head to forbid any interference. Slowly and with trembling limbs, you raised a hand to cradle your burning cheek, feeling the intense heat radiating beneath your fingertips against the rapidly reddening skin. Looking upward, you found your father's eyes mirroring your own exclusively in hue, for while yours held shock, his blazed with a terrifying, unfathomable fury.

"It appears my daughter has consumed rather too much wine this evening," Daemon announced smoothly to the captive audience, even though his widened gaze remained entirely transfixed upon your fallen form.

"She has begun spouting absurdities." He inhaled deeply to steady himself, and upon his exhalation, the transformation proved frighteningly instantaneous; flawless composure reasserted itself, his pleasant yet smile effortlessly resurfaced, and the monstrous beast vanished completely behind a veneer of polished civility.

"My sincerest apologies for the..." One elegantly gloved hand circled vaguely through the air to wave away the dramatic spectacle.

"...inconvenience."

That eerie, calculating smile briefly crinkled the corners of his eyes before evaporating an instant later into absolute ruthlessness.

"Take her. Now."

A sharp impatience laced his authoritative command, prompting the guards to obey instantaneously as unyielding hands hauled you upright to steer your battered frame toward the venue's grand staircase. Still thoroughly dazed and keeping one hand pressed desperately against your throbbing cheek, you managed to cast a final, lingering glance over your shoulder to find that Aerion had already turned his back on you. Valarr, however, continued to watch your forced departure with clenched jaws, his tormented expression brimming with desperate questions that neither of you possessed the capacity to answer while Baelor's iron grip securely restrained him. Refusing to let anyone witness the sorrow breaking you apart, you faced forward right before the tears began slipping silently down your bruised face, quietly allowing the suited captors to march you away.

——

The opulent luxury suite proved to be anything but humble, presenting a magnificent spectacle that you might have ordinarily marveled at, yet on this dismal evening, its grandeur entirely escaped your notice.

"You will remain here and rest. I have unfinished business to attend to—"

"I will not stay here."

Daemon responded to your defiance by releasing a deeply condescending chuckle.

"Hm."

He methodically peeled off his leather gloves to reveal the long, pallid hands concealed beneath, silently passing the garments to an attendant before utilizing a lazy, arrogant wave to dismiss the entire security detail from the expansive room. Waiting patiently until the heavy oak door clicked securely shut, a faint, knowing smile curved across his lips as he casually wandered toward a polished side table displaying an exceptionally rare bottle of whiskey. The heavy cork yielded with a satisfying pop, followed immediately by the rich sound of amber liquid splashing elegantly into cut crystal.

"You made searching for you remarkably difficult."

He elevated the shimmering glass in a mock toast.

"I did not know you possessed such capabilities. Then again..."

He swallowed the potent spirit, allowing his features to tighten briefly against the fiery burn sliding down his throat.

"...you are my daughter."

You offered no response, preferring instead to maintain a steadfast, unbroken silence.

"There were rumors."

He released a heavy, contemplative sigh.

"Stories claiming you had been abducted and sold to merchants in Essos. Others insisted you had been purchased by a Lyseni brothel. Some believed you murdered for incompetence in service." He thoughtfully swirled the remaining alcohol around the base of his glass.

"Many nights, I presumed you dead." For the briefest fraction of a second, the icy rigidity in his gaze seemed to soften almost imperceptibly.

"Until you sang." He allowed the statement to hang suspended in the charged atmosphere.

"You possess your mother's voi—"

"Do not speak of her." The vicious reprimand tore from your throat instantaneously, rendering your tone exceptionally cold and undeniably sharp.

"You do not have the right to utter her name after what you—"

"After what?"

"You know precisely what you did, Father."

The fleeting vulnerability vanished as his expression hardened into an impenetrable mask of stone.

"She needed you that night, and you abandoned her." Fresh, scalding tears began to burn fiercely behind your eyes as the horrific memories resurfaced.

"You abandoned her for some Tyroshi whore—"

"Perhaps if you had been a son, your mother would not have died! And we wouldn't be in this bother!" He yelled the words with such devastating precision that everything inside you instantly went perfectly, horrifically still.

Your entire body suddenly felt entirely devoid of strength, forcing you to sink weakly onto the plush edge of the extravagant mattress as you confronted the monstrous guilt representing the ancient, festering wound you had silently carried since early childhood.

Though countless rational voices in your mind had always assured you otherwise, somewhere buried deep within your psyche, a perpetually frightened child had ceaselessly wondered if possessing male biology would have prevented your father from seeking another woman. That terrified inner child perpetually reasoned that a male heir might have convinced him to remain home, compelling him to love your mother enough to stay, and consequently ensuring her continued survival in this cruel world, a catastrophic realization that caused your vision to blur rapidly with unshed tears.

"Once my business with Houses Peake, Osgrey, and Costayne is concluded, you will return with me to Tyrosh."

You slowly elevated your tear-streaked face to meet his unrelenting stare.

"Why?" Your voice cracked pitifully beneath the immense weight of your sorrow.

"Why search for me? Why bring me back if you loathe my existence? Why not simply marry another woman and—"

A sudden, rhythmic knock upon the heavy oak door abruptly interrupted your desperate interrogation.

"Daemon? Is everything all right?"

The muffled voice bleeding through the timber was instantaneously recognizable as Ser Alyn Cockshaw, your father's oldest, most trusted companion, advisor, and confidant.

"I am fine."

You completely froze in place as the undeniable alteration in your father's tone registered within your mind, noting how an uncharacteristic gentleness, profound warmth, and sincere affection miraculously softened his every syllable. You had never once heard him speak to you with such profound tenderness, nor had he ever addressed your late mother in such a manner, realizing with a sickening jolt that this exclusive devotion had always belonged solely to one particular man. Deep within the recesses of your mind, a multitude of long-disconnected, puzzling fragments suddenly and violently clicked into perfect alignment.

"So the rumors were true." You stared blankly into the empty space before you as solitary tears slid soundlessly down your pale cheeks, while your father maintained a rigid, damning silence, allowing the unmistakable sound of Alyn's retreating footsteps to echo gradually down the exterior corridor.

"You love him."

Once again, a suffocating quiet served as his only confirmation.

"Watch your mouth, child."

"That is why you refuse to father another heir." Your voice trembled fiercely with the adrenaline of this forbidden discovery, yet you bravely pressed onward.

"Because you cannot bear lying with another woman. Because you find it repulsive—"

"That is enough!" The explosive shout reverberated forcefully off the suite's vaulted ceilings, but you met his absolutely furious gaze without so much as a single flinch.

"I will accept your offer."

Daemon instantly stilled his aggressive posture, and after affording him several tense moments of silent consideration, you continued outlining your terms.

"I will play your game. I will continue to learn everything you arranged for me to learn. I will serve as your heiress for as long as I am able while you guard your own secrets."

You inhaled a shaky, fortifying breath to steady your fraying nerves.

"But you will promise me two things."

"And those are?"

"You will never use me against the Targaryens."

He released a derisive, utterly dismissive scoff.

"Whatever grievances you harbor against them, you will resolve yourself. I will fulfill my role in maintaining the business and nothing more."

"And the latter?"

You swallowed audibly, preparing to surrender your final, most destructive secret.

"I have it."

"Have what?"

"Ashblood."

For the very first time that tumultuous evening, genuine, unadulterated shock fractured the icy composure of Daemon's face as he slowly and mechanically lowered his whiskey glass onto the nearby table.

"But I will not succumb to it as Mother did."

"And how do you propose accomplishing that?"

"I will continue studying medicine, and you will not interfere. Though I will attend every meeting, every negotiation, every obligation you demand of me. Once I discover a cure, I will continue as your heiress."

"Have you entirely lost your senses?" He demanded with incredulous outrage. "No cure exists. Ashblood is the curse of Valyrian blood itself. The finest physicians throughout Essos and Westeros have failed. What makes you believe you can succeed where they could not?"

"I do not know if I will." You lifted your defiant gaze to challenge his insurmountable pessimism. "But searching for a cure is preferable to imprisoning myself in a room while awaiting the inevitable and forcing you to torment yourself searching for another heir."

A phenomenally heavy, suffocatingly tense silence permanently settled over the luxury suite until, after what felt like an eternity, Daemon finally spoke.

"Very well."

Your breath hitched sharply within your lungs at his unexpected capitulation.

"But under one condition."

"Name it, Father."

"You will never go anywhere without your guards. You are no longer some ordinary Reach girl. You are a pawn in this game and the eyes are watching." He proceeded to dispatch the remaining amber liquid with a single, aggressive swallow, prompting you to offer a solemn nod of absolute compliance.

After your father finally departed, the oppressive, stifling silence he left lingering in his wake felt practically tangible. You remained standing completely motionless in the center of the extravagant suite for several long minutes, straining to listen as the receding echoes of his heavy footsteps faded into absolute nothingness beyond the reinforced doors, and only when you felt entirely certain of your isolation did you finally allow your trembling body to fully exhale.

Seeking solace in the adjoining bathroom, the subsequent shower quickly devolved into an exercise in pure futility rather than providing any genuine comfort. Scalding water cascaded mercilessly over your bruised skin in endless, steaming rivulets, successfully washing away the lingering metallic scent of the horrific evening alongside the cloying notes of your father's expensive cologne, yet no amount of heat could effectively cleanse your mind of his devastating words, which remained permanently lodged within your psyche like toxic splinters buried far too deeply beneath the flesh to ever be safely extracted.

Perhaps if you were a son, your mother would not have died.

The cruel assertion replayed endlessly within your mind with a merciless, agonizing persistence. By the time you finally emerged from the steam-filled marble enclosure, your skin had flushed a deep pink from the punishing heat, prompting you to dress with mechanical detachment by slipping into the short, black silk nightgown that the meticulous hotel staff had thoughtfully arranged. The soft fabric skimmed gracefully across your figure like liquid midnight, providing a soothing coolness against your still-damp, overheated skin.

You proceeded to dry your hair with agonizing slowness, allowing the rhythmic, soft hum of the appliance to serve as the sole acoustic occupant within the cavernous space. Once the mechanical humming ceased, the returning silence felt exponentially heavier as your exhausted eyes wandered aimlessly across the breathtakingly extravagant room. High above your head, a magnificent crystal chandelier cascaded dramatically from an intricately recessed ceiling. It's light casted a remarkably warm radiance over a majestic bed layered in flawless ivory silks and plush, quilted linens. Nearby, a spectacularly baroque-style mirror rested elegantly above the intricately tufted headboard, perfectly capturing the mesmerizing dance of light reflecting across the highly polished marble floors that gleamed seamlessly like tranquil water. You stepped towards the enormously proportioned arched windows with cascading drapes composed of rich cream damask, gliding your fingertips to feel the fabric.

You recognized this sanctuary. Another prison. A gilded variwty, undoubtedly, but a suffocating incarceration nonetheless.

Seeking some tether to your previous life, you reached anxiously for your phone, its screen illuminating instantaneously to reveal a devastating absence of any response from Rowan. A painful tightness gripped your chest as your mind readily supplied the haunting image of her face from earlier that evening.

The amount of disbelief, the profound confusion, and the deeply entrenched hurt that had materialized when she looked at you as though the very ground beneath her feet had suddenly and inexplicably vanished.

Your trembling thumb hesitated over the glossy interface, confirming a similarly agonizing absence of messages from Aerion before the memory of his reaction struck your consciousness with devastating, unmerciful clarity. Recalling the unmistakable disgust festering within his violet eyes, you squeezed your own shut in a futile attempt to block the mental image, acknowledging that of all the tremendous emotional and physical wounds inflicted upon you during this catastrophic evening, his revulsion unequivocally cut the deepest. Hot tears threatened to overflow once more, gathering rapidly behind your closed eyelids with a suffocating, undeniable insistence.

A remarkably sharp, demanding knock suddenly echoed from the heavy suite door, causing you to startle violently from your melancholic reverie.

"I'm tired," you called out defensively, hastily wiping the accumulated moisture from your bruised face.

"I do not wish to speak."

A secondary barrage of knocking immediately followed, echoing with a significantly harder, far more impatient cadence.

"I said I'm tired. We can talk—"

"You owe me answers."

Your breath snagged sharply within your throat as the unmistakable timbre of that specific voice registered, triggering a massive, instantaneous surge of adrenaline that propelled you upright from the sofa with such reckless velocity that the room momentarily blurred into a dizzying smear of gold and shadows. Transported in a single, heart-pounding heartbeat from your seated position to standing breathlessly before the heavy entryway, you threw the door open to confirm that your desperate suspicions had proven entirely correct: Aerion Targaryen stood rigidly upon your threshold.

Stripped entirely of his impeccable princely composure, he appeared thoroughly unraveled, his chest rising and falling in rapid, labored successions as though he had sprinted madly across the expanse of the sprawling city solely to reach your location. A sheen of perspiration glistened visibly along his furrowed brow, while his characteristically immaculate silver hair had surrendered to complete disarray, its soft strands jutting wildly in every conceivable direction. Furthermore, the elegant, tailored tuxedo from the gala had been entirely discarded, replaced instead by a nondescript black sweatsuit that he had clearly thrown on in a state of absolute, blinding desperation.

Without pausing to request permission or acknowledge your boundaries, he forcefully brushed past your trembling frame to infiltrate the suite, prompting you to cast a highly anxious glance down the vacant, dimly lit corridor before hastily shutting and securing the heavy door behind his unexpected intrusion.

"Why did you lie to me?"

His demanding accusation carried absolutely none of its customary, comforting warmth as he began to pace restlessly across the expansive room, an intense, volatile agitation radiating fiercely from every rigid, tightly coiled line of his athletic physique. Acutely aware of the disastrous trajectory this confrontation was bound to follow, a bone-deep exhaustion settled heavily upon your shoulders once more, compelling you to turn wearily toward the massive bed with the singular intention of sitting down.

"I lied to everyone," you confessed with quiet resignation, yet before you could manage a single step toward resting, his strong fingers clamped securely around your delicate wrist, forcing you to an immediate, breathless halt.

"Why did you lie to me?" Aerion aggressively closed the distance between you, invading your personal space until the immense body heat radiating from his flushed, emotionally strained features became palpably overwhelming. His firm grip tightened around your pulse just enough to effectively eliminate any possibility of escape, though he remained characteristically careful never to inflict genuine physical pain.

"I did not have a choice."

"What does that even mean?" His intense violet eyes searched yours with a frantic, desperate need for comprehension, but you cowardly averted your gaze to avoid witnessing his torment.

"I didn't have a choice, Aerion." You hesitated, stumbling over the magnitude of the secrets threatening to spill from your lips.

"If I had told—"

"No." He immediately shook his head in visceral denial. "No. No. No..... Was any of it ever true?"

"What are you-"

Genuine confusion deeply creased your brow just as his striking features twisted into a horrific, agonizing amalgamation of pain, catastrophic betrayal, and white-hot anger.

"This was all planned, wasn't it?" he demanded with mounting hysteria.

"Everything. From the very beginning. Approaching us."

You could only stare at him in stunned, muted horror.

"This was some elaborate scheme by House Blackfyre to infiltrate our family and—"

The violently sharp sound of flesh forcefully connecting with flesh echoed like a gunshot through the vast room as your desperate palm connected brutally against his cheek, leaving both of you paralyzed in the immediate, shocking aftermath of the physical altercation.

"Get out."

Your furious command emerged dangerously soft, compelling Aerion to slowly and cautiously release his restraining hold on your wrist, for he had never before witnessed such an unholy, unrestrained rage burning so fiercely within your pale lilac eyes, yet despite the volatile atmosphere, he stubbornly refused to leave.

"I wish I were the monster you think I am," you whispered brokenly, pivoting sharply away before he could witness the utter devastation collapsing your carefully guarded expression.

"I wish..." Your voice fractured completely beneath the strain. "I wish I did not feel the way I do for......." you stop yourself.

"Finish it."

The ensuing command resonated with a quiet, earth-shattering desperation that forced you to squeeze your tear-filled eyes tightly shut against the emotional onslaught.

"Get out!" you finally shouted, spinning wildly to face his unrelenting presence while tears streamed unabashedly down your flushed cheeks, glistening beautifully like liquid crystal beneath the ethereal moonlight filtering generously through the towering, panoramic windows. Stray, damp strands of hair clung stubbornly to your overheated skin as your striking lilac eyes shimmered violently with a highly volatile mixture of unadulterated rage, crippling grief, and profound heartbreak, the descending moonlight bathing your entire trembling form in a halo of resplendent silver.

Aerion profoundly hated himself for acknowledging your beauty in that catastrophic moment, recognizing that you lookrd entirely ethereal, resembling a sorrowful, tragic apparition miraculously conjured from little more than pale moonlight and bitter tears; consequemtly, for one fleeting, intensely shameful second, he entirely forgot how to draw breath.

His fractured heart and logical mind had swiftly transformed into violent, uncompromising battlegrounds, torn between the deeply ingrained prejudice he had harbored his entire life. A hatred meticulously cultivated through every historical lesson, every familial warning, and every ancestral story that unequivocally painted House Blackfyre as treacherous usurpers and the malicious architects of generational suffering. This animosity had been inextricably woven into the very fabric of his identity long before he could even comprehend its true meaning, an indoctrination that now clashed violently with the realization that you were not merely a distant relative of that despised lineage, but rather the definitive Blackfyre, the sole, legitimate heiress and the absolute future of the rival dynasty his family had loathed for centuries. You were, by every metric of his upbringing, his ultimate enemy.

His foolish heart, however, proved exceptionally and stubbornly treacherous, for whenever his gaze fell upon your distressed form, a flood of unbidden, painfully cherished memories immediately resurrected themselves. He recalled the infectious melody of your laughter, the comforting warmth of the embraces you had intimately shared, and those deeply profound, quiet nights spent collectively grieving your respective secrets under the protective cloak of darkness. He remembered the sacred tears you had entrusted exclusively to his keeping, marveling simultaneously at your unyielding resilience, your boundless compassion, and the mesmerizing, heavenly cadence of your unforgettable voice.

Unable to reconcile this agonizing dichotomy, Aerion abruptly wrenched his gaze away, violently burying both trembling hands deep within his disheveled silver hair to grip the roots with a punishing severity. He applied enough agonizing force that the resulting physical pain should have mercifully awakened him from the nightmarish internal warfare threatening to consume his sanity, yet it entirely failed to provide the desired distraction. His fingers tightened even further, tugging mercilessly at the pale strands as though he might somehow succeed in physically tearing the cherished memories of you straight from his tormented mind, while a distinctly frustrated, animalistic sound tore itself from his throat as his eyes squeezed shut with enough desperate force to deeply crinkle the surrounding corners.

Then with a swift motion just as you opened your mouth to command his departure once again, his hands swept past your cheeks in a blur of motion, fingers threading deep into the brown of your hair to seize the nape of your neck. With a possessive yank, he drew you forward, colliding your lips with his in a kiss that was less an invitation and more a conquest.

Hungry was an understatement; Aerion was starved, his desperation manifesting as a bruising, ravenous heat. Your eyes flew wide, your breath hitching in your throat, yet you remained frozen, pinned by the sheer gravitational force of his desire. He angled his head sharply, deepening the intrusion to claim every millimeter of your mouth, kissing you with a frantic intensity as if your lips were the only source of oxygen in a suffocating world.

The shock of his passion forced your lips to part, a silent gasp that he seized upon instantly. His tongue slid inside, smooth, insistent, and skilled, invading your mouth in slick, wet strokes. The sound was obscene, a liquid friction of wet against wet that echoed in the silence of the room. Despite your initial hesitation, your own tongue betrayed you, curling around his in a slow, rhythmic dance of surrender.

Your eyelids fluttered closed, the world narrowing down to the scent of him and the heat of his skin. One of his hands abandoned your neck, racing downward in a frantic descent, his palm rough against the delicate silk of your nightgown. When he reached your upper thigh, he hooked his fingers beneath the fabric and hoisted your leg upward, locking it firmly around his hip. With a surge of effortless strength, he drove you backward, pinning you against the cold, unforgiving marble of the wall.

The contrast was electric: the freezing stone at your spine and the furnace of his body sealing you in. He pressed himself flush against you, his hips rolling in a deliberate, heavy grind. Through the thin barrier of your clothes, you felt the rigid, pulsing length of his cock thickening against your center. The friction dragged the hem of your silk gown upward, exposing the lace of your panties and bringing his bulge into agonizingly close proximity to your clitoris. The direct pressure sent a violent shiver racing up your spine, and you felt your folds begin to weep, soaking the fabric with a sudden, needy moisture.

A soft, broken sigh escaped your lips, a sound of pure vulnerability. Aerion answered with a low, satisfied grunt that vibrated through your skin as his mouth abandoned yours to trail searing, open kisses down the column of your throat. You tilted your head back willingly, granting him full access to the sensitive curve of your neck, while your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, craving the weight of him.

His movements grew ragged, his breathing heavy and uneven with every desperate thrust of his hips. The hand at your neck shifted, fingers hooking into the thin strap of your nightgown and tugging it downward. You released his hair just long enough to assist, baring one breast to the sudden chill of the room. He didn't give you a moment to breathe before his palm closed over the soft mound, kneading the flesh with a mixture of practiced grace and raw hunger. His calloused fingertips circled your nipple, teasing the peak until it stood rigid and aching under his touch.

Heat pooled violently in your core, a throbbing ache that demanded satisfaction. A full, throaty moan tore from your throat, echoing through the chamber.

The sound struck him like a physical blow. Aerion froze mid-motion, his entire frame trembling against yours, the tension in his muscles coiled like a spring. When he lifted his head, his lilac eyes collided with yours, and you saw it: a raw, unfiltered hunger, feral and starving, flickering vividly in his gaze. It was a look of absolute possession, a hunger so deep it felt dangerous.

Then, as abruptly as the storm had begun, he forcefully tore himself away. In a heartbeat, he vanished into the shadows of the room, leaving you pressed against the cold walls, flushed, trembling, aching and confused.

——

By the arrival of morning, your overbearing father had already assembled an entire, highly specialized team of cosmetic professionals who swiftly descended upon your quarters. You remained seated as they maneuvered efficiently around your stationary form, their highly practiced hands painstakingly utilizing pungent chemical treatments to strip away years of protective dark dye, meticulously restoring your natural coloration strand by agonizing strand during a remarkably lengthy process. Acrid chemical scents lingered heavily within the enclosed suite, aggressively intermingling with the competing aromas of freshly brewed, expensive coffee and crisply pressed linens, yet throughout the entirety of this transformative ordeal, you remained chillingly motionless, opting to stare with a vacant, hollow detachment at the unfamiliar reflection materializing within the gilded vanity mirror.

Once the entourage finally departed, an oppressive quiet immediately reclaimed the expansive room, prompting you to slowly and highly apprehensively lift a silver-backed brush to run the bristles through your newly restored hair. A suffocating melancholy settled deep within your chest almost instantaneously, for it had been an extraordinarily long time since you had laid eyes upon this genuine, uncamopflaged iteration of yourself. Impossibly long, silver-white locks cascaded elegantly over your delicate shoulders like ribbons of spun moonlight, gleaming ethereally beneath the harsh morning sun filtering aggressively through the window, while pale lilac eyes stared back at you from the polished glass with a hauntingly familiar intensity.

You looked exactly like her, a pristine, living reflection of your late mother possessing a resemblance so flawlessly striking that, for one terrifyingly fleeting moment, the visual completely stole the remaining breath directly from your constricted lungs. However, you noted with a bitter resentment that whereas her gaze had always radiated an unyielding, comforting gentleness characteristic of her pale blue irises, your own eyes bore the undeniable, damning traces of an entirely different, far more sinister inheritance: the cold, calculating lilac hue exclusively belonging to your fatgher.

Desperate to hide this blatant Valyrian heritage, you quickly and aggressively gathered your striking hair into a tightly wound bun, effectively concealing the radiant silver mass entirely beneath the brim of an unassuming black denim cap. A remarkably thick, oversized black jacket subsequently swallowed your slender frame entirely, accompanied closely by an equally voluminous, deeply unflattering pair of baggy sweatpants to complete an ensemble deliberately constructed with the singular, desperate purpose of total obscurity. You simply wanted to disappear from the watchful eyes of the world, acutely aware that by now, the scandalous news had undoubtedly spread aggressively across every conceivable social media platform and major international news outlet; the notoriously missing Blackfyre heir had finally been uncovered, and against all historical precedent, the mysterious successor had been revealed as a woman.

Unfortunately, your desperate attempt at securing anonymity proved entirely futile, for the exact moment you tentatively crossed the bustling campus as well as the laboratory, all ambient conversation abruptly and universally ceased. Dozens of highly inquisitive eyes immediately swiveled to fixate upon your heavily concealed figure simultaneously, broadcasting an overwhelming barrage of insatiable curiosity, unbridled intrigue, and deeply entrenched suspicion that made each individual stare feel distinctly like the sharp, localized prick of a physical needle aggressively penetrating your exposed skin. Recognizing the rapidly escalating tension, Professor Hightower strategically and loudly cleared his throat, effectively dispersing the concentrated, oppressive attention and compelling the highly reluctant students to gradually return to their respective academic stations.

You cautiously navigated your way toward your customary seat positioned directly beside Aemon, though a crippling hesitation noticeably slowed your normally confident steps.

After everything disastrous that had transpired during the previous evening, you possessed absolutely no conceivable idea how your trusted partner might react to this monumental revelation, and the terrifying possibility that he, too, might instinctively recoil from your presence had relentlessly haunted your anxious thoughts throughout the entirety of your stressful commute to the sprawling campus.

Sitting down with exceptional quietness, a heavy, impenetrable silence stretched between the two of you as you nervously busied yourself by arranging your scattered notes, purposefully avoiding his perceptive gaze entirely. An icy fear coiled tightly and uncomfortably within the center of your chest, terrified that he would ultimately look upon you exactly as Aerion had: with insurmountable disappointment and unadulterated, sickening revulsion.

Fortunately, the cavernous laboratory eventually managed to settle comfortably back into its familiar, reassuring rhythm, characterized by the soft, musical clinking of fragile glassware against sterile metal surfaces, while hushed, academic conversations and the occasional, rhythmic hum of specialized machinery effectively filled the expansive room. Only after Professor Hightower and the surrounding students had become fully engrossed in their own demanding experimental procedures did Aemon finally decide to break the agonizing silence.

"I suspected you were Valyrian." His remarkably calm voice remained intentionally low and almost inherently conspiratorial, prompting you to swivel rapidly toward him in genuine, unmasked surprise while Aemon politely maintained his focused gaze squarely upon the detailed report documenting your latest experimental results.

"I assumed your mother had to be Valyrian if you inherited Ashblood from her," he continued with analytical precision. They call it the curse of dragonblood, after all. Only those descended from the old dragonlords can inherit it."

At long last, he shifted his warm gaze to meet your incredibly apprehensive stare.

"Though I confess, never in my wildest imaginings did I expect Daemon II Blackfyre to be your father."

The overwhelming, deeply compassionate sincerity radiating clearly from his expressive features forced you to avert your guilt-ridden eyes almost instantaneously, allowing another lengthy silence to stretch comfortably between your station. Gathering every remaining, fractured fragment of courage you still possessed, you finally vocalized the terrifying question that had relentlessly tormented your mind since the catastrophic conclusion of the evening's gala.

"Are you angry with me?"

Aemon blinked in mild, unfeigned astonishment.

"For what possible reason would I be angry?"

"I lied to you."

The shameful admission emerged scarcely above a trembling whisper, hanging in the air for several long, intensely contemplative moments before he finally responded.

"You did whatever you believed necessary to survive," Aemon replied with remarkable gentleness. "Furthermore, your choices and circumstances are not mine to judge."

A small, profoundly reassuring smile gracefully materialized upon his young handsome face, prompting a wave of absolute relief to strike your system with such incredible force that your exhausted eyes immediately began to burn with fresh, unshed tears.

"But..." your voice wavered precariously under the weight of your lingering insecurities.

"I'm a Blackfyre."

Aemon thoughtfully considered this historical complication for a brief moment before shrugging it off entirely.

"I suppose that makes us distant cousins now. We are now bound by bloo-"

he found himself entirely unable to finish his jovial thought upon immediately noticing the pronounced, warning tremors radiating from your lower lip. Aemon intrinsically recognized that highly specific emotional manifestation, having witnessed it on enough previous occasions to understand with absolute certainty precisely what chaotic event would occur next; inhaling a massive breath and holding it until his cheeks visibly puffed outward, he subtly and strategically adjusted his seated posture to mentally and physically brace himself for the incoming impact. His calculations proved entirely, flawlessly accurate when, in the very next instant, your arms shot outward to wrap incredibly tightly around his torso.

Aemon essentially disappeared against your chest with such abrupt, overwhelming force that he very nearly dropped the pen currently resting loosely within his grip, while the freezing, unyielding metal zipper adorning your oversized jacket pressed entirely mercilessly against his trapped cheek, a localized pressure that would, without any doubt, leave a highly visible, temporary imprint on his skin.

"Y/N!" Professor Hightower barked loudly from his commanding position across the sprawling laboratory.

"Release Aemon at once."

"One more second, Professor Hightower!" you pleaded shamelessly, stubbornly refusing to relinquish your vice-like, affectionate hold upon your endlessly patient friend.

"You are going to suffocate the poor boy."

Only upon recognizing the validity of this severe warning did you finally consent to release the bewildered scholar, logically acknowledging that permanently depriving yourself of one of the exceedingly few individuals still willingly associating with you would prove monumentally counterproductive to your current mental health. Aemon immediately exhaled a tremendously deep, rattling breath while hurriedly attempting to smooth his slightly disheveled hair, overtly and profoundly grateful for the observant professor's incredibly timely intervention.

"Have you spoken with Rowan?"

The sudden, heavy question effectively and instantaneously extinguished your fragile burst of happiness, prompting your gaze to plummet sorrowfully back down toward your neglected notes.

"No." You began tracing mindless, repetitive patterns across the pristine margins of your open notebook to distract from the stinging rejection.

"She hasn't responded to any of my messages."

Aemon offered a quiet, deeply sympathetic nod in response to the discouraging update.

"Give her time," he advised with characteristic wisdom. "This is a great deal for anyone to process. Especially her. Rowan cares for you deeply. She will come around."

Despite his optimistic assurances, you remained thoroughly and stubbornly unconvinced of her eventual return.

"And if, by some extraordinarily rare chance, she does not," he gracefully continued, offering yet another brilliantly reassuring smile to combat your evident despair, "you will still have me."

A fresh, exceptionally powerful wave of pure emotion violently surged through your system anew, prompting the observant Aemon to immediately and frantically brace himself once more for the impending collision. Your eager arms had only just begun their upward trajectory to initiate a secondary, bone-crushing embrace when the eagle-eyed Professor Hightower intervened with truly astonishing, unprecedented speed.

"Y/N!"

"Yes, sir!"

You immediately aborted the maneuver to straighten forcefully in your designated seat, locking your spine into a posture as aggressively rigid as a sharpened spear. Politely clearing your throat to mask the awkward retreat, you merely turned toward Aemon to offer him an incredibly heartfelt, watery smile, which he immediately and warmly reciprocated. Only after you had fully and securely redirected your undivided attention back toward the demanding coursework did the poor young man finally allow himself the luxury of releasing a remarkably quiet, shuddering sigh of relief.

As the classes concluded, you moved silently amongst the throngs as little more than an invisible, melancholic phantom, keeping your hands buried deeply within the cavernous pockets of your oversized jacket while ensuring your downcast gaze remained steadfastly and stubbornly fixed upon the worn, uneven stone pathway passing rapidly beneath your hurrying feet.

You had nearly succeeded in reaching the protective iron boundaries of the university gates when a set of strong fingers suddenly and unexpectedly closed tightly around your delicate wrist. Startled by the sudden physical contact, you quickly pivoted, where the distinctive, unmistakable streak of brilliant silver interwoven throughout thick brown locks immediately captured your widened eyes; Valarr currently stood positioned directly before you, an unexpected manifestation that caused the breath to dangerously falter within your constricted lungs.

The typically immaculate heir looked devastatingly altered, sporting prominent, bruised shadows lingering heavily beneath eyes that had once consistently sparkled with an unassailable, confidence, whilst the princely composure for which he had always been widely renowned currently appeared entirely absent. His exceptionally dark hair lay in a chaotic series of disordered waves, strongly suggesting he had repeatedly and frantically raked highly anxious hands through the normally styled strands over the agonizing course of a completely sleepless night, allowing sheer exhaustion to etch itself so deeply into the sharp planes of his handsome features.

Without pausing to offer so much as a perfunctory greeting, Valarr gently yet with undeniable insistence firmly guided your stunned form away from the heavily congested, highly visible corridors. You offered absolutely no physical resistance to this subtle abduction, allowing a heavy, contemplative silence to accompany the two of you as he expertly navigated your path through the labyrinthine, shadowy halls comprising the older, less populated academic wing, eventually and successfully ushering your confused figure into a completely abandoned lecture hall effectively hidden entirely from any prying, curious eyes.

The cavernous chamber stood entirely deserted, allowing the fading, late afternoon sunlight to stream uninterrupted through the towering arched windows, casting magnificently elongated ribbons of warm light continuously across the endless rows of entirely vacant wooden desks. Millions of tiny dust motes drifted freely and aimlessly through the intersecting shafts of gold, ultimately granting the forgotten room the distinctly solemn, heavy quietude reminiscent of an ancient, abandoned sanctuary.

Valarr securely closed the heavy wooden door behind his entrance, cautiously casting a brief, paranoid glance back out into the empty corridor to absolutely ensure that the two of you remained entirely alone before finally turning his full, undivided attention toward your waiting figure. However, whatever carefully constructed, heavily rehearsed speech the articulate prince had initially prepared seemed to abandon his exhausted mind entirely upon confronting your guarded expression.

"You look..." he began hesitantly, before abruptly and painfully faltering into silence while you obstinately maintained your own mute, defensive stance, forcing Valarr to visibly swallow his rising anxiety as his prominent Adam's apple bobbed subtly within his throat.

"You look different." A deeply uncharacteristic, vibrant flush rose completely unexpectedly to his pale, exhausted cheeks.

"I mean—not... bad- no. That's not what I-" He released a frustrated grimace at his own startling lack of eloquence. "Not in a bad way."

He finally let out a deeply exasperated breath of pure frustration while violently dragging a rough hand through his already wildly unruly hair, prompting you to mercifully lower your intense gaze directly toward the scuffed, polished floorboards. The suffocatingly awkward silence that immediately followed stretched agonizingly between the two of you until, eventually, a tremendously weary sigh slipped quietly past your parted lips.

"I'm guessing you want the truth."

Valarr offered absolutely nothing in response, allowing you to maintain your cowardly downward stare as you prepared for the inevitable confrontation.

"I lied."

The devastating, simplistic confession lingered incredibly heavily in the stagnant air of the abandoned room.

"I lied about everything, and I am sorry."

Moving with slowly, you finally lifted your heavily guarded eyes upward, allowing Valarr, for the very first time since your initial introduction, to look directly into the unveiled depths of your true irises: a striking, pale lilac hue representing ancient Valyria powerfully incarnate. Pure wonder flickered briefly but brightly across his exhausted expression before a crushing, devastating sorrow swiftly arrived to eclipse it entirely, a heartbreaking transition that forced you to look away almost instantaneously.

"I did not do it out of malice," you continued quietly, desperate to justify your complex web of deception. "I simply did not possess the luxury to be honest."

You purposefully paused the explanation, allowing your trembling fingers to tighten aggressively around the thick fabric of your oversized sleeves in a futile bid for comfort.

"If my father had found me..."

The horrifying words abruptly faltered on your tongue, requiring you to release a second, shuddering sigh before courageously attempting to start the terrible explanation over once more.

"I'm sick, Valarr."

Profound, terrifying concern transformed his beautiful features entirely instantaneously, compelling him to take an immediate, step forward to offer comfort, yet you quickly and violently retreated backward, desperately raising a noticeably trembling hand in the space between you to halt his advance.

"Please," you whispered brokenly. "Let me finish."

Highly reluctantly, the heir obeyed the directive and completely stilled his movements, affording you the necessary space to swallow heavily against the remarkably painful, emotional constriction rapidly forming within your throat.

"I have Ashblood."

A horrifying silence descended upon the dusty classroom as you watched the healthy, flushed color drain completely from his stricken face with truly startling, terrifying speed.

"My mother suffered from it," you continued softly, the vulnerability finally breaking through your carefully constructed facade. "Because the affliction is hereditary, I always suspected that one day it would claim me as well."

You defensively folded your slender arms incredibly tightly across your chest in a subconscious attempt to hold your fracturing body together.

"When the symptoms first appeared, my fears were confirmed." You bravely lifted your tear-filled gaze to lock onto his devastated stare once more.

"So I ran."

Valarr merely stared back at your trembling form as though the very tectonic foundations of his entire, privileged world had abruptly and violently shifted directly beneath his feet.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I could not risk it."

"You did not trust me."

At that specific, deeply misguided accusation, you released a harsh, incredibly bitter laugh.

"I'm a Blackfyre."

"What does that matter?" he demanded almost instantaneously, an undeniable, agonizing hurt bleeding profusely through the pronunciation of every single syllable.

"I was your best friend."

Your highly defensive expression immediately and tragically crumpled beneath the unbearable weight of that fiercely loyal declaration.

"Would you still have cared for me had you known?" you asked quietly, voicing the darkest, most terrifying insecurity that had plagued your isolation. "Had you discovered that I carried the blood of Targaryen basta-?"

"Don't say that." The fierce, protective answer arrived without a single fraction of hesitation as he took yet another slow, highly cautious step directly towards your retreating figure, prompting you to move defensively away once more, as maintaining emotional and physical distance had long since evolved into an unbreakable survival instinct.

"If I had been discovered, my father would have confined me again," you continued desperately, needing him to comprehend the severity of the stakes. "He would have locked me away exactly as he did before, and I would never have been permitted to continue my research."

"You still could have told me."

At the delivery of those deeply painful words, your entire body seemed to aggressively stiffen in pure agony, resulting in several long, uninterrupted moments where you said absolutely nothing.

Instead, you merely closed your eyes as Valarr watched your beautiful expression tighten ever so slightly, vividly appearing as though you had suddenly and violently been seized by some inescapable, invisible pain. Your trembling fingers curled violently into the thick fabric of your protective sleeves with such tremendous, desperate force that your delicate knuckles instantly blanched a stark white beneath the pale skin.

When you eventually managed to speak, your previously defensive voice had grown remarkably, unnaturally quiet.

"I was going to."

The devastating confession scarcely rose above the volume of a fragile whisper as you slowly, regretfully shook your lowered head.

"I truly was."

Another heavy, expectant silence rapidly followed the admission, compelling you to swallow audibly while Valarr's brow furrowed into a deep frown, his sharp intuition sensing immediately that the atmospheric dynamic had drastically and perilously changed.

"But then..."

Your voice completely faltered mid-sentence, forcing you to squeeze your tear-filled eyes shut even more tightly as, highly reluctantly yet entirely inevitably, you brutally forced your consciousness to return precisely to that specific, catastrophic night. You purposefully dragged your mind back to the exact memory you had labored so incredibly tirelessly to permanently bury beneath endless months of psychological denial, exhausting academic work, and a meticulously constructed veneer of complete indifference, finally deciding that after spending so incredibly long pretending the incident had not completely destroyed your soul, you would painfully unearth the entire tragedy solely for Valarr's sake.

"That evening... when I received the diagnosis..." you began haltingly, your fragile voice trembling violently under the onslaught of the traumatic recollection, "when the physicians confirmed it was Ashblood..."

You paused the narrative entirely, struggling desperately to artificially steady your increasingly erratic breathing.

"Was the same night, you kissed her."

Valarr's previously expressive features instantly and horrifyingly emptied of all emotion, prompting you to release a terrible, broken laugh. a thoroughly fractured, tragic sound that remained entirely devoid of any genuine mirth.

"I remember standing there watching the two of you, and all I could do was.... watch...." Scalding tears had already begun to aggressively gather within the corners of your aching eyes.

"I remember wanting to run to you. Wanting to feel your warmth on my skin. To be buried completely in your embrace." Your voice cracked spectacularly as the emotional dam finally gave way.

"Gods, Valarr, I needed you." The very first heavy tear finally escaped its confinement, prompting you to hastily wipe it away in a show of false bravado, only for another to immediately and stubbornly follow its path.

"And that is what hurts the most." You drew a ragged, highly unsteady breath to sustain the agonizing confession.

"Because I did not simply want my best friend."

Fresh, unstoppable tears began to spill entirely freely down your flushed cheeks.

"I wanted you."

You finally lifted your tear-streaked face to look directly into his devastated eyes.

"I wanted you to hold me." A tidal wave of raw emotion violently constricted your throat, making speech nearly impossible.

"I wanted you to look me in my eyes with those hauntingly beautiful mismatched eyes of yours and tell me that everything would be alright, even if it was a lie. I wanted you choose me. I wanted to hear you to say the words back to me." Your slender shoulders trembled uncontrollably beneath the oversized jacket.

"I remember.. I wanted so desperately, to be her."

The humiliating, heartbreaking admission seemed to inflict genuine, agonizing physical pain upon your body.

"I remember looking at her and wondering what she possessed that I did not. I remember wishing, for one selfish moment, that I COULD BECOME SOMEONE ELSE ENTIRELY IF IT MEANT YOU WOULD LOVE ME !" A strangled, wet sob violently escaped your lips, definitively proving that you could absolutely no longer contain the magnitude of your despair.

"You promised me you would come back.... You would not leave me to suffer alone... I needed you that night. So so so so much." Your voice entirely and irreparably shattered into a million unrecognizable fragments.

"And you broke my heart."

A remarkably heavy, mourning silence instantaneously descended upon the dusty lecture hall, allowing only the rhythmic, devastating sounds of your muffled sobs to disturb the absolute quiet; the weeping echoed aggressively through the entirely empty chamber with a heartbreaking, crystalline clarity that successfully managed to fill absolutely every shadowed corner of the abandoned room.

Valarr merely stared at your weeping figure, realizing with sickening clarity that, for the very first time since he had initially known you, he finally and truly saw you.

He vividly saw the absolutely crushing, suffocating loneliness you had silently endured for years, recognizing the horrific, paralyzing terror of a young, isolated woman violently forced to confront her own impending mortality entirely alone; he acknowledged the thoroughly unbearable, crushing burden of secretly carrying a highly fatal illness whilst simultaneously bearing the monumental, unyielding expectations of an entire empire. Furthermore, he fully perceived the traumatic years you had spent desperately fleeing a manipulative father who had consistently regarded you as little more than a strategic political pawn rather than a beloved daughter, but most profoundly devastating of all, he finally saw exactly what his own selfish choices had systematically done to your spirit.

The horrifying realization settled within his bones: whilst you had been receiving what you genuinely believed to be an inescapable death sentence, he had been carelessly occupied elsewhere, dutifully fulfilling trivial obligations and publicly entertaining frivolous courtship rituals he had never genuinely desired, ultimately acknowledging the damnable truth that precisely when you had most desperately needed his presence, he had completely and utterly abandoned you.

This catastrophic realization struck his conscience with such merciless, unyielding force that Valarr literally collapsed; one moment the proud prince remained uprightly standing, and in the very next, his failing knees struck the polished wooden floorboards with a violently resounding crack.

The highly revered future leader of the greatest known empire, the formidable heir whose mere arrival effortlessly commanded the undivided attention of expansive rooms filled exclusively with the kingdom's most powerful, influential nobles, and the imposing man before whom seasoned statesmen regularly bowed while foreign dignitaries respectfully inclined their heads in complete deference, willingly fell directly to his knees before your weeping form.

He did not execute this submissive posture out of any mandated duty or rehearsed, political ceremony, but solely because the sheer, crushing enormity of his profound guilt would simply no longer permit his body to remain standing.

Tears began to stream completely unabashedly down his remarkably handsome face, a phenomenon he scarcely managed to notice as a violent, all-consuming self-reproach successfully hollowed his spirit entirely from within. Searing regret coiled violently around his contracting ribs like restrictive iron chains while an unfathomable guilt actively crushed his soul entirely beneath its tremendous, inescapable weight, for he finally, comprehensively understood the brutal reality of the situation.

He thoroughly understood that you had suffered the entirety of this horrific ordeal completely alone—the paralyzing fear, the suffocating loneliness, the agonizing grief, and the bottomless despair—and he had directly and undeniably contributed to that immense suffering; no, he corrected himself internally, he had exponentially magnified it.

The singular person he had sworn, with absolute childish earnestness, to fiercely protect far above all others, to continuously love and endlessly cherish, had tragically stood directly before the horrifying prospect of her own impending death with absolutely no one to safely lean upon simply because he had not been present. He acknowledged with a sickening self-hatred that he had behaved as a pathetic coward, utilizing his royal duty merely to provide a highly convenient, cowardly excuse for his absence.

He was selfish. He was naive. He was a coward. And you suffered for it....

"I am so sorry," he whispered with a thoroughly broken, devastated cadence, the pathetic apology emerging remarkably ragged and remaining scarcely intelligible through the onslaught of his weeping.

"I am so sorry."

Yet even as he desperately vocalized the useless words, Valarr intrinsically understood that absolutely no verbal apology currently existing in the entire universe could ever manage to adequately atone for the horrific magnitude of suffering you had unjustly endured.

Gradually, the violent intensity of your sobs managed to subside into a series of highly fragile, unevenly drawn breaths, allowing you to withdraw a soft handkerchief to carefully and methodically wipe the moisture from your flushed face.

"I should leave," you murmured with a distinctly hollow, empty detachment. "My father dislikes tardiness."

You physically moved forward with the intention of passing his kneeling form.

"No."

You halted immediately in your tracks.

"What?"

Valarr incredibly slowly raised his tear-streaked face to meet your gaze.

"I never loved her."

You turned back around to fully face his stunning declaration.

"You once asked whether I loved her."

A deeply hollow, entirely humorless laugh suddenly escaped his trembling lips.

"I did not."

He violently wiped at his continuously falling tears using the back of his hand.

"I never touched her. We never..." His breaking voice momentarily faltered before he forced out the truth.

"I never touched any of the others either."

Unmasked, genuine confusion immediately crossed your exhausted features.

"They were all part of a ridiculous plan."

"A plan for what?"

Embarrassment and a sickening level of self-reproach actively contorted his features into a mask of pure misery.

"To make you jealous."

For an incredibly long moment, neither of you dared to speak a single word, allowing the confession to hang suspended in the air where it currently sounded utterly absurd, childish, and highly pathetic, yet it remained undeniably, devastatingly sincere.

"Why?" you whispered, entirely incapable of comprehending his logic.

Valarr looked directly up at your bewildered expression as though the fundamental answer to that question had always been glaringly, universally self-evident.

"Because I was in love with you too."

Your remaining breath caught painfully in your chest, completely paralyzed by those specific words—the very exact phrasing you had desperately, hopelessly yearned to hear him utter for entirely too many agonizing years.

"And I still am." His desperate voice softened into a cadence of pure, unadulterated reverence.

"I have loved you ever since you caught me on that walkway after classes. I have loved you ever since you looked at me with that infuriating smile and offered me sanctuary for my imperfections."

A deeply highly emotionally charged silence ultimately settled securely between your two fractured souls before you finally gathered the strength to ask the singular question that mattered most in this tragic narrative.

"Then why didn't you fight for me?"

Valarr immediately fell into a shameful, defeated silence, recognizing inherently that absolutely every conceivable answer he could possibly provide ultimately amounted to the exact same horrifying truth: pure cowardice.

Accepting his damning silence as his final answer, you turned your battered body purposefully towards the heavy wooden door.

"Did you love him?"

Your trembling hand completely stilled its motion directly upon the cool bronze handle.

"Aerion," Valarr clarified quietly, his tone laced with a heartbreaking vulnerability.

"Did you love him?"

You steadfastly refused to turn around and face his inquiry, opting instead to answer his desperate question by deliberately throwing the very same careless, dismissive words he had once previously spoken directly back at his bleeding heart.

"What does that matter now?"

And with that finality, you promptly exited the room, leaving the broken prince kneeling entirely alone within the dusty confines of the abandoned lecture hall, permanently surrounded by absolutely nothing save the oppressive silence, an ocean of unfixable regret, and the totally unbearable, suffocating weight of absolutely everything beautiful that might have been.

The sleek, heavily armored limousine your father had strategically arranged waited exactly where it had been promised, prompting you to climb inside the expensive vehicle without uttering a single, unnecessary word. The pristine interior smelled faintly yet distinctly of rich leather.

Your cellular device vibrated sharply within your pocket, prompting you to unlock the illuminated screen.

Dinner with the Osgreys at 6. Be prepared.

— Father

You stared blankly at the demanding notification for several long, detached moments before decisively swiping to open your various news applications, watching as a deluge of sensationalized headlines immediately flooded the glowing interface, the vast majority of which aggressively concerned your recently revealed identity.

**The Blackfyre Heiress Found. Daemon II Reunites with Missing Daughter. The Lost Heiress Returns.

However, one highly particular, distinctly heart shattering article suddenly and violently caught your undivided attention amidst the chaotic scroll.

**Prince Aerion Targaryen Departed for Lys Accompanied by Mystery Young Woman.

Your hovering thumb instantly froze entirely motionless above the brightly glowing screen as, incredibly suddenly and despite absolutely everything horrific that had already transpired over the course of this nightmare, your shattered chest began to physically ache all over again.

Notes: When Daemon is mentioned, I'm referring to Daemon II Blackfyre. Not Daemon Targaryen or Daemon I Blackfyre.

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Taglist: @uixhzzzi @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2 @qardasngan @ivynotreally

[strawberry0verlord]

i forgot the chapter where she spoke the valyrian language but when i first read it, i was so confused like how on earth does she know about that languageeeeee and then the latest chapter dropped i was GAGGED af

Wow! You caught that okaaayyy I see you 🤭✨️. I'm quite curios if you guys noticed all the hints 🫣

[strawberry0verlord]

Thank u so much for feeding us very good writing!! U dont know how every morning I would wake up and check your profile cos its soo exciting. <3

My shayla 🥹💖 you are too sweet. Thank you so much ily ✨️✨️✨️ You all don't know how grateful I am for your kind words, reblogs and likes. 😭 it really brings tears to my eyes not just cause im sensitive(dont judge me 😗) but yall are just too kind ❤️❤️❤️

[strawberry0verlord]

hi! i just wanna say a little thank u for spoiling us w so much updates the past few days! 🫶

aww no, really, it's thanks to everyone's support that I was brave enough to post it 💖

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Targaryen x Reader x ???

Chapter XI:

THE EYES OF OLD VALYRIA

"Cousin." Aerion's voice emerged in a tone that was dangerously calm, ensuring that every spoken syllable carried the unmistakable, razor-sharp edge of a deadly threat. The atmospheric tension around the balcony changed instantly, prompting Valarr to release his light hold on your chin while his other hand fell away from your hip as well. Yet your terrified attention remained fixed entirely upon Aerion, noting that the physical grip he maintained upon his cousin's wrist was absolutely brutal.

Prominent veins stood out clearly along the back of his pale hand, and powerful muscles flexed beneath the dark sleeve of his formal suit. Yet astonishingly, Valarr did not appear even remotely bothered by the display of physical dominance. In fact, a calm, mocking smile appeared upon his lips as though the dangerous confrontation thoroughly amused his senses, or perhaps as though he had fully expected this exact outcome.

The sudden tension between the two powerful men became entirely suffocating, ensuring that neither man looked away and neither man moved a single inch. The air itself felt intensely charged with electricity, mimicking the heavy moments that immediately precede a violent summer thunderstorm. You found yourself genuinely afraid that they might actually come to physical blows right in front of you, but then a sharp interruption shattered the silence.

"Valarr?"

A clear, feminine voice cut through the heavy silence, causing all three of you to turn your heads toward the source of the sound. Kiera stood positioned directly beneath the stone balcony archway, a look of profound confusion crossing her beautiful features as she looked between the three of you. Her sharp gaze lingered briefly on Aerion's brutal grip around Valarr's wrist, then shifted toward your flushed face, before settling back on the two men.

"I've been looking everywhere for you." She frowned slightly at the strange visual, adding with a tone of urgency, "Your fathers are asking for both of you."

The timely interruption completely shattered the dangerous moment, and you eagerly seized the opportunity to escape the escalating conflict immediately. Before either cousin could formulate a response, you smoothly slipped right beside Aerion and wrapped your arm gently around his tense forearm. The physical contact seemed to successfully ground his raging emotions, or at least it managed to calm him somewhat.

"Aerion."Your voice remained soft and soothing in his ear as you urged him away. "We should go."

His jaw remained incredibly tight because the deep fury had certainly not disappeared from his system, and you highly doubted it would dissipate anytime soon.

"Your father won't appreciate being kept waiting."

Aerion's piercing gaze never left Valarr's face for a single moment, allowing several agonizing seconds to pass in total silence before he finally released his brutal grip. Valarr slowly lowered his bruised arm, though neither man looked remotely satisfied with the unresolved encounter. Aerion stepped a fraction closer to his cousin, ensuring he was close enough that only Valarr could hear him as his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"I advise you to keep your hands off what no longer belongs to you."

A suffocating, deadly silence immediately followed the dark warning, hanging heavily in the cool night air.

The psychological effect of the warning was immediate, causing his handsome smile to vanish completely from his features. Absolutely no amusement remained on his face, nor was there any lingering trace of mockery or false confidence left within his posture. Only a dead, hollow stillness remained because the cruel words carried an undeniable, agonizing truth that he could not escape.

You had once been entirely his, not in terms of literal ownership or shallow possession, but in every profound way that truly mattered between two human souls. You had been his ultimate confidante, his constant companion, and his absolute safest place in a harsh world, yet he had foolishly thrown it all away entirely by his own choice. For duty. The pathetic absurdity.

Valarr watched in silent torment as Aerion finally turned his back, watching as you faithfully followed beside his cousin with your arm looped comfortably through his. The intimate sight tightened something viciously inside his chest like a physical wound, yet he remained completely motionless until the two of you disappeared back into the crowded hall.

Only when you were entirely gone did Kiera finally approach his side, a clear flicker of concern crossing her beautiful face as she spoke.

"Valarr?"

The raw, devastated expression he wore disappeared instantly from his features as years of strict training slid effortlessly back into place. His practiced smile returned to his face, looking flawlessly polished, effortless, and entirely false to anyone who truly knew him. He cleared his throat quietly, offered her his arm with practiced chivalry, and together they followed the illuminated path back toward the glittering ballroom.

Before the distinguished guests were directed toward their respective tables, Aerion led you with unhurried grace through the swirling sea of nobles toward the very head of the gathering. Your fragile confidence, which had taken such considerable, exhausting effort to assemble throughout the long afternoon, immediately began to unravel beneath the collective weight of a hundred aristocratic stares.

Standing prominently beside Baelor was Maekar Targaryen, and the striking physical resemblance between father and son was entirely unmistakable. Both possessed the same silver hair, the same sharp, angular features, and the same striking violet eyes. Yet where Aerion's eyes always carried a hidden warmth beneath their piercing intensity, Maekar's features seemed carved from a block of ancient ice. His formidable presence alone was powerful enough to cause surrounding conversations to soften into hushed whispers; people respected him out of a deeply ingrained tradition, feared him for his stern reputation, or perhaps yielded to a potent combination of both.

Aerion's large hand remained securely at the small of your back, offering a steadying, grounding pressure as he guided you forward into the immediate orbit of the patriarch.

"Father."

Maekar turned his head slowly. For a brief, dismissive moment, his cool attention rested on Aerion before it shifted entirely to you, and the instant his eyes locked onto yours, you immediately wished they hadn't. The older man's calculating gaze swept over your form with an unsettling, clinical thoroughness that made your skin crawl. Nothing escaped his notice. Your carefully styled hair, the shimmering couture gown, and the austere posture you were desperately trying to maintain under pressure. The silent examination felt deeply, profoundly uncomfortable, as though he were attempting to visually dissect the fabric to identify every hidden flaw or common origin beneath the expensive material.

You forced your trembling lips to offer a polite, practiced smile.

"It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Targaryen."

An oppressive silence immediately followed your greeting, a second stretched into another, and then another, while the merciless scrutiny continued unabated. You became painfully, acutely aware of the violent thumping of your own heartbeat against your chest. Finally, Maekar gave a low hum that was neither welcoming nor overtly hostile, but entirely dismissive. His stoic expression barely changed a fraction, and the complete lack of a polite response somehow felt far worse than an outright statement of disapproval.

Scorching heat crept into your cheeks, and beside you, Aerion grew noticeably, dangerously still. The easy, flirtatious charm he had worn like armor throughout the evening vanished almost instantly, replaced by a quiet, unyielding tension that settled heavily across his broad shoulders. Yet his hand remained firmly against your back—firm, protective, and unyielding—a silent gesture that anchored your drifting senses far more than he probably realized.

Maekar's cold gaze briefly drifted downward toward that very hand resting against your waist, then snapped back up to your eyes, and the look in his violet depths suggested he had already formed a stiff opinion that did not particularly favor your presence. You suddenly felt very, painfully aware of your exact place in the grand room, surrounded as you were by old names, old money, and ancient bloodlines—people whose families had spent centuries seated comfortably at exclusive tables like these.

The heavy sensation made your stomach tighten leaving a hollow, nauseating ache. Thankfully, before the suffocating silence could become any more uncomfortable, Baelor smoothly stepped forward to break the ice.

"Come now, Maekar. You'll frighten the poor girl."

The older man's tone carried a light, teasing amusement that cut through the frost, though Maekar simply looked away, leaving you entirely unable to tell whether his silence stemmed from begrudging agreement or total indifference.

"Please," Baelor continued, addressing the beau monde with an easy, magnetic smile. "Everyone should take their seats."

A profound wave of relief washed through your system, and Aerion without delay began guiding you away from his father's suffocating proximity.

Only once you were several steps removed from the formidable man did you realize that the grip Aerion maintained against your waist had tightened considerably—not enough to cause physical pain, but just enough for you to notice the raw tension radiatiing through his body. His sharp jaw remained tightly set, and his expression was carefully neutral to mask his rising irritation.

The guests gradually migrated toward their designated tables in an orderly fashion. The lesser noble houses and minor corporate entities occupied the smaller, circular arrangements scattered throughout the vast expanse of the ballroom, while the principal members of House Targaryen and House Blackfyre gathered around the magnificent, elongated banquet table positioned at the rear center of the hall. You nearly froze in your tracks when Aerion led you directly toward that specific table, realizing you were expected to dine among the most influential, dangerous people in the entire room.

Your palms immediately became ice-cold with anxiety. Aerion seemed to notice your distress instantly, and without drawing any unwanted attention to the movement from the watching eyes, he reached beneath the heavy dark linen of the table to capture one of your hands within his own. His thumb began tracing slow, repetitive circles across your soft skin, and the steady, rhythmic motion successfully soothed some of your frayed nerves, though only a fraction.

At the absolute head of the table sat Baelor, radiating authority, while across from him at the opposite end sat Daemon II Blackfyre. Baelor's immediate right was occupied by a stoic Maekar, while to his left sat Valarr, with Kiera positioned properly beside him. Further down the length of the table sat Matarys, Baelor's younger son, alongside several high-ranking members of both prominent households. Daeron's intended seat beside Maekar remained conspicuously empty because he had apparently become thoroughly intoxicated before the gala had even officially commenced. As a result, Aemon and Egg had been 'forced' to remain home to supervise his condition, leaving Aerion to claim the vacant seat instead. You sat directly beside him, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed against his fine suit fabric, and close enough that his large hand never truly left yours beneath the table.

The dinner itself proved to be an exquisite, sensory affair filled with fine crystal, perfectly aged vintage wines, and course after course prepared with meticulous culinary precision. For a brief period, the evening settled into a relative normalcy; conversation flowed easily across the centerpiece, polite laughter emerged from the guests, and even some of the sharp political tension appeared to soften beneath the mellowing influence of excellent food and expensive alcohol.

Until suddenly, your attention shifted toward Maekar. The older man had leaned slightly toward Aerion, initiating a quiet, private conversation spoken entirely in High Valyrian. His low voice remained steady, disapproving, and sharp as a razor.

"Why have you brought a commoner among us?"

Your stomach dropped instantly, feeling like lead. Beneath the table, Aerion's hand tightened around yours with a sudden, bruising force as all the comforting warmth vanished from his touch, replaced by a rigid, electric tension. You saw a dangerous flash of irritation cross his chiseled face, the exact kind of dark, volatile irritation that often preceded most explosive arguments.

Before he could voice a scathing reply, however, a sudden movement further down the long table interrupted the moment.

A man dressed in a sharp tailored suit hurried toward Daemon, bending down to whisper a frantic message into his ear. Daemon listened intently, nodded his head once in understanding, and then dismissed the messenger with a curt wave. The Blackfyre patriarch rose slightly from his plush chair, commanding the table's attention.

"I must apologize," his voice carried effortlessly across the expanse of the table, smooth as silk. "The singers I personally arranged from Lys were unfortunately unable to make their flight this evening."

A brief, low murmur of disappointment rippled through the table, but Baelor simply smiled with his usual grace.

"No harm done."

"I am afraid the entertainment portion of the evening may be somewhat lacking as a result," Daemon added, looking genuinely chagrined.

"It is quite all right," Baelor replied courteously, gesturing toward the stage. "The orchestra has been more than sufficient for our needs."

You don't know what hidden impulse suddenly possessed your mind in that exact moment. Perhaps it was the warming influence of the expensive wine, or perhaps it was a desperate, protective desire to divert attention away from Aerion before another explosive disagreement with his father could ruin him. Perhaps it was simply your agonizing inability to watch him be publicly scrutinized and judged by his peers for the mere crime of being seen with you. Whatever the underlying reason, the reckless words escaped your lips before your better judgment could stop them.

"I could fill in."

An immediate, absolute silence crashed over the table like a physical wave. Every single head turned sharply toward your position, including Aerion's, whose striking violet eyes widened by a fraction in utter astonishment. You immediately wanted to disappear beneath the floorboards, mentally cursing your own impulsive tongue for opening your mouth. What on earth were you doing? Has Rowan finally influenced you?

Daemon II looked instantly intrigued by the offer, while several principal members of both households appeared thoroughly surprised by a commoner's boldness. Then, Aerion slowly spoke, breaking the paralysis.

"Y/N is quite the singer."

His intense gaze remained fixed steadfastly upon your face, carefully assessing your expression to discern whether you truly wished to proceed with this madness or if you needed an escape. Across the table, Valarr’s jaw tightened as a deep frown marred his features.

"She cannot sing."

Everyone at the table looked toward him at the sudden, blunt contradiction. Valarr appeared entirely composed to the casual observer, yet you instantly recognized the stiff certainty in his smooth voice. He was undoubtedly remembering every single karaoke invitation Rowan had ever extended over the years, every single occasion you had flatly refused to touch the microphone, and every time you had hidden behind anxious excuses to avoid the spotlight.

Aerion's expression smoothed into one of exaggerated, mocking innocence.

"Interesting," his arm slid casually across the dark lacquer of the back of your chair, a blatant display of dominance. "Because she sounded absolutely lovely when she sang to me."

Valarr's jaw visibly tensed at the provocation, his eyes flashing with a pernicious light.

"If she does not feel comfortable, there is no need to burden her with a responsibility that is not hers to bear."

His tone remained calm, far too calm, and while every ordinary person in the room would believe his words stemmed from pure, chivalrous concern, this was a table filled with elite, sharp business minds and ruthless politicians. The underlying friction between the two rivaling cousins was entirely impossible to miss, and eyes slowly shifted back and forth between them like spectators at a duel. Daemon II looked faintly amused, Matarys appeared thoroughly fascinated, and several Blackfyres exchanged knowing, corporate glances. Even the stoic Maekar seemed caught momentarily off guard by the sheer weight of the tension.

Baelor, meanwhile, observed everything with a skillfull eye, tracking every look, every sharp inflection, and every subtle shift in power.

"My son is right," Baelor smoothly intervened, his diplomatic voice interjecting through the rising heat. "There is no need to burden our lovely guest. The orchestra has entertained us splendidly all evening." He offered Maekar an easy smile to close the matter. "The other guests do not appear dissatisfied."

Maekar nodded his head once in curt agreement, and the hazardous matter truly should have ended right there. Yet something about the oppressive atmosphere of the grand room suddenly made you feel painfully, devastatingly small. Everyone surrounding you belonged to this gilded world of ancient families and powerful dynasties, while Maekar's earlier, cruel words still echoed ruthlessly in your ears: commoner.

You looked at Aerion, then down at the polished table, and then back at Baelor. The image of Aerion being reprimanded for having the courage to escort you to this event when Valarr had not been willing flashed once more within your mind. Before your fear could intervene to silence you again, you spoke up.

"It is all right," your voice sounded much steadier than you actually felt inside. "I can try, if you'll allow me."

This time, a wave of genuine, unfiltered surprise greeted your definitive statement. Even Valarr stared at you in absolute disbelief, while Aerion looked at you with a profound intensity. Beneath the shelter of the table, Aerion carefully lifted your hand into the light, his lilac eyes never leaving yours for a single second. Then, before the entire assembly, he slowly lowered his head and pressed a lingering, devastatingly tender kiss against the back of your hand.

Your cheeks turned a visible pink hue at the public display, causing some guests to murmur in surprise while others politely looked away from the raw affection. Aerion, however, seemed entirely unconcerned with their opinions because a fierce, burning pride shone plainly within his gaze, a pride and an undeniable admiration for your immense bravery.

Valarr's jaw visibly fractured with tension at the sight. Baelor noticed the reaction, just as he noticed everything else, and inclined his head with a regal grace.

"Very well. Please escort her to the podium."

A formal steward immediately stepped forward to assist you, but Aerion dismissed the man with a single, intimidating glance.

"I'll take her."

His possessive tone left absolutely no room for debate. The massive ballroom gradually quieted into a hushed stillness as he led you gracefully across the parquet floor, with every single eye in the venue following your golden progress. Your anxiety intensified with each steps you took toward the elevated stage, making the distance feel monumental until you suddenly spotted Rowan seated among the guests. Dressed in a magnificent emerald gown, her mouth actually fell open in sheer, unadulterated shock the moment she witnessed you ascending toward the stage beside the Targaryen heir. You wanted nothing more in that terrifying moment than to run into her familiar arms and hide from the world.

Aerion guided you smoothly onto the wooden podium, turning to face you before lifting your hand one final time. A soft, reassuring kiss touched your knuckles as his eyes locked onto yours.

"I'm here."

You nodded, reluctantly releasing Aerion's hand before stepping gracefully toward the maestro. Leaning close into his space, you quietly informed him of your chosen piece, your voice barely a whisper against the low hum of the hall. The elderly man listened with practiced attentiveness before offering a respectful, courtly nod and signaling the surrounding orchestra with a fluid wave of his baton.

With careful, slightly trembling fingers, you adjusted the heavy microphone upon its stand, feeling the cool, polished metal press firmly against your skin. A nervous breath escaped your parted lips. When you finally glanced back, fully expecting Aerion to have already returned to his designated seat at the principal table, you discovered to your surprise that he remained exactly where you had left him.

He was standing steadfastly at the foot of the podium. Waiting. Watching.

His immaculate posture projected an unwavering, effortless confidence to the rest of the room, yet you knew him well enough by now to recognize the subtle, tension hidden beneath that composed exterior. A slight rigidity lingered across his broad shoulders, while his striking pale lilac gaze remained fixed solely upon your form. Witnessing your hesitation, he offered a slow, reassuring nod, a silent, sacred promise written in his eyes.

I'm here.

The simple gesture instantly steadied something fractured inside your chest, providing a solid anchor amidst the terrifying sea of aristocrats. Gradually, the primary ballroom lights began to dim, and the magnificent hall disappeared beneath encroaching shadows as the massive crystal chandeliers softened into a distant, golden constellation of blurs overhead. A single, dramatic spotlight descended from the vaulted ceiling to strike the podium, bathing you in a warm, solitary pool of illumination.

An immediate sense of relief followed the shift, because the hundreds of critical faces staring back at you suddenly dissolved into indistinct, harmless silhouettes. The judgmental nobles, the predatory investors, the detached aristocrats, and the powerful families whose ancient names carried immense weight across entire continents—all of them vanished into the protective darkness. For the very first time that evening, you felt as though you could truly breathe.

You closed your eyes. The orchestra waited in breathless anticipation, and your heartbeat thundered loudly within your ears like a desperate pulse. Then, taking a deep, stabilizing breath, you willfully stilled the emotional storm raging within you. Amidst the heavy silence, a sudden memory surfaced in your mind, a memory of your mother. It was faint, gentle, and hauntingly beautiful, arriving like a soft breeze through an open window to carry warmth from a place you had long feared forgotten. You held onto that precious image with all your might, and then you began to sing.

The effect upon the ballroom was immediate and profound. Glasses of expensive wine were forgotten on the tables, and silver utensils stilled midair as a complete, supernatural stillness settled over the vast room. The quiet was so total that the distant, opening notes of the orchestra seemed to shimmer through the air unobstructed. Your voice flowed effortlessly through the towering columns of the ballroom, emerging clear, elegant, and achingly sincere. Each note carried the raw weight of genuine emotion rather than the hollow perfection of a performance, and each lyric felt deeply lived rather than carefully rehearsed. The music wrapped itself beautifully around the marble pillars and crystal chandeliers, weaving through the architectural grandeur until every shadowed corner of the hall seemed entirely filled with your presence.

From his seat, Valarr stared in absolute paralysis, a profound shock rooting him helplessly to his chair. He had expected many things from you over the years, but this breathtaking display was entirely beyond his imagination. This was the same woman who had spent years declining every single karaoke invitation Rowan had ever organized; the woman who always laughed and shook her head whenever a friend suggested singing; the woman who had consistently claimed she could not carry a tune to save her life. Yet here you stood, radiant and magnificent beneath the burning spotlight, possessing a haunting vocal beauty that seemed entirely capable of reaching emotional depths where ordinary words could never tread. He could not look away from you, and neither could anyone else in the room.

Around the long banquet table, expressions shifted rapidly from mild curiosity to utter astonishment. Principal members of both House Targaryen and House Blackfyre listened with rapt, undivided attention to the commoner's melody. Even the proud Daemon Blackfyre appeared thoroughly impressed by your talent, just as Matarys had completely abandoned his dessert to listen. Even the fearsome Maekar Targaryen, whose approval was notoriously difficult to earn and whose heart was made of stone, sat frozen in stunned, yielding silence.

The extraordinary sight nearly amused Baelor as he watched his younger brother's stoic mask crack. Nearly. Because another, far more compelling observation quickly eclipsed everything else in his field of vision. His keen gaze drifted slowly away from the stage, sliding down to settle upon his son.

Valarr had scarcely moved since the performance began. The young prince sat transfixed, every note seemingly binding him tighter beneath an invisible spell. There was an unmistakable intensity in his stare, a profound absorption that rendered the bustling crowd, the glittering chandeliers, and even the assembled nobility utterly inconsequential. Something unspoken lingered beneath that fascination, something Baelor recognized with alarming clarity.

He knew that look. A cold realization descended upon him.

This was the woman.

The very same woman Valarr had spoken of scarcely a week earlier with an earnestness bordering on desperation. The woman for whom he had openly challenged his father’s carefully laid plans. The woman whose existence had prompted him to threaten the abandonment of his inheritance should Baelor refuse to dissolve the proposed Tyroshi marriage alliance.

That day, Baelor had dismissed it as youthful stubbornness. Now, watching his son's expression as he followed your every movement upon the stage, he understood how gravely he had underestimated the matter.

This was the woman Valarr intended to marry.

Aerion’s escort.

Baelor’s brows knitted together as the implications settled heavily upon his mind. Few matters involving Aerion were ever simple, and this particular complication appeared destined to become a catastrophe of exceptional magnitude especially with the way Aerion was looking at you.

He assessed how his nephew watched you with undisguised admiration, his expression illuminated by a rare and almost reverential awe. Pride gleamed there as well, fierce and unwavering, yet something more possessive lingered beneath the surface, woven into every glance he directed toward you.

The sight deepened Baelor’s concern. This would not be easily resolved. Baelor subtly adjusted his position, abandoning his relaxed posture in favor of a more upright seat. Beside him, Maekar noticed the movement and cast him a questioning glance, concern flickering briefly across his stern features, still unaware of the storm rapidly gathering beneath the evening's elegance.

Baelor offered a reassuring nod. Maekar accepted the gesture, though somewhat reluctantly, and turned his attention back toward the performance while the audience continued to bask in the enchantment of your song.

By the time the final note drifted into silence, the hall seemed reluctant to release it.

Then came the applause. The entire audience rose to their feet in a sweeping wave of admiration. Hands struck together in deafening ovation while voices echoed their approval throughout the grand chamber.

Baelor’s seasoned gaze slowly drifted away from the spectacular display on stage, drawn instead toward the stark illumination of his eldest son's countenance. Valarr rose instinctively from his plush chair with an intention that was entirely obvious to anyone watching, wishing to be the very one to assist you down from the elevated platform. Yet before the young prince could take so much as a single step forward, Aerion was already positioning himself at the foot of the stage. With effortless certainty, the younger cousin extended a hand toward your trembling fingers and guided you smoothly away from the burning spotlight. Valarr halted in his tracks as the eager smile upon his face vanished completely. As the house lights gradually brightened once more to illuminate the grand hall in a warm, golden radiance, a devastatingly intimate scene unfolded that could not be ignored.

Aerion lifted his one hand to gently cup your flushed face, and then, with a profound tenderness so unexpected that several conservative nobles actually glanced away in sheer discomfort, he lowered his forehead to rest softly against yours. The exclusive gesture lasted only a brief, fleeting moment, yet for Valarr, the agonizing contact felt considerably longer. The young prince's jaw tightened to the point of fracturing, and without uttering a single word of explanation, he turned away from the principal table to depart the hall, disappearing toward the dark sanctuary of the balcony beyond the towering glass doors.

Baelor watched his son go, confirming his suspicions. Beside him, Kiera shifted anxiously in her seat, clearly intending to follow after him, but the patriarch executed a sharp shake of his head to signal that she should remain exactly where she was. The silent command was understood instantly, prompting her to settle back into her chair. Baelor then glanced down the length of the table toward Daemon II, and to his immense relief, his rival appeared thoroughly intrigued by the entertainment. The

The silver haired man applauded leisurely while observing both you and Aerion.

Animated conversation gradually resumed throughout the vast hall as the guests returned to their respective seats. Polite laughter once again mingled with the sweeping orchestral music, and attentive servers emerged from the shadows carrying silver trays laden with fresh glasses of vintage wine and champagne, effectively restoring the atmosphere of celebration that had briefly been interrupted by your performance.

You remained safely ensconced by Aerion's side, attempting to steady your shallow breathing while the overwhelming exhilaration of the song slowly ebbed from your veins. His hand had yet to leave your face, his long fingers tracing the soft curve of your cheek with surprising gentleness.

"You were wonderful, my little dragon," he murmured, his low voice intended for your ears alone.

The unfamiliar, sudden nickname struck you completely off guard, causing a fresh wave of crimson heat to rush to your cheeks. Aerion's lips curved faintly at your visible reaction, and he leaned closer, seemingly intending to bridge the remaining distance between your lips. Before he could execute his desire, however, a passing server accidentally collided with his broad shoulder, sending a splash of pale champagne cascading directly across the front of his tailored suit jacket.

Several nearby nobles froze in anticipation of a scene, and at the high table, both Maekar and Baelor noticed the clumsy accident immediately. A deep anxiety surfaced upon their severe faces, for Aerion's reputation for volatile outbursts and unstable tempers was well established within the family, and countless servers had long since learned to fear the dire consequences of even minor mistakes. The unfortunate young man looked moments away from collapsing onto the parquet floor from sheer terror, yet the expected explosion of rage never came.

Before Aerion could react to the insult, you had already reached into your small purse and withdrawn a clean handkerchief.

"Oh, goodness," you said softly, stepping between the two men without a single hint of hesitation.

You began brushing away the sparkling residue from his suit, and the simple, caring gesture worked a remarkable transformation upon his spirit. The dark irritation gathering behind Aerion's lilac eyes faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, shifting his focus entirely toward your face. The trembling servant, sensing a miraculous opportunity for survival, offered a hurried, whispered apology before retreating so swiftly that he nearly vanished into the crowded ballroom.

Baelor released a long breath he had not realized he was holding, and leaning slightly toward Maekar, he allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.

"It appears someone has finally tamed the dragon."

Maekar responded with a deeply dissatisfied, low grunt, nevertheless demonstrating that he did not disagree with his brother's assessment. More importantly, Baelor observed the visible easing of physical tension throughout his younger brother's posture; the unyielding set of Maekar’s broad shoulders gradually loosened, and some of the heavy apprehension that had lingered there throughout the long evening finally dissipated.

Just then Elaine Redwyne approached Aerion's side with practiced, corporate efficiency.

"Shall we have you escorted to the private wing to change, sir?"

Aerion glanced down at the damp fabric of his lapel before nodding his assent, and just as he began to follow her away from the table, a gentle pressure stopped him. Your small hand had closed tightly around his fingers, and the words escaped your lips before you could reconsider the vulnerability of the statement.

"Don't leave me alone."

The desperate admission surprised even you, for being surrounded by hundreds of wealthy strangers had been manageable while standing safely upon the illuminated stage. Now that the performance was over and every curious gaze seemed free to wander back toward your position, the enormity of the predatory crowd felt considerably more intimidating.

Aerion stared down at you for a quiet moment, and something profound finally softened within his severe expression. The raw vulnerability in your voice affected him more deeply than he cared to admit, marking the very first time you had openly expressed a genuine desire for his presence. The realization sent a fierce wave of pride through his chest that spread with startling intensity, and for the briefest instant, heat threatened to surface his body before his strict discipline swiftly forced it back into submission.

Instead of departing with the assistant, he stepped toward you once more, allowing both of his large hands to rise and cradle your face. His intense gaze searched your fearful eyes carefully, finding the deep uncertainty hidden there.

"It will only take a brief moment, my little dragon."

You nodded your head quietly, feeling thoroughly reassured by the vibrating in his low voice. A faint smile touched his lips before he pressed a brief, lingering kiss against your forehead, and then, after casting one final glance in your direction, Aerion turned on his heel to follow Elaine into the swirling crowd.

Your anxious gaze wandered slowly across the glittering expanse of the vast room, drifting meticulously over numerous clusters of aristocratic nobles engaged in their respective, corporate conversation until it finally settled upon a familiar figure standing alone near one of the towering marble columns.

A wave of relief swept through your tense system almost instantly.

Rowan.

The exact moment her searching eyes found yours, her entire face brightened with pure, unadulterated joy. Neither of you hesitated for a single second. You quickly crossed the distance separating you with eager strides, weaving gracefully through the elegantly dressed guests before meeting one another in a desperate, warm embrace. Rowan's arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and the genuine, unconditional affection behind the gesture successfully dissolved much of the lingering nervousness that had accompanied your public performance.

The moment she finally pulled back, both of her hands seized your shoulders with a firm grip.

"You were absolutely magnificent!" she exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. "Why, in the name of the Mother, did you never tell me you could sing like that?"

Only a nervous, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Before you could even formulate a proper defense, her sharp gaze swept deliberately from your styled head down to your golden heels, a knowing, wicked smirk gradually curving across her lips.

"Oh, my."

You immediately recognized that specific, mischievous expression.

"Rowan."

"Aerion Targaryen is an exceptionally fortunate man, I must say." Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose suggestively. Your expression flattened entirely.

"Stop it." A gentle, warning nudge landed against her bare arm, but her musical laughter only intensified. The deep crimson flush spreading rapidly across your cheeks had unfortunately betrayed your true feelings far too thoroughly for her to ignore.

"You annoy me."

"I know," she replied with smug satisfaction.

You groaned aloud.

"Where is Raymund, anyway?" The pointed question successfully redirected her teasing attention.

"He is currently occupying a bathroom somewhere in the vicinity."

Genuine concern flickered across your features.

"Is he alright?"

"He made the unfortunate, stubborn decision to test his relationship with spicy Tyroshi cuisine."

The deadpan answer left both of you struggling mightily to contain your rising amusement, until a sudden fit of genuine laughter escaped you simultaneously. For a brief, fleeting moment amidst the chaos of night, everything felt wonderfully normal, comfortable, and entirely safe.

Then four unfamiliar women approached your position, and the vibrant atmosphere shifted so abruptly that it felt as though an invisible, gloomy cloud had drifted violently across the sun.

At the head of the small group walked a striking, dark-haired woman dressed impeccably in an elegant ivory silk gown whose sheer simplicity only served to amplify its staggering cost. Her stately posture carried the effortless, dangerous confidence of someone deeply accustomed to being admired and obeyed. Three younger companions followed closely behind her like a subservient audience, or perhaps an obedient court. Either way, their unified expressions carried the exact same unmistakable, predatory promise of trouble.

"Rowan," the woman stated smoothly, a polite smile gracing her vibrant red painted lips without ever reaching the cold depths of her eyes. "Fancy meeting you here of all places."

Any trace of warmth evaporated entirely from Rowan's radiant countenance, supplanted in a single heartbeat by an unyielding mask of stone.

"Allyria."

Your vigilant attention shifted cautiously between them. Rowan's voice had emerged tightly through clenched teeth, and that telling detail alone told you everything you needed to know about the bitter history between them. Allyria's condescending gaze drifted leisurely over Rowan’s emerald gown, examining her from top to bottom as though inspecting a cheap item she had already purchased and discarded.

"Manfred and I are officially engaged now."

The cruel declaration settled heavily between them like a physical blow. You immediately understood the devastating context.

Manfred Dondarrion. This was the man Rowan had once deeply loved, the man who had supposedly loved her in return, and the man whose affluent family had ultimately rejected her simply because she had been a hostess at the time rather than a woman of noble, inherited standing. You vividly remembered the agonizing, sleepless nights that followed the breakup, the bitter tears she mistakenly believed nobody noticed, and the countless, exhausted hours she had buried herself in medical study afterward, fiercely determined to build a secure future no one could ever take from her. You remembered exactly how hard she had worked to become a respected nurse, and you also remembered the unfathomable devastation of learning that Manfred had already seamlessly moved on.

With Allyria.

"Congratulations," Rowan replied straining courtesy.

The forced politeness sounded painfully thin, and even someone entirely unfamiliar with the toxic history between them would have easily heard the raw, bleeding strain beneath her careful words.

Allyria smiled brightly, and then ruthlessly sharpened the knife.

"However did you manage to gain entrance to such a prestigious event?" she asked with poison-laced sweetness. "Have you found yourself another wealthy, gullible gentleman to occupy your lonely evenings?"

One of her subservient companions snickered loudly. Allyria's malicious smile widened further.

"Making use of what lies between your legs, perhaps?"

The cruel group erupted into mocking high pitched laughter, and your stomach twisted with immediate nausea. Rowan's expression hardened into pure, glacial fury.

"At least men desire my company willingly," she replied with a deadly calmness, "instead of treating it as an unavoidable, contractual obligation."

The mocking laughter died instantly. Allyria's beautiful face transformed into a mask of pure ugliness as the pleasant, aristocratic facade shattered completely into unhinged rage.

Everything happened next with terrifying, blinding speed.

Her manicured hand lifted violently. The crystal glass of pale champagne flew through the air. You barely had a fraction of a second to process the threat, but your primal instinct moved significantly faster than logical reason. Stepping swiftly in front of Rowan to shield her, you intercepted the harsh splash of liquid intended for her face.

The acidic alcohol struck your face directly, surging violently into your open eyes. Pure agony immediately followed. A sharp, chemical burning sensation exploded across your vision like liquid fire, and a sudden soft cry of pain escaped your lips as the elegant world around you dissolved into complete, agonizing darkness. Your weak knees struck the hard parquet floor with a heavy thud, and your hands immediately flew up to your face as hot, involuntary tears streamed uncontrollably from your stinging eyes.

Rowan's defensive fury vanished the precise instant she saw you collapse in pain, her fierce attention abandoning Allyria completely to rush to your aid.

"Sevens." She dropped forcefully beside you, absolute panic flooding her usually steady voice.

"Get water!"

Several nearby servers froze in terror at the sudden commotion.

"Water!" Rowan screamed again, her voice echoing over the music. "Right now!"

A terrified server hurried away immediately to obey. You could scarcely hear anything over the chaos because the blinding, searing pain overwhelmed every other physical sensation in your body.

"Sweetheart," Rowan cooed desperately, her professional medical training struggling against her personal panic as she attempted to pull your frantic hands away from your burning face. "You need to remove your lenses immediately so we can properly rinse your eyes."

The urgent words sounded incredibly distant and muffled, as though spoken from deep underwater.

Meanwhile, far beyond the heavy ballroom doors, Valarr stood entirely alone upon the secluded stone balcony. The cool evening air swept mercifully across his flushed face as one hand repeatedly ran through his dark hair, while the other pressed forcefully against his mouth as he struggled mightily to contain the psychological turmoil raging inside him. The agonizing, intimate image of Aerion resting his forehead against yours flatly refused to leave his tormented thoughts, and each vivid recollection felt like a jagged blade being slowly, ruthlessly twisted into his chest.

Approaching footsteps broke his destructive reverie as Loras Tyrell emerged onto the balcony.

"Valarr."

The heir turned around immediately, his mismatched eyes desperate for a distraction.

"Did you find anything on her?"

Loras offered a grim nod.

"I did exactly what you asked."

A brief flicker of hope flashed across Valarr's features before vanishing completely.

"She isn't registered."

Valarr blinked in confusion.

"What?"

"I searched every available civilian record."

An unfathomable perplexity heavily furrowed Valarr's brow.

"What do you mean she isn't registered?"

Loras met his intense gaze evenly, his voice deadly serious.

"Her name does not exist in any database."

For a long, silent moment, Valarr searched his closest friend's face for any signs of mockery, thinking a cruel jest would have been infinitely more believable than such impossibilities.

Then, a shrill, piercing scream erupted from inside the hall. Both men snapped their heads toward the ballroom, and without uttering another word, they rushed violently indoors.

Absolute chaos greeted them upon entry. Distinguished guests crowded desperately around a rapidly growing commotion near the marble columns, and at the absolute center of the storm stood Aerion. His large, toned hand was wrapped with brutal, bruising force around a woman's slender arm, Lady Allyria Bracken, the fiancé of his cousin Manfred Dondarrion, who cried out in genuine physical pain. Several feet away, you knelt helplessly on the floor with your eyes squeezed tightly shut in agony while Rowan hovered protectively beside your trembling form.

"What have you done to her?" Aerion roared, the raw, unfiltered fury in his booming voice silencing nearly everyone within a hundred-foot radius.

Allyria struggled frantically against his iron grip.

"You are hurting me!"

Baelor and Maekar arrived mere moments later, pushing through the paralyzed crowd with Manfred following close behind.

"What the fuck is happening here?" Maekar thundered, his violet eyes blazing with equal anger and confusion. Manfred looked entirely murderous at the sight of his betrothed in pain.

"Guards!"

Two well built security men immediately seized Aerion, one clamping onto each arm, yet even with their combined strength, restraining the enraged prince proved incredibly difficult.

"Boy," Maekar barked with lethal sharpness, "you do not lay hands upon a woman."

"You will answer for assaulting my betrothed," Manfred snarled furiously.

The rapidly escalating confrontation pierced forcefully through the hazy fog of pain clouding your rational thoughts. An overwhelming fear suddenly seized your heart, a terrifying fear that the guards might actually hurt Aerion for defending you. Acting entirely without thinking, your trembling fingers reached up to your burning eyes, and the thin contact lenses finally came free. You blinked rapidly, allowing the burning tears to continue streaming freely down your cheeks to clear the alcohol.

"Please!" Your desperate voice echoed loudly through the silent hall.

"Please let go of him. Don't hurt him. It's not his fault."

A dense, oppressive hush descended upon the chamber at once, settling over the gathering with an almost tangible weight. It was a silence so complete and profound that it seemed to smother even the faintest whisper of sound. One by one, every head within the room turned toward your newly risen figure, their attention converging upon you with measured inevitability.

Rowan stared directly into your face, and then she gasped sharply. She slowly sank backward onto the polished floor, the sheer, unadulterated shock rendering her entirely speechless. Thoroughly confused by her reaction, you looked around the room. Aerion had also ceased struggling against his captors, and Valarr, who had initially planned to rush to your side stood entirely motionless nearby.

Everyone stared. Everyone.

A faint, persistent buzzing suddenly broke the supernatural silence, Valarr's phone. The device vibrated repeatedly in his pocket, signaling message after frantic message, missed call after missed call. Valarr slowly withdrew the device to open the notifications.

Is this some sick joke?

—Stephon F

You're fucking joking, right?

—Stephon F

Answer the fucking phone.

—Stephon F

Attached directly beneath the frantic text was a clear photograph, Valarr's blood ran entirely cold, and his breath caught painfully in his throat. Then his gaze returned to you.

Judging by the horrified, paralyzed expression on everyone's faces, you slowly turned your head to look directly into an ornate mirror hanging not far from you on one of the grand walls. A devastating reflection of striking, pale lilac eyes stared back at you, completely unhidden for the very first time in years. You quickly looked down to see your discarded brown contacts resting innocently on the floor, and you began softly whispering to yourself in pure, mounting horror.

"No, no, no... no..."

Inside the digital photograph of the hidden safe on Valarr's phone, the contents revealed a few large stacks of hundred-dollar bills, which was entirely insignificant compared to the abnormal, massive amount of boxes of dark brown hair dye stacked beside the cash.

"You impudent child. What have you done to your hair?"

The entire ballroom turned simultaneously to see exactly who the commanding, authoritative voice belonged to.

Daemon II Blackfyre.

You slowly turned your head toward him, your small fists clenching tightly at your sides.

"I changed it, Father. I didn't want to look like you."

Valarr's phone slipped from his fingers. The device struck the floor with a sharp crack.

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Taglist: @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2 @qardasngan

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen × Reader x ???

Chapter X:

THE NIGHT WAS WATCHING

Friday arrived with the swiftly, marking the final week of the month as the campus seemed suspended in a peculiar stillness, basking beneath the mellow warmth of the afternoon sun. Golden light filtered through the sprawling canopies that lined the grounds, casting shifting mosaics across the stone pathways where students drifted lazily between lectures and idle conversations.

Kiera had taken the day off and departed hours earlier due to the preparations for the upcoming gala as it demanded her undivided attention, particularly the final fitting of the elaborate gown she had commissioned from Tyrosh. The grand occasion had consumed the vast majority of her schedule in recent weeks, leaving Valarr and Loras unexpectedly abandoned during the quiet lunch hour. They occupied a secluded stone bench tucked beneath a grove of ancient, gnarled oaks near the perimeter of the campus, a location that offered total privacy while still overlooking a sun-drenched portion of the grounds where clusters of students gathered beneath the trees. For several heavy moments, neither of them spoke a single word.

Valarr sat hunched forward with his elbows resting upon the table, his intense gaze fixed steadfastly on something in the far distance. Across the manicured lawn, barely discernible through the shifting, emerald veil of leaves, sat another distinct group composed of Rowan, Raymund, his cousin Aemon, and you.

Laughter drifted faintly through the gentle breeze, and Valarr's eyes lingered obsessively on your figure. The wind threaded playfully through your hair, lifting dark strands across your face as he watched you brush them away with absent-minded irritation before returning your attention to whatever amusing story had left the group smiling. A familiar, suffocating ache tightened like a vice within his chest.

"I need a favor from you, Loras."

His voice emerged low and measured, cutting through the ambient hum of the afternoon. Loras lifted his eyes from his phone and followed the precise direction of his intense stare, and te exact moment his eyes found your distant group, an uncomfortable understanding settled heavily over his features.

"I take it you still haven't told her?"

"Not yet." The response arrived without a fraction of hesitation, delivered entirely without emotion and devoid of any uncertainty. His handsome expression remained an entirely unreadable mask of stoicism. Loras studied his companion intensely for a moment before quietly asking, "What exactly do you need?"

"Your father has access to the records of every resident in the Reach, does he not?"

"He does."

Valarr's sharp gaze never left the distant, captivating silhouette resting beneath the shade of the trees.

"I need information on someone's background."

Loras frowned slightly, a flicker of apprehension crossing his brow.

"Whose?"

"Y/N."

The unexpected answer struck him with an immediate, jarring wave of confusion, causing his eyes to shift rapidly toward Valarr. There was absolutely nothing unusual in his friend's posture, nor was there anything strange in his even tone, yet something felt profoundly, deeply wrong. The natural warmth that typically softened Valarr's aristocratic features had vanished entirely, and in its place remained only a cold, unwavering seriousness that chilled the surrounding air.

"Why?"

Valarr remained perfectly silent for several agonizing seconds while far across the lawn, Aemon said something clever that earned a bright, genuine laugh from you. Valarr watched the scene unfold, noting the effortless ease in your smile and the palpable comfort that illuminated your face whenever his cousin was near.

"I need answers," Valarr said. The words carried a quiet, terrifying finality that caused Loras's underlying unease to deepen significantly. Valarr shifted his attention away from the distant bench for the very first time during the encounter.

"I also need you to find someone."

"What kind of someone?"

"Someone skilled with safes."

Loras blinked in sheer disbelief, the bizarre request startling him deeply enough that he almost laughed aloud. He almost yielded to the urge, yet the chilling look in Valarr's eyes extinguished the humorous impulse long before it could surface. There was something sinister lurking beneath that rigid composure, a dark, unsettling current that felt entirely volatile.

"I suppose Stephon Fossoway is fairly talented with locks and safes," Loras replied with immense care. "Why? Planning to rob a bank?"

The desperate joke escaped his lips alongside an awkward, fleeting chuckle, but it died instantly in the heavy air. Valarr did not smile, nor did he offer a polite laugh, and instead, his voice became even quieter and more intense.

"There's a safe in her house."

Loras stiffened completely.

"In the bathroom."

An oppressive, heavy silence settled between them like a suffocating shroud.

"I need Stephon to open it."

The rustling leaves overhead suddenly seemed unnaturally loud in the absence of human speech, and Loras stared at him in utter shock, completely uncertain whether he had even heard the criminal request correctly. A multitude of frantic questions crowded his mind in rapid succession. Yet one single glance at Valarr's stony countenance convinced him absolutely not to press for details. The raw tension radiating from the man was palpable, sharp enough to cut through glass.

"All right..." Loras said cautiously, testing the dangerous waters. "Suppose I convince Stephon. How exactly do you expect him to get inside? Isn't she almost always home?"

"The gala." Valarr straightened his posture from the bench and methodically brushed invisible creases from his tailored trousers. His fluid movements were calm and calculated, as though every minor detail of the operation had already been thoroughly considered and approved.

"She'll be attending.... With my cousin Aerion." A sharp muscle tightened visibly along his jawline. The hated name tasted bitter in his mouth, mimicking the unpleasant sensation of spoiled wine lingering on the tongue.

A toxic bitterness rose swiftly within his throat like venom. He thought of the years spent in absolute loyalty, the years of unwavering devotion, and the endless years spent standing faithfully at your side through every triumph and every painful wound. Yet despite all of it, every single door within your heart remained firmly, heartbreakingly closed against him. Every probing question he had ever asked about your mysterious past had been met with careful, masterful deflection, just as every attempt to understand the deepest, most shadowed parts of you had been gently but firmly refused. Now, somehow, Aerion had effortlessly succeeded where he had so miserably failed.

The dark realization festered like a slow-acting poison in his mind, convincing him that if you would not allow him entry willingly, he would simply force another way inside. No secret could remain hidden from him forever, just as no lock remained permanently unopened, because eventually, every sturdy wall cracked and every buried truth emerged into the light.

Loras exhaled a slow, shaky breath.

"I'm still not convinced Stephon would risk his reputation for something like this. Breaking into a stranger's home isn't exactly a minor favor."

For the very first time since the conversation began, Valarr looked directly into his eyes, and a faint, ghostly smile touched his lips. The sudden sight unsettled Loras far more than the previous hour combined because there was absolutely no warmth in the expression, reflecting only cold calculation and absolute certainty.

"I'll offer him an executive position in one of the firms." He folded his hands neatly before him in a gesture of absolute control.

"Everyone has a price, Loras."

The autumn breeze swept through the ancient trees once more, rustling the canopy, while across the lawn, the distant laughter continued to echo beautifully beneath the sunlit branches.

——

The day of the gala arrived with all the terrifying inevitability of a high tide rolling toward a defenseless shore, delivering a looming obligation that you had deeply dreaded for nearly a week. Sleep had become an elusive, mocking luxury, slipping through your desperate grasp night after night due to the chronic agony of Ashblood as it showed absolutely no mercy. Every single muscle in your body seemed to ache violently beneath your skin, mimicking the sensation of invisible hands spending the night twisting and pulling at your very bones. A profound exhaustion lingered behind your heavy eyes, persistent and draining, while a dull, stubborn soreness settled deep into your joints and flatly refused to leave.

Several times throughout the grueling morning, you seriously considered staying home inside the safety of your apartment.

The easy excuse would be entirely valid, as no reasonable person could fault you for prioritizing your fragile physical health over a superficial social gathering. Besides, a man like Aerion would undoubtedly have no difficulty finding another beautiful companion for the evening because women practically threw themselves at his feet wherever he went. The bitter thought only deepened the irrational irritation already simmering beneath your physical fatigue, causing you to wonder idly if he might simply invite Elaine instead. The memory of that specific name surfaced entirely unbidden, recalling the mysterious female identity that had flashed across his phone screen during your previous excursion to the boutique.

Elaine.

Your lips flattened into a thin, tight line as an entirely unreasonable annoyance twisted sharply through your chest. The sour feeling only worsened when you remembered how quickly and suspiciously he had silenced flipped his phone in your presence.

You glanced toward the wall clock hanging above the kitchen doorway, realizing that only four fleeting hours remained before the commencement of the gala. Aerion had explicitly informed you that he would personally collect you afterward, a detail that caused a nervous knot to tighten uncomfortably in your stomach.

The only genuine source of comfort came in the form of a digital text message currently displayed on your glowing phone screen from Rowan. Following everything that had recently transpired with Aerion, she had firmly decided she would attend the high-profile gala after all, though her underlying reasoning was painfully transparent. She was absolutely terrified that Aerion might disappear again, leaving you alone in the night.

The comforting message glowed softly against the screen.

Come get ready with me. Ray hired an entire team. It'll be fun.

—Rowan

Your thumb hovered above the screen. The monumental effort required to simply leave the house felt entirely beyond your current capabilities, and every part of your exhausted being wanted to crawl beneath a heavy blanket to remain there until tomorrow. You began typing a polite refusal, but then your wandering gaze drifted toward the center of the coffee table, leaving the message entirely unsent.

Resting atop the polished wooden surface was a magnificent, oversized black box. Its pristine exterior was crafted from a matte lacquer so flawless that it seemed to actively absorb the surrounding light rather than reflect it, wrapped carefully with a sumptuous crimson ribbon whose satin surface gleamed like liquid garnets beneath the afternoon sun spilling through the windows. Two smaller matching boxes rested neatly atop the larger container, one undoubtedly housing expensive matching heels while the other contained a coordinating purse.

Beside the luxurious boxes sat Balerion’s glass tank, where the river fish drifted lazily through the filtered water, his black scales flashing brilliantly whenever he turned beneath the artificial light.

The custom dress had arrived yesterday with the final alterations completed, ensuring every microscopic adjustment was made specifically for the unique contours of your body, yet you had barely allowed yourself to look at the garment.

Slowly, you lowered your phone, leaving the text message to Rowan unfinished as curiosity began to replace your overwhelming dread. Crossing the quiet room, you knelt carefully before the grand box and loosened the crimson ribbon, watching the satin bow unfurl effortlessly beneath your trembling fingers.

The heavy lid lifted, and your breath caught instantly in your throat.

Gold.

An absolute ocean of molten gold greeted your eyes, adorned with intricate crystal embroidery that cascaded across the heavy fabric like a dense map of constellations scattered across a midnight sky. Thousands of delicate embellishments shimmered responsively with your every movement, capturing the natural sunlight and transforming it into dazzling rivers of fractured brilliance. It was just as beautiful as the day you had tried it on. For several breathless seconds, you simply stared in stunned silence because the gown was genuinely transcendent, rendering the word beautiful entirely inadequate.

You carefully lifted a heavy portion of the cascading skirt from the box, watching the crystals sparkle as though they were infused with genuine starlight.

Sudden movement within the glass tank caught your attention, revealing that Balerion had abandoned his leisurely swim to drift toward the glass pane nearest you. His large, dark eyes appeared fixed directly upon the shimmering dress, causing you to laugh softly into the quiet room.

"It's magnificent, isn't it?"

Balerion offered no verbal opinion, merely blinking his large eyes before turning away.

Just then, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed through the apartment, and simultaneously, your phone vibrated somewhere inside your bedroom. Frowning at the interruption, you carefully returned the precious gown to its protective box before hurrying toward the bedroom to retrieve the device. Another persistent vibration shook the phone as you grabbed it from the nightstand, revealing a brief message.

I've sent someone to fetch you. They will take you to the destination. I'll collect you once they're finished with you.

— Asshole

Your confusion deepened significantly at the cryptic phrasing. Finished with you?

Before you could successfully decipher what exactly that meant, another demanding knock sounded at the front door. You approached the entryway cautiously, knowing the visitor certainly wasn't Rowan, and when you opened the door, a blonde woman stood waiting expectantly on the opposite side.

She appeared to be somewhere in her late forties, possessing a tall, thin frame and an impeccably composed demeanor. Her sharp black suit looked custom-tailored down to the final minute stitch, while her golden hair had been pulled back into a severe high ponytail without a single stray strand out of place. Dark sunglasses entirely concealed her eyes despite the covered, dimly lit hallway, and a sleek communication earpiece nestled discreetly against one ear. Professional barely seemed sufficient to describe her formidable presence.

"Miss Y/N?"

"Uh... yes. That would be me."

The imposing woman inclined her head in a swift, polite gesture.

"My name is Elaine Redwyne."

The familiar name struck your mind immediately, igniting a wave of mortification. Elaine. For one horrifically embarrassing second, your mind replayed every single jealous irrational thought you had entertained over the past several days. This severe corporate figure was the mysterious Elaine. She was Aerion's executive assistant, a sophisticated woman nearly twice his age who looked entirely capable of filing your taxes, negotiating a multi-million dollar corporate merger, and disciplining a room full of rowdy executives before lunch.

The humiliation might have consumed you much longer had she not continued speaking in her crisp tone.

"Aerion has instructed us to escort you. Please follow me." Her even tone remained flawlessly polite, efficient, and entirely uninterested in whatever absurd romantic assumptions you had previously made.

"Oh. Of course."

Everything was happening far too quickly for your exhausted mind to process, and your earlier internal debate about skipping the gala vanished completely beneath the unstoppable momentum of the events.

"Just one moment, please."

Elaine gave a curt, professional nod, and you practically sprinted back inside the apartment to gather your essential items. A clean handkerchief disappeared into your pocket alongside your vital medication, and you paused only long enough to drop food into Balerion’s tank.

His strict father would undoubtedly discover any oversight regarding the pet and hold it against you for the next decade.

Finally, you grabbed the heavy boxes containing your gown, but by the time you returned to the open doorway, a second imposing figure had appeared. A broad-shouldered man dressed in an identical black suit stepped forward and silently relieved you of the heavy burden, disappearing down the hall with the boxes before you could even utter a protest. Moments later, Elaine was escorting you toward a pristine, waiting limousine parked along the curb, causing your underlying nervousness to double.

Everything about this elaborate operation felt absurdly formal.

The subsequent car ride unfolded in near total silence, where the only consistent sound came from the occasional, rhythmic tap of Elaine's stylus against her digital tablet as she reviewed complex schedules, messages, and legal documents with relentless efficiency. Eventually, as the vehicle crawled to a smooth stop, and when the door opened, realization struck you instantly. It was the very same high-end boutique Aerion brougth you to, though there was apparently far more to the exclusive establishment than the elegant public showroom you had previously seen. An entire private luxury wing existed far beyond the public areas, dedicated entirely to elite clients.

The next several hours passed in a chaotic, pampered blur of spa treatments, rigorous skincare applications, hair styling, and professional makeup.

The intensive massage alone nearly convinced you that the entire exhausting ordeal had been entirely worthwhile, because by the end of the session, much of the physical soreness from the Ashblood flare-up had eased into something far more manageable.

As the makeup artist applied the final, delicate touches to your face, you overheard Elaine speaking quietly into her phone near the door.

"She's ready."

You safely assumed she was informing Aerion of your completion. The makeup artist stepped back with a satisfied expression, smiling as she announced, "There. Finished."

You followed her guiding hand toward an enormous, gold-framed mirror, and then you froze completely. For several paralyzed seconds, you genuinely failed to recognize the radiant woman staring back from the reflective glass. The golden gown fit flawlessly, hugging every curve and tracing every contour of your figure as though the mesh fabric had been woven directly onto your skin. The intricate crystal embroidery cascaded beautifully across the bodice and skirt, catching the bright studio light with your every breath.

The hairstylist had chosen to leave your hair down, transforming it into soft, cascading waves that framed your face beautifully, while the makeup artist had exercised remarkable restraint. Rather than obscuring your natural features beneath heavy product, she had subtly enhanced them until your skin seemed luminous, youthful, and thoroughly radiant. You looked absolutely stunning.

Your fingertips drifted over the sharp crystal embroidery, tracing the patterns again and again as you found yourself utterly unable to stop staring. The reflection felt entirely unreal. So thoroughly captivated were you that you never noticed the heavy door opening behind you, nor did you notice Aerion entering the private room.

He paused silently in the grand doorway, capturing the scene. The room's lingering occupants exchanged knowing glances, and at a subtle, commanding gesture from him, they quietly gathered their professional tools and departed one by one until only the two of you remained in the quiet space.

You continued admiring the matching shoes and the fit of the dress, entirely oblivious to his presence until suddenly, strong arms encircled your waist from behind. A startled gasp escaped your lips as you spun around so quickly that the unfamiliar height of the heels betrayed your balance, causing the world to tilt dangerously. For one terrifying second, you were utterly convinced you were about to collapse onto the floor, but Aerion caught you effortlessly in his firm grasp.

His strong arms tightened, drawing your body flush against his broad chest as the warm, familiar scent of his expensive cologne enveloped you immediately, offering a dangerously comforting embrace. You looked up into his face, and the breath left your lungs completely.

He was already staring down at you with a piercing intensity, his silver hair perfectly styled and his formal black attire tailored to impossible perfection. His striking violet eyes moved slowly over your face before dropping lower, taking in every single magnificent detail of the golden gown while a raw, unhidden hunger flickered behind his gaze.

"You are breathtaking."

His voice had dropped noticeably into a low, gravelly register, and the intense compliment sent a sudden rush of warmth flooding into your cheeks. Aerion's hand slid smoothly along your back, drawing you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"Shall we skip the galla entirely?" he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours, fingers gliding lower.

Your pulse stumbled erratically at the heavy words. He lowered his head slowly, deliberately, watching your reaction as the remaining distance between your lips vanished inch by inch.

Then, a sharp, repetitive knock abruptly interrupted the intimate moment.

Aerion closed his eyes, an expression of sheer suffering crossing his handsome features that was almost comical in its intensity. The door opened slightly to reveal Elaine standing outside on the threshold.

"Mr. Targaryen."

Her even voice remained perfectly professional, entirely unbothered by the scene inside.

"We must leave now if we intend to arrive on schedule. Your father would be most disleased with your tardiness. "

Aerion released a long, deeply disappointed sigh, the exact kind of dramatic sigh reserved for men who believed themselves to be personally persecuted by fate itself. You struggled mightily not to laugh aloud at his misery. Reluctantly, he stepped back to grant you space, though his long fingers found yours immediately, intertwining tightly and refusing to let go.

"Very well," he said, turning his gaze back to you.

And with your hand secured firmly within his protective grasp, Aerion led you out toward the limousine evening that awaited you.

——

The limousine glided silently through the bustling city streets, its impossibly smooth movement only serving to make your internal nervousness feel far more apparent by contrast. Aerion noticed your distress almost instantly, and without uttering a sound, his large hand found your trembling one, his long fingers slipping smoothly between your own to intertwine effortlessly in a firm, reassuring grip. It was a gesture that felt warm, steady, and dangerously comforting, causing your cheeks to flare yet again.

You quickly turned your face toward the cool window glass before he could witness your visible reaction, watching as the vibrant city lights streaked past like scattered, burning stars. Inside the quiet cabin, your betraying pulse raced entirely out of control, yet Aerion said absolutely nothing to mock your vulnerability. His thumb merely brushed against your knuckles in a slow, absent-minded motion that was astonishingly simple, yet it possessed enough quiet power to make the crushing tension finally ease. The heavy knot in your chest loosened its grip, the overwhelming noise inside your head quieted, and by the time the limousine finally came to a halt, your nerves had transformed into a manageable hum rather than a threat to overwhelm you.

A uniformed attendant opened the heavy door, allowing Aerion to step out onto the pavement first before he turned to offer you his hand. You accepted the support gratefully, and the exact moment you emerged from the vehicle, the sheer grandeur of the venue revealed itself to your stunned senses. Your breath caught sharply in your throat as a sweeping marble staircase rose majestically before you, leading toward the arched entrance of the main ballroom. Together, you ascended the grand steps side by side, but upon reaching the top of the landing, you stopped dead in your tracks.

For several paralyzed seconds, you could only stare at the spectacle because the room stretched before your eyes like a vivid scene lifted directly from a fairytale. High overhead, the vaulted ceiling soared into magnificent, dizzying heights, adorned with breathtaking frescoes depicting fearsome dragons weaving through celestial clouds. Their painted forms twisted across the mock heavens in elegant displays of raw power and ancient majesty. Suspended beneath this artistic sky hung a massive armada of colossal crystal chandeliers, where thousands upon thousands of pristine crystal droplets captured the flickering glow of countless lights.

The light fractured endlessly through the glass, sending waves of golden brilliance cascading across the ballroom until the entire space seemed thoroughly bathed in liquid sunlight. Along the left side of the grand hall, towering arched windows pierced the polished marble walls, revealing the stubborn twilight that lingered across the horizon to spill rich sapphire hues through the glass panes. The cool blue glow intertwined beautifully with the artificial warmth of the chandeliers, creating a striking contrast that transformed the room into a visual masterpiece of light and shadow. Beneath your feet, a polished parquet flooring stretched across the vast chamber in an intricate herringbone pattern, the dark wood gleaming like mirrors to reflect the chandeliers so perfectly that it seemed another inverted ballroom existed beneath the surface.

Throughout the hall, elegant tables had been arranged with meticulous, military precision, draped in deep crimson and black linens that cascaded over their edges to brush the floor. Towering arrangements of ivory hydrangeas and pale red roses rose from their centers like blooming sculptures, perfuming the air with a delicate fragrance. At the far end of the room stood an elongated banquet table that commanded absolute attention, its considerable length draped in matching dark linens. A continuous ribbon of crimson florals ran down the center, weaving between polished silver platters and gleaming crystalware, while rows of plush, high-backed chairs upholstered in rich crimson and black awaited their distinguished occupants with regal symmetry. In one corner, elevated upon a polished wooden platform, a classical orchestra performed a sweeping piece where violins sang and cellos hummed, the melody drifting effortlessly through the space to wrap itself around the laughter like silk.

The entire scene felt entirely unreal, making you feel as though you had somehow wandered into a Renaissance dream, but beside you, Aerion's steady hand settled against the small of your back. The grounding touch served to anchor your drifting senses, preventing you from becoming entirely overwhelmed by the high-society opulence.

Unfortunately, someone else had already noticed your grand arrival from the crowd below. Valarr had been standing among the wealthy guests, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit that easily rivaled Aerion's own attire. He had spent the early part of the evening welcoming arrivals and exchanging practiced pleasantries with investors, dignitaries, and nobles alike—or at least, he had been doing so until he looked up toward the staircase.

The moment his eyes found you, everything in his universe stopped completely. The breath deserted his lungs, the conversation before him vanished into nothingness, and the sweeping music faded into a dull drone as the ballroom dissolved into indistinct shapes and meaningless background noise. Only you remained in his field of vision. Radiant, resplendent, and thoroughly unforgettable. The custom golden gown seemed fashioned from pure sunlight itself, flowing around your figure with effortless elegance. You looked less like a mortal woman descending a staircase and more like a celestial vision wandering briefly into the flawed mortal world.

Valarr could not move, could not think, and could scarcely breathe as every protective instinct urged him to abandon his post to walk to your side. He desperately wanted to speak to you and look at your radiant beauty from up close, yet before he could take a single step forward, a harsh reality shattered his longing. Aerion's arm slid possessively around your waist, a blatant movement that broke the brief illusion.

Valarr watched with swelling resentment as his cousin pulled you closer against his side, leaning toward your ear far too intimately, close enough that his lips brushed against several strands of your dark hair. Whatever secret he whispered earned an immediate, delicate reaction as a bright smile spread across your face. Laughing softly, you lifted a hand to swat lightly against his broad chest, causing Aerion to grin with quiet triumph.

The intimate sight struck Valarr like a physical blade driven between his ribs because the two of you looked infuriatingly perfect together. You appeared natural, comfortable, and entirely effortless, standing side by side as though the universe itself had arranged things precisely this way. Aerion's hand never left your waist, his posture radiating a quiet pride as every single glance he directed toward you carried an unmistakable, heavy admiration. Every subtle touch from his fingers proclaimed exactly who stood at his side, and worse than all of it, you seemed genuinely happy.

That specific realization proved to be the most unbearable thing of all, causing something sour and violent to twist inside Valarr's chest until the sight made him physically sick. Yet despite the pain, his eyes flatly refused to leave your form, mimicking a desperate man staring directly into the blazing sun despite knowing the light would blind him completely.

Suddenly, a sudden movement near the grand entrance drew the collective attention of the entire room, causing conversations to gradually soften as several heads turned in unison. The atmosphere shifted almost immediately as a new, formidable group arrived, entering the space with the quiet confidence of people accustomed to commanding absolute authority without ever seeking it. Exquisitely dressed men clad in dark formal attire, silver haired, descended from the entrance corridor, their collective presence carrying an unmistakable weight of power, influence, and danger.

At their head walked Daemon II Blackfyre, looking exceptionally tall, imposing, and elegant as the patriarch of House Blackfyre moved with a measured authority. A distinct ripple of whispers spread rapidly through the ballroom, and even the orchestra seemed to lower its volume momentarily as the distinguished guests turned their full attention toward the powerful new arrivals.

Beside you, Aerion’s relaxed expression hardened into something entirely hostile, a terrifying change that was immediate, subtle, and yet utterly unmistakable to anyone standing near him. His large hand remained anchored firmly at your waist, though his sharp jaw tightened by a visible degree as he leaned in close to whisper.

"I cannot stand them."

The blunt, unvarnished statement surprised you, prompting you to glance up toward his rigid profile with a questioning look.

"You seem rather certain about that."

A humorless, razor-thin smile touched his handsome lips, though his striking violet eyes remained fixed entirely upon the moving targets of the Blackfyre members.

"Hm. I loathe them. Bastards who think they have a right to stand. The mere existence of a Blackfyre is a crime punishable only by fire." He let out a soft, mocking sound before continuing in a low, conspiratorial murmur.

"Their entire house exists because my great-grandfather couldn't keep his cock in his trousers."

You nearly choked on your own breath at the sheer audacity of his phrasing, your eyes widening in shock.

"Descendants of legitimized Targaryen bastards," Aerion explained, his voice dripping with an ancient, inherited distaste. "Daemon I had the audacity to challenged my grandfather's legitimate claim and nearly plunged half the entire realm into absolute ruin over a seat that was never his to begin with."

There was a profound, genuine disdain vibrating in his tone now, a bitter grudge that was generations old, inherited through bloodlines, refined by time, and carried like a weapon through the centuries.

"The families never reconciled?"

Aerion looked down at you as though you had just naively suggested that dragons and helpless sheep might peacefully coexist in the same field.

"No." The definitive answer came instantly, devoid of any hesitation.

"They despise us as much as we do them."

His piercing gaze drifted right back toward the patriarch, and you found yourself studying the Blackfyre leader once again with a newfound understanding. His mid length, silver-gold hair sat atop his broad shoulders neatly, perfectly styled to catch the golden light of the chandeliers, while his pale lilac eyes glanced around the grand hall with a thoroughly practiced, aristocratic smile. If the underlying hostility between these two powerhouse houses ran that incredibly deep, his voluntary presence tonight suddenly seemed far more significant than a mere social obligation.

"Then why is he here?"

Aerion remained perfectly silent for a long moment, his sharp expression becoming visibly thoughtful and intensely calculating as he weighed the political landscape.

"Rumors."

You tilted your head slightly, prompting him to elaborate.

"What rumors?"

"The same rumors that have been circulating through the shadows."

His sharp gaze followed Daemon’s progress as the imposing man directly approached Baelor and Maekar near the center of the floor.

"Daemon's heir is missing."

A sudden wave of realization flickered through your mind, and Aerion nodded slowly in confirmation of your unspoken thought.

"For a long time, no one in high society knew whether the scattered reports were actually true," Aerion murmured, his voice barely carrying over the music. "Some factions believed the heir had simply disappeared from public view for personal reasons, while others thought it was merely clever misinformation intended to destabilize Blackfyre commercial interests."

"And now?"

Aerion's sharp smile widened, turning predatory beneath the bright chandelier light.

"Now the bastard is standing directly inside a Targaryen gala."

"You think the rumors are true."

"I think they must be." Aerion folded one elegant hand neatly behind his back, his posture radiating absolute certainty.

"House Blackfyre would sooner swallow broken glass than willingly seek public cooperation with the Targaryens."

Your eyes widened slightly at the vivid, violent image, while his gaze remained fixed upon the patriarchs.

The classical orchestra continued playing softly in the background, weaving a beautiful melody through the air, yet neither of you paid the slightest bit of attention to the performance.

"If Daemon II is willing to stand in a room full of Targaryens," Aerion continued, his voice lowering to a dangerous pitch, "it means he desperately needs something." He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in completely.

"And powerful men only reveal their weakness when they have absolutely no alternative left."

You watched in silence as Daemon smoothly exchanged formal greetings with Baelor and Maekar, and suddenly, the polite interaction looked entirely different to your eyes, far more calculated, far more desperate, and far more critical to the survival of his legacy.

"So his missing heir truly places him at a disadvantage."

"A severe one," Aerion agreed with a firm nod. "A great dynasty revolves entirely around blood and around clear, undisputed succession." His lilac eyes narrowed slightly as he analyzed the rival family’s plight.

"No heir means absolute uncertainty, and uncertainty thoroughly frightens wealthy investors, political allies, and powerful shareholders alike. Every single rival begins circling like a pack of starving wolves around an injured stag."

The grim, predatory image lingered unpleasantly in your mind, painting a vivid picture of the corporate and political warfare raging beneath the surface of the party.

"And if Daemon is here despite all of that history..." Aerion's expression became almost satisfied, reflecting a cold, triumphal pleasure.

"Then he's far more desperate than he'd ever admit to the public."

You slowly nodded your head in silent agreement, yet Aerion's following words barely registered in your mind after that moment. Because another, far more devastating realization had already begun sinking deep into your chest, chilling you to the very bone.

Valarr knew.

Perhaps he had not discovered it immediately, or perhaps he only truly realized the depth of the situation after the rumors gained significant traction among the elite, but he had undeniably known. He had known the Blackfyres were deeply vulnerable, known they were no longer negotiating from a position of overwhelming strength, and known that House Blackfyre needed powerful alliances just as desperately as everyone else in the realm.

And despite possessing that critical knowledge—despite knowing his family held all the cards—he had still chosen Kiera over you.

The familiar, agonizing ache in your chest returned with a vengeance, sharper this time, and far more devastatingly personal than any grand game of politics could ever be.

From across the sprawling brilliance of the ballroom, Maekar successfully caught his son's undivided attention. The formidable older man stood positioned among an elite circle of influential guests and wealthy corporate investors, his expression perfectly composed as he lifted two fingers in a silent, subtle summons.

Aerion released a long, weary sigh at the sudden intrusion of family obligations.

"Duty."

You attempted to offer a reassuring smile, but the familiar, agonizing ache of your condition returned without warning. A sharp, localized pressure bloomed agonizingly beneath your fragile ribs, spreading rapidly through your chest cavity like a tightening iron vice. Your hand rose instinctively to press against the stiff bodice of your golden gown in a desperate bid for comfort.

Aerion noticed the subtle physiological shift immediately, and a rare wave of genuine concern softened his severe features.

"Are you all right?"

You forced your rigid body to nod as you silently prayed the physical pain would pass just as it always did in the past.

"I'm fine."

His sharp eyes narrowed instantly because he was clearly unconvinced by your weak display of strength.

"You don't look fine."

"I only need a little fresh air." You offered another fragile, reassuring smile to pacify his rising concern.

"Aerion." Your small hand settled gently atop his large one to arrest his movement.

"Go. Your father is waiting."

For several agonizing moments the young man hesitated, torn between public obligation and personal concern, before he reluctantly relented to your wishes.

"Very well."

His long fingers intertwined tightly with yours once more, and the simple, intimate gesture sent a soothing wave of warmth flooding directly through your cold palm. The contact felt profoundly steady, comforting, and deeply familiar amidst the chaotic crowd. Together you slowly descended the grand staircase, your hand remaining securely anchored within his protective grasp the entire way down to the floor. Only when your feet successfully reached the polished parquet did he finally choose to release you. Even then, his thumb brushed softly across your knuckles in a lingering caress before completely letting go.

"I won't be long."

You nodded your head in silent understanding, then watched his tall silhouette disappear entirely into the glittering sea of high-society guests.

The exact moment he vanished from your sight, you slipped quietly through one of the towering, arched glass doors that led out to the secluded balcony. An immediate sense of profound relief greeted your senses as the oppressive atmosphere of the gala softened behind your back. The sweeping orchestral music became instantly distant, just as the loud conversations faded away into an indistinct, peaceful murmur. The cool, refreshing evening air brushed gently against your heated skin, prompting you to exhale a long, slow breath into the darkness.

The stone balcony directly overlooked the sprawling city landscape below, where thousands of artificial lights glittered in the vast darkness like scattered, precious jewels. Above your head, the velvet night sky stretched endlessly across the distant horizon, showcasing stars that seemed impossibly bright in the clear atmosphere. Those celestial bodies remained entirely untouched by the superficial grandeur of the ballroom, unaffected by complex corporate politics, bitter family rivalries, or devastating personal heartbreak. You leaned your weight lightly against the cool stone balustrade, closing your eyes to simply breathe the crisp air. One quiet minute passed, then another followed in blissful solitude, allowing the sharp ache in your chest to gradually ease its suffocating hold. Your chaotic thoughts finally began to settle into a peaceful rhythm.

Then, with terrifying suddenness, a warm breath ghosted intimately across the exposed skin of your bare neck as a large hand settled gently upon your hip. Your lips curved upward instinctively into a soft smile under the immediate assumption that Aerion had returned to your side. That comforting assumption lasted for only a fleeting heartbeat because something about the physical presence felt strangely, petrifyingly familiar. It was a profound familiarity that absolutely did not belong to Aerion, causing every single muscle in your body to still instantly as a localized chill traveled slowly up your spine.

The repressed memory surfaced with overwhelming clarity, bringing back the sensory details of the crowded club, the mysterious stranger, and the intoxicating dance you had shared. You remembered the exact strength of the arms that had held you, the intoxicating scent of his skin, and the distinct, hum of his voice.

"You look extraordinarily beautiful tonight."

Your entire body went completely rigid at the sound of that specific timbre, and your heart stumbled erratically before it began hammering violently against your fragile ribs. The fine hairs along the back of your neck rose in immediate alarm as a thousand fragmented memories of that night collided chaotically inside your mind all at once. You silently denied the reality, convincing yourself that such a coincidence was utterly impossible. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you turned your body around to face the intruder as the surrounding world seemed to narrow down to a single point.

His handsome face emerged clearly beneath the silver glow of the moonlight, revealing the distinct combination of one blue eye and one brown eye. It was the exact set of familiar, mismatched eyes that you had known intimately for years of your life.

Valarr stood before you, and your breath caught painfully in your throat. For several paralyzed seconds, you could only stare at him as the staggering revelation struck your psyche with the devastating force of a crashing tidal wave. The elusive stranger from the club—the precise person whose phantom touch had lingered obsessively in your thoughts long after that fateful night ended—was your once closest friend, Valarr Targaryen. The sheer magnitude of the realization left you entirely speechless and frozen to the spot.

Valarr watched with intense scrutiny as every raw emotion crossed your expressive features in rapid succession, tracking your visible shock, deep disbelief, and sudden, horrified understanding. His guarded expression softened into something immensely tender as he stepped closer to you.

"There is something I have been meaning to do."

His voice was incredibly quiet, sounding almost vulnerable in the open air.

"For years."

A profound confusion quickly joined the emotional storm already raging inside your head, causing you to question what he could possibly mean by that timeline.

"I simply never possessed the courage."

Your frantic mind struggled mightily to keep pace with his confession because absolutely nothing about this situation made sense anymore. Valarr took another predatory step closer to your frozen form, allowing the bright moonlight to catch the sharp, angles of his handsome face and the sliver streak running through his dark brown hair.

"But seeing you tonight..." His intense gaze slowly descended over your figure, taking in the fit of the golden gown, the shimmering crystal embroidery, and the soft, cascading waves of your dark hair before returning directly to your wide eyes.

"I do not know if I can stop myself any longer."

Your pulse thundered like a war drum in your ears as he moved even dangerously close to you now, close enough for the cool, familiar scent of cedar to drift across your face, and close enough for you to feel the actual warmth of his uneven breath against your lips.

Your paralyzed body flatly refused to move, even though every self-preserving instinct screamed at you to step away from his intoxicating presence. You tried to force yourself to remember the bitter tears, the devastating heartbreak, and the cruel night he had left your soul completely shattered. Yet another hidden part of your being remained entirely frozen, a vulnerable trait that you deeply hated because it still remembered the sweet boy who had spent years devotedly caring for your well-being. This was the same boy who had insisted on carrying your heavy tote bag because he claimed a proper maiden should never be burdened by such mundane things. He was the person who memorized your incredibly ridiculous coffee orders without ever being asked, who stayed awake through countless sleepless nights to help you study for difficult exams, and who tenderly nursed you through your worst sick days. He was the one who held you securely through terrifying panic attacks, managing to flawlessly balance corporate board meetings, demanding lectures, complex assignments, and massive responsibilities while still remembering every insignificant detail about your daily life. That cherished version of Valarr still existed somewhere deep inside your treasured memories, and your foolish heart, traitorous thing that it was, had never entirely let him go.

His hand rose between your bodies slowly and carefully, extending until his two fingers slipped beneath your chin to tilt your face upward toward his gaze. His eyes dropped hungrily to your parted lips, and the deliberate movement sent a fresh, sharp wave of panic racing through your entire system. You desperately wanted to move, wanted to push his broad chest away, and wanted to remind yourself of every logical reason you should hate him, yet your uncooperative body remained firmly rooted in place. Valarr leaned even closer into your space, the remaining distance between your lips vanishing inch by excruciating inch.

Then, with the violent speed of a striking predator, a hand shot forward from the shadows as strong fingers wrapped around Valarr's wrist with brutal force. Your eyes widened in pure shock because the defensive movement had been so sudden that you barely registered the intervention.

Slowly, your frantic gaze lifted to see a pair of blazing violet eyes meeting your own for only a brief fraction of a second before they returned to glare at Valarr. Those striking eyes were far beyond simple anger; they were entirely furious, representing pure, destructive fire.

"Cousin."

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Taglist: @uizxhhi @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2 @qardasngan

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen x femReader x ???

Chapter IX:

NO SONGS FOR THE DEAD

Note: Please listen to the song I Can't Hear it Now by Freya Ridings if you can.

The car door clicked shut with a muffled thud, isolating you on the curb as Aerion’s vehicle melted into the mid-night shadows. You had murmured a polite, mechanical thank-you, offering nothing but hollow, automated responses when he asked with a rare, low murmur of concern if you were alright. Your physical body had arrived home, but your spirit remained trapped under the flashing neon lights of the nightclub, desperately trying to unmask the stranger who had held you. You rationalized that it was likely just some random man wearing the exact same cologne, yet you couldn't shake the phantom sensation of his touch, a lingering, magnetic warmth against your skin that felt dangerously and beautifully familiar.

——

The relentless tide of the academic week rescued you from your own head, and the moment classes resumed on Monday morning, you ruthlessly pushed those intrusive thoughts aside. Your dedication yielded incredible results. By midweek, the Sevens had seemingly blessed your endeavors as one of your most challenging lab tests began to yield incredibly fruitful data.

By Thursday afternoon, the academic pressure had dialed down just enough for you to enjoy a rare, leisurely lunch with Aemon and Rowan, though this time, Raymund unexpectedly joined the circle.

"I heard you will be attending the upcoming gala," Aemon suddenly remarked, breaking the comfortable silence of the courtyard. You paused mid-bite, looking up at him with wide, half-surprised eyes as you chewed on a plain sandwich. These meager rations were the cheapest, most utilitarian meals you and Aemon relied on whenever your hectic schedules left zero time for real cooking.

"Are you serious? The exclusive one the Targaryens are hosting this weekend?" Rowan gasped, her jaw dropping in genuine shock. It was a well-established truth among the student body or anyone in general that any gala thrown by the Targaryen dynasty was the pinnacle of prestige, an elite gathering strictly reserved for high society's upper echelon.

Raymund smoothly leaned across the table, offering Rowan a charming smile.

"My family received an invitation as well, love. We can attend together if you would like."

"An entire evening trapped in a room with the most insufferably obnoxious people alive? Count me out, and absolutely no offense, Aemon," Rowan countered. A wave of collective laughter rippled through the group, and Aemon merely offered a cheerful, easygoing shrug.

"None taken," Aemon replied smiling, completely unbothered by the critique of his own family.

Swallowing your bite of bread, you turned a curious gaze toward him.

"By the way, how exactly did you find out that I was attending?"

"Aerion casually mentioned to my father that he was bringing a guest to the event," Aemon explained.

Of course he did, you thought bittersweetsly, a faint trace of irritation bubbling beneath your calm exterior.

"And surprisingly, my father seemed slightly more at ease upon hearing the news," Aemon continued, though you weren't entirely certain if that revelation was meant to comfort you or make you more anxious. "I naturally figured it would be you he was escorting. After all, you two do share a child together."

Raymund instantly snorted into his drink, while Rowan delivered a sharp slap to his arm to stifle his amusement. You could see the physical strain on Rowan's face as she desperately tried to suppress her own laughter, clearly traumatized by the memory of the heavy textbook you had hurled at her during your last study session. You leveled a fierce glare at the both of them, but your annoyance quickly drifted into a quiet anxiety as you began to fret over the logistical nightmare of finding something appropriate to wear.

Suddenly, the sharp buzz of your phone interrupted your racing thoughts.

Clear your schedule this Friday after your final classes.

I will pick you up.

– Pervert

It was a maddeningly brief, directive, entirely devoid of context and heavy with absolute command. It was very Aerion. Letting out a soft, frustrated grunt, you promptly locked the screen and laid the device onto the table. When you raised your head, you caught Rowan and Raymund shamelessly leaning over the wooden surface to spy on the notification, though they quickly retreated and feigned innocence the exact moment your eyes met theirs.

Seeking to break the sudden tension, Raymund spoke up, his voice tinged with genuine disdain. "Why do you even associate with a guy like him anyway? Everyone knows the Targaryens are a little mad, always walking around like they are inherently better than—"

Rowan delivered a punishing nudge to his ribs, her eyes darting frantically toward Aemon in a silent, desperate warning for Raymund to shut his mouth before he insulted the royal descendant sitting adjacent to them.

Without even looking up from his lunch, Aemon merely smiled, his expression remarkably serene as he turned his gaze toward you.

"Raymund is not entirely wrong, you know. I love my family dearly, but my brother possesses a level of madness that you should never take lightly."

You offered a silent nod of agreement, your eyes dropping back down to the dark reflection of your phone screen. Yet, as the midday breeze swept through the courtyard, Daeron’s melancholic voice echoed unexpectedly in the chambers of your memory—he was a glad child once.

Holding that tragic contrast in your mind, you quietly finished the rest of your lunch in silence.

Friday arrived with the chaotic rush of a packed academic schedule, and by the time you and Aemon concluded, the memory of Aerion's demanding text message had entirely slipped your mind. It was not until you walked out toward the university entrance that reality caught up with you, heralded by the arrival of his custom deep crimson luxury vehicle. He did not step out, instead, he simply rolled down the tint and stared at you, his brows furrowed in a deep, brooding line as he shook his head with an irritated sigh that clearly signaled his impatience. Turning to Rowan, you hurriedly promised to call her later before bracing yourself and stepping toward the imposing vehicle. As you climbed inside, you caught a glimpse of her through the rearview mirror, standing on the pavement and staring after you with a mixture of awe and profound concern.

"Where... exactly are we going?" you asked, the heavy silence of the leather-bound interior making your voice sound smaller and more nervous than you intended.

His brow remained firmly furrowed as he paused at a red light, turning his head slowly to scan you from head to toe with a critical, lingering gaze. "Getting you something suitable to wear," he stated flatly, his tone implying that the answer should have been entirely obvious.

You mouthed a quiet, defeated "oh" and quickly averted your eyes, pretending to find the passing city scenery fascinating to hide the sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks.

"I certainly do not expect my date to be dressed like a peasant in front of the most prominent elites in Westeros," He interjected seamlessly, his tone sharp with that familiar arrogant edge.

Yet, as he navigated through the afternoon traffic, he must have caught the rigid, defensive posture of your shoulders from his peripheral vision. A faint, almost imperceptible softening crossed his features as he murmured, "Relax. My infuriating cousin won't be there. It is just you and me."

"That is precisely why I am worried," you countered under your breath.

Aerion shot you a sharp, warning glare at the remark, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he expertly guided the car to the curb.

He parked directly in front of a breathtakingly elegant building that seemed to belong to another century. The boutique stood as a Victorian masterpiece, its facade adorned with intricate stone carvings and swirling reliefs that elegantly framed the massive, flawless display windows. Through the flawless panes, soft golden light spilled onto the pavement, illuminating the high-end haute couture gowns displayed inside like priceless museum artifacts, signaling that you were about to step into a world of absolute luxury.

"My family owns this establishment. Choose whatever pleases you." Aerion remarked carelessly, cutting through your thoughts as the engine purred to a halt.

You opened your mouth to offer a reply, but your mind was still stuck on the fact that he had called you his date leaving you completely speechless. Unbothered by your silence, he slid out of the driver's seat, walked over to the entrance, and stood beneath the ornate awning, his posture radiating a slight impatience as he waited for you to join him. Snapping out of your daze, you hurriedly exited the luxurious warmth of the vehicle and took your place at his side. The doorman, recognizing the young heir instantly, bowed with deep reverence and opened the heavy, polished doors for you both.

The moment you crossed the glass door, the sheer opulence of the interior washed over you like a wave. The boutique was a sanctuary of classic elegance; a massive, tier-layered crystal chandelier hung from a vaulted ceiling that was adorned with Renaissance paintings, casting a warm, celestial glow across the pristine white marble floors that gleamed like fresh ice. A delicate fragrance of fresh lavender hung in the air, weaving through the rich, swelling chords of a classical orchestral piece playing softly from hidden speakers. Before you could fully process the beauty of the foyer, three women dressed in flawlessly tailored crimson and black suits rushed forward, the sharp click of their heels echoing urgently against the stone.

"Find her something suitable for the gala," Aerion commanded, giving a dismissive nod in your direction before striding confidently toward a private, VIP viewing salon in the back.

"As you wish, sir," the women murmured in unison, bowing their heads before scattering with practiced efficiency.

You followed quickly in Aerion’s wake, awkwardly averting your eyes whenever the staff's curious, assessing gazes locked onto you. You would undoubtedly become the centerpiece of their next gossip."

The private salon they led you into was even more breathtaking. In the center sat a luxurious, curved ivory sofa, facing an elevated viewing podium that was flanked by monumental, gilded mirrors encased in gold frames designed to capture every possible angle.

One of the attendants guided you into an adjoining dressing room, where a meticulously curated selection of couture gowns already hung on a rolling rack. Standing there in your simple knit sweater and faded denim jeans, the entire experience felt completrly surreal, as if you had stepped out of your ordinary life and into an aristocratic daydream.

Taking a deep breath, you tried on the very first gown.

The floor-length, silver-grey gown clung to your silhouette like a second skin, adorned from the elegant off-the-shoulder neckline down to the long sleeves with breathtakingly intricate beadwork and geometric embroidery. The patterns were masterfully designed to accentuate your curves, lending your frame a striking hourglass figure. You honestly thought it was beautiful, but Aerion evidently cared far less. When you stepped out onto the podium, he glanced up briefly from his phone, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned white sofa with his legs slightly apart. He took one look, shook his head with a displeased frown, and immediately gestured for the women to escort you back inside. Judging by that initial perfunctory reception, you figured it was going to be an incredibly long afternoon.

A grueling pattern quickly established itself over the next hour. Each dress was met with the exact same critical indifference, with Aerion occasionally commanding you to turn slowly so he could scrutinize your entire silhouette. Your body was beginning to ache from the constant changing, and you weren't the only one feeling the strain. Judging by the way the attendants' hands visibly shook as they pinned and clipped the fabrics behind your back, they were reaching their limit too, or, more likely, they were terrified of drawing the ire of the unpredictable heir waiting just beyond the curtain.

You were on the absolute brink of calling the entire thing off when a specific gown at the back of the rack caught your eye. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The piece featured a sheer, skin-toned illusion fabric heavily encrusted with baroque filigree and shimmering gold and silver embroidery that looked as though it had been spun by hand. Dramatic, structured epaulets flared boldly at the shoulders, anchoring a sweeping, floor-length cape woven with metallic threads that gleamed like liquid stardust under the salon lights. An ornate metal emblem accented the neckline, and the sheer, fitted silhouette trailed elegantly behind, perfectly fusing celestial majesty with the fierce grace of regal armor.

When you finally stepped into it, a collective gasp rippled through the dressing room. The gown fit you flawlessly, hugging your form with an almost supernatural precision and highlighting every line of your figure. But as you stood before the mirror, smoothing down the intricate fabric of the skirt, a very annoyed voice pierced through the curtain, accompanied by the heavy, deliberate thud of approaching footsteps.

"What is taking so long—" Aerion’s voice, initially sharp with irritation, died in his throat the exact moment he pushed past the curtain.

The complaint vanished completely as he froze at the sight of you. You looked magnificent, an ethereal vision draped in the luxury gown, and his dark eyes widened in uncharacteristic shock before he began to walk slowly toward you, looking very much like a man hypnotized. You straightened your posture under his intense scrutiny, trying to project a calm confidence even though your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs. You watched in breathless silence as he closed the remaining distance between you with deliberate grace, towering over you, his long fingers reaching out to lightly trace the intricate embroidery from your waist down to the curve of your hips. There was a raw, hungry awe in his lilac eyes, drinking in every single detail of your form. Sensing the sudden, heavy shift in the atmosphere, the attendants quietly slipped out of the dressing room.

His hand settled tenderly low on your hip, thumb tracing slow, feather-light circles against the mesh fabric. The touch was possessive yet unhurried, fingers splayed as if claiming the warmth beneath.

His lilac eyes, heavy-lidded and intent, lingered on yours before drifting downward to your parted lips with rapt fascination, drinking in the subtle quiver there, memorizing the soft shape and the faint sheen of moisture. He leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed yours, breath mingling warm and steady.

Only a few centimeters remained between you. And you could feel your heart hammering violently against your ribs, a frantic rhythm you could not quiet. You lifted both hands to press against the hard plane of his toned chest, intending to halt him, but the strength never came. Instead they laid flat against the fine cloth covering muscle, feeling the rapid beat of his own heart beneath your fingertips. Heat flooded your cheeks, as you swallowed hard. Deep within his chest, a strange, long-forgotten warmth bloomed—a sensation he hadn't experienced since he was a child, long before the world had hardened him. The unfamiliar emotion terrified him; he despised the vulnerability it brought, and he abruptly halted just inches from your lips as if violently snapping out of a trance.

Before either of you could move, the sharp, intrusive ring of his phone shattered the silence. You both instinctively glanced down at the glowing screen, and a woman's name flashed clearly across the display. Aerion flipped the device over with practiced quickness, but it was too late; you caught a glimpse. A sudden, sharp tightness gripped your chest, and you hated yourself for letting it affect you. Without uttering a single word of explanation, he turned on his heel and exited the room immediately. You stood alone on the podium, awkwardly smoothing down the fabric of your dress as the lingering warmth of his presence evaporated into the chilly air. Swallowing the bitter taste of shame, you called the attendants back inside to help you out of the complex gown.

When you finally walked out into the main boutique, Aerion was nowhere to be seen. For the very first time since you had known him, you initiated a text message.

Where are you?

A few agonizing moments passed before his screen lit up with a response.

Busy. I am sure you are perfectly capable of securing a ride home.

—Pervert

A breathless, incredulous scoff escaped your lips as you read the cold words. You were absolutely livid, and as you stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, a wave of helplessness washed over you. You didn't even recognize the neighborhood. Swallowing your pride, you called Rowan, who quickly managed to arrange an Uber to your location.

"What a prick," you muttered fiercely to yourself, watching the city lights blur past the window. Another bitter laugh escaped you when the memory of the woman's name flashed in your mind, closely followed by Aemon’s haunting warning from lunch—you must not take my brother lightly.

Staring out into the twilight, you made a firm executive decision: you would tell Aerion that you would not be attending the gala.

However, your righteous fury was short-lived. As the car pulled up to your apartment building, you reached around the seat and realized with a jolt of panic that you had left your bag in his vehicle. Annoyed that fate was forcing you to interact with him again, you fired off another message.

I left my purse in your car.

A few minutes ticked by before his dismissive reply popped up.

Come and get it yourself. I am not your personal squire.

—Pervert

You let out a dry laugh at the sheer absurdity of his behavior. The man possessed more volatile mood swings than a woman on her menstrualcycle; one moment he was a hovering gentleman, and the next, he was an insufferable jerk. You seriously contemplated leaving the bag until tomorrow, but a sudden realization struck you.....your daily medicine was packed inside. Letting out a frustrated grunt, you aggressively typed back your compliance.

I am heading over to your place now.

A few moments after.

I left it in the main living room. The family is going out for the evening. You already know the passcode.

—Asshole

You did, in fact, know the security code, as Aemon had securely shared it with you during a previous emergency. As you redirected your ride toward the Targaryen estate, a small wave of relief washed over your anger. At the very least, you wouldn't have to face Aerion tonight.

——

Night had fully fallen by the time you reached the secluded estate, the sprawling grounds illuminated only by the warm, amber glow of the landscape lighting. Inside the manor itself, however, everything was cast in deep shadow. You stepped through the heavy front doors, the click of your shoes echoing in the cavernous foyer, and called out softly just in case a butler or a housemaid was still lingering. No one responded. The absolute silence confirmed Aerion's text; the house was entirely empty.

Navigating by memory, you walked toward the main living room to retrieve your purse. You peer into the heavy shadows, your eyes scanning the expanse of the living room in a desperate search for your purse.

The ambient amber lights from the lawn, the silver brilliance of the moonlight, and the dancing, liquid reflections from the outdoor pool projected shifting patterns across the room, perfectly illuminated a grand piano that stood like a silent sentinel in the corner.

Seeing the polished instrument struck a chord deep within you, instantly bringing back flooding memories of your mother. A heavy wave of exhaustion and heartache settled over your chest as you stood there in the moonlight. You thought of Valarr how he had completely broken you; you thought of your ongoing health struggles, the relentless, crushing stress of your university schedule, and the heavy weight of finding a cure to an illness that threatened to swallow you whole. Finally, your mind drifted back to Aerion, to the phantom warmth of his touch in the dressing room, and the sharp sting of the woman’s name on his phone. In an instant, the crushing weight of all those years—the accumulated stress, the quiet agonies, and the persistent heartaches you had painstakingly concealed beneath flawless, practiced smiles—surged violently to the surface.

You felt profoundly lonely, incredibly heavy, and so beautifully tired. In that moment of utter isolation, you missed your mother with a fierce, aching desperation, craving the soothing comfort only she could provide.

Needing an outlet for the pain, you walked over to the piano and sat down on the bench. It had been so long since you had last sung, not since your mother passed away. Your fingers trembled slightly as they pressed the first chord, the rich, melancholic notes resonating through the empty house. Slowly, you began to sing, letting the music carry the weight you had been forcing yourself to bear alone.

Unbeknownst to you, however, Aerion was not gone. He had been upstairs, completely deaf to your arrival over the rush of the shower, and was just stepping out into his room, briskly drying his silver hair with a towel and throwing on whatever clothes he had prepared earlier. When the faint, hauntingly beautiful melody of the grand piano drifted up the grand staircase, his movements froze.

Initially annoyed, assuming a staff member had carelessly left a high-end audio system playing downstairs before leaving, he threw the towel aside and strode out onto the upper gallery to turn it off. But as he reached the balustrade and looked down into the moonlit living room, the breath caught in his throat.

It was you.

Bathed in the silver glow of the moon and the ripples of light from the pool, you looked like a tragic, ethereal spirit pouring your soul into the keys. Aerion stayed rooted to the spot, completely captivated, and quietly listened in absolute silence. The voice was mesmerizing, carrying an emotional depth that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the estate.

"There is an ocean so dark down below the waves..."

The opening notes floated through the cavernous room, heavy with a profound, shattering grief. Up on the gallery, Aerion watched you, something shifting violently behind his stooped composure. For all your sharp defenses and automated resilience, he was finally seeing the raw, unvarnished truth of your sorrow. It was a mirror he hadn't expected to find tonight, reflecting a loneliness that felt intimately, hauntingly similar to his own.

"And there is a silence so soft, it's only memory... like the way your voice always sounds when you sing to me..."

You didn’t even reach the chorus when a sudden movement captured your attention, and looking up, you caught his silhouette rippling against the dark reflection of the glass wall. Gasps catching in your throat, the music died instantly when you immediately stood up from the piano bench, turning around and as the back of your thighs pressed into the keys, the piano let out a sharp, discordant groan. A stream of hurried, breathless apologies spilling from your lips followed.

But Aerion wasn't angry, nor did he look amused. His expression was entirely unreadable, a mask of absolute stillness as he descended the stairs.

"Who is the song about?" he asked, his tone strikingly quiet, completely devoid of his usual aristocratic bite.

Realizing he was entirely serious, you averted your gaze, staring down at the polished floorboards.

"My mother." You answered hesitantly. Cast your gaze away from him.

Aerion gave a slow, solemn nod.

"......She passed when I was only ten years old."

He offered no empty platitudes, no hollow words of comfort. He simply stood there in the moonlight, granting you the space to speak. You didn’t understand what dam had suddenly broken inside you, but looking at his quiet form, the words began to pour out unbidden.

"The bitter truth is that when she departed, she did not go alone. An essential piece of myself trailed after her into the quiet. I have spent every moment since trying to learn how to exist around the hollow space she left behind," you whispered, your voice trembling. "She used to sing to me constantly. Whenever I was terrified, whenever I felt the suffocating burdens my father placed on us... when she sang, I felt safe.... "

Warm tears welled in your eyes, blurring the silver reflection of the pool outside. "She sang to me even when the sickness began to waste her away. She would hold me close and sing until her breath failed her. I remember looking at her toward the end, she looked so incredibly frail. She was a beautiful thing, my mother. One of the main reasons my father chose her. Yet, I was forced to stand by and watch as the illness slowly, mercilesy consumed her, cruelly stripping away every layer of her grace"

"One afternoon, under the weight of her illness she asked me to sing to her instead. So I did. I sang the absolute best I could. When the final note faded, I looked up at her, and she looked so immensely proud, tears streaming down her face. She whispered, 'That's my girl.' A few days later, I came home from school and found her collapsed on the floor."

You reached up, aggressively wiping away a stray tear, though your voice only grew tighter. "She wouldn't respond to me. I panicked and tried to call my father, but he wouldn't answer his phone. I called emergency services, but they told me it would take a while for a unit to reach our residence. I didn't know what to do." You finally looked up, locking eyes with him, your gaze desperate and fractured. "I didn't know what to do, Aerion. I... I didn't know what to do...." ​Silent tears spilled unrestrained down your cheeks as you shook your head in frantic, desperate denial. completely pulled under by the dark current of a memory you were suddenly forced to live through all over again.

"So, I just held her. And I sang. I sang over and over again, praying pathetically as if the music would somehow wake her, hoping she would open her eyes and tell me she was proud of me one last time. But..."

You choked back a sob, letting out a sharp, bitter laugh that cut through the silence of the room. "Later on, I found out the real reason my father hadn't answered his phone. He was across town, wrapped up with some other woman."

Aerion watched the sudden, fierce flash of righteous anger cross your features, his jaw tightening slightly.

"You know, I can't help but think... if maybe I had just been..." You shook your head violently, cutting yourself off, refusing to finish the sentence. "I suppose it was not only her voice. But the warmth, the certainty, the love it carried. The proof and reminder of her existence. The unwavering belief that as long as she was near, nothing truly terrible could touch me. When she died, everything died with her. The silence she left behind was unbearable. I lost my mother. I lost my closest friend, and I lost the one thing that had always made this world feel less cruel. And ever since, some part of me has remained in that silence, still listening for a song that will never come again. So I never sang again..... after that day. I could never bring myself to do it."

Aerion crossed the final distance between you, his footsteps entirely silent against the marble before he reached the side of the piano. "Try."

"I don't think I can—"

"I will be right here," he interrupted softly, his gaze steady. "And if it becomes too much to bear, you just stop."

You paused, searching his striking lilac eyes. Beneath the cold, arrogant exterior he usually presented to the world, you saw a profound, mirroring sadness buried deep within the violet depths. Slowly, tentatively, you nodded. You sat back down, your fingers hovering over the keys, and managed to strike the opening chord. You sang the first line, but the air immediately left your lungs.

"I—I can't," you choked out, your hands dropping to your lap.

Before you could spiral into the memory, Aerion knelt down directly behind the piano bench. He wrapped his arms securely around your frame, pulling your back firmly against his chest as he buried his head in the hollow of your neck.

"You can," he murmured, his warm, steady breath fanning across your skin. "I'm here."

You stared at his reflection in the grand glass window. The young heir looked undeniably solemn, stripped of all his armor. He spoke in the softest, most vulnerable voice you had ever heard from him. If you listened closely enough, you could hear the faint, tragic crack in his composure.

Grounded by his weight, you pressed the keys again. You sang from the very beginning, your voice gaining a fragile strength as you pushed through the verse, finally reaching the devastating crescendo of the chorus.

"But I can't hear it now... Just tell me how to keep breathing while pretending I'm not drowning. I don't know if I could watch the door close for good... 'Cause I... couldn't keep it open..."

With the final, aching lyric, the last of your strength dissolved. You broke down completely, burying your face in your hands as heavy, racking sobs took over your body. Aerion said absolutely nothing. He simply held you tighter, locking his arms around you as you wept.

In the dark reflection of the glass, the image remained stark and beautiful: just two broken people holding onto one another in the moonlight, finally facing the crushing weight of the grief they had both tried so desperately to bury away from the world.

Exhausted by the years of suppressed trauma and the sheer emotional toll of the evening, your eyelids grew impossibly heavy, and you eventually fell fast asleep against him. Seeing your breathing finally stabilize, Aerion gently gathered you into his arms, carrying you upstairs through the shadows of the silent estate, and laid you down to rest in the quiet sanctuary of his bed.

The quiet hum of a luxury engine eventually broke the silence of the estate, signaling the return of the rest of the Targaryen family. The heavy front doors clicked open, and the muted sound of footsteps and low murmurs drifted up the grand staircase as everyone began to retire to their respective wings for the night.

Aerion slipped out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him with absolute, near-silent precision so as not to disturb your deep sleep. He navigated the dimly lit corridor until he reached Aegon’s quarters, pushing the door open without a preliminary knock.

Aegon looked up from his bed, startled, afraid. Before he could voice his thoughts Aerion preempted him.

"I will be sleeping in here tonight," Aerion stated flatly, his voice a low, commanding murmur that brooked no argument. "I am taking the floor."

Aegon blinked, shifting uncomfortably against his headboard as his eyes scanned the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Relax," Aerion interrupted, a dry, faint trace of his usual razor-sharp wit cutting through the exhaustion tracing his features. "I'm not going to cut your dick off. Just throw me a blanket."

——

Morning light filtered softly through the heavy drapes, forcing your eyes to blink open against a sharp, uncomfortable sting. Squinting at your surroundings, you took in the sleek lines of a remarkably neat, chic, and minimalistic bedroom. The walls were adorned with various beautifully framed vinyl records, and the air carried the faint, unmistakable trace of sandalwood and amber cologne. Reality flooded back with a jolt.... you were in Aerion’s room.

Panic rising, you immediately scanned the space, breathing a massive sigh of relief when you realized he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had carefully placed your missing purse right on his nightstand. As you rubbed at your watery eyes, a sudden realization hit you—you had left your contact lenses in the entire night. You hurriedly popped them out, blinking away the irritation, and reached for your phone to check the time.

The screen illuminated with a string of unread texts from Rowan. The first few were frantic inquiries asking if you had made it home safe, followed by a final, fiercely protective message stating she was fully prepared to beat Aerion to a pulp if he had tried anything. A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. But the warmth quickly evaporated as the vivid memories of last night crashed over you. The piano, the raw confession, and the terrifying vulnerability of crying into his chest. Mortified, you face-planted directly into his silk pillow and let out a long, muffled scream of pure frustration, utterly loathing yourself for breaking down and wondering what cosmic force had compelled you to expose your deepest trauma to him of all people.

Sucking in a breath, you rolled over and noticed a lingering unread text on your lock screen from Aerion himself, sent in the dead of night.

I am sleeping in Aegon’s room if you need something. Take a shower when you wake. Clothes are in the closet; take what you need. Do not touch my records.

— Asshole

You clicked your tongue irritably, throwing the phone onto the rumpled sheets before heading into his master bath for a quick, scalding shower to wash away the emotional hangover. Once finished, you braced yourself and stepped into his walk-in closet.

It was a staggering monument to wealth, an outrageous expanse of perfectly organized designer apparel that was practically the size of your entire apartment. Desperate to find something comfortable, you pulled on one of his oversized t-shirts, which swallowed your frame completely and hung past your thighs and a pair of his boxers. Wanting to shield your eyes, you also snagged a pair of large, luxury sunglasses from his impeccable display case.

Gathering your belongings, you quietly crept down the grand staircase, hoping to make a stealthy exit.

Fortune, however, was never really on your side. In the vast, sunlit kitchen, Daeron was leaning against the marble counter, casually enjoying a morning snack. Hearing your footsteps, he turned around, his features instantly melting into his signature, effortlessly charming smile. A faint, uncontrollable blush crept up your neck.

"Breakfast?" Daeron offered smoothly, extending a crisp, red apple toward you with an amused glint in his eye.

Before you could even utter a response, a silver blur interrupted the exchange. Aerion appeared out of nowhere, his jaw set in a rigid line as he aggressively snatched the apple right out of Daeron’s hand and popped it into his own mouth. He leveled a fiercely possessive glare at his older brother, completely ignoring Daeron's raised eyebrows. Without a single word of explanation, Aerion wrapped a firm, unyielding grip around your wrist and began marching you toward the grand entrance.

"She is not hungry," Aerion barked over his shoulder, slamming the heavy front door shut behind you both and leaving a thoroughly entertained Daeron chuckling in the kitchen.

You were left entirely bewildered by the sudden whirlwind, your heart racing against your chest, but you chose to keep your mouth shut. Judging by the tight, tense set of Aerion's shoulders as he led you to the driveway, the volatile heir was already thoroughly annoyed.

The drive back to your apartment was shrouded in a suffocating, heavy silence. You kept your face turned toward the passenger window, the oversized sunglasses shielding your eyes as the city buildings blurred past. The sheer embarrassment of having laid your soul bare to him the previous night clawed at your throat; you wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the leather seat and completely vanish from existence. Aerion, surprisingly, did not push you to speak. He kept his eyes locked on the road, his grip tight on the steering wheel, leaving only the low hum of the engine to fill the vacuum between you.

When the car finally idled at your curb, you reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped you, dropping to a low, commanding baritone.

"Don't be so friendly with everyone," he muttered, not looking at you.

You blinked behind your dark lenses, utterly bewildered by the sudden directive. Torn between confusion and an instinct to avoid further conflict, you simply nodded obediently. "Thank you," you murmured softly, stepping out into the morning air and quickly heading inside your building.

Little did either of you know, a pair of dark mismatched eyes had watched the scene unfold. Tracking your every move from a vehicle parked down the street. Valarr sat in the shadows of his car, his features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He had driven to your apartment the previous night, intent on confronting you, only to find your rooms dark and empty. He had lingered there in the cold until dawn, his suspicion festering with every passing hour and now, his worst assumptions had just been handed to him on a silver platter.

Seeing Aerion drop you off was a match to a powder keg. But what truly made Valarr's blood boil was the shirt you were wearing. It was undeniably Aerion’s. The expensive fabric draped ridiculously low on your smaller frame, practically screaming intimacy. His mind immediately conjured up vivid, sickening images of what you two must have been doing while he was waiting outside your door. Valarr's fists clenched around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned a ghostly, bloodless white, as he watched Aerion’s car melt into traffic.

——

Hours later, the tension inside the high-end Targaryen estate was thick enough to cut with a knife. Valarr stood in his father’s study, his voice cold, sharp, and entirely devoid of room for negotiation.

"I wish to be married."

"What?" Baelor turned slowly toward his son, his brows furrowing in deep, immediate confusion as he set his papers down on the heavy mahogany desk.

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Taglist: @uizxhhhi @lucycarlisleswife @thepushykath-blog @avrum @lilybear1-2

[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Targaryen x femReader x ???

Chapter VIII:

THE BOY BENEATHE THE DRAGON

WARNING: MATURE CONTENT!

Aerion stood before you, materialized, by the doorframe, carrying an ominous, rather bulky crate. Displaying his characteristic disregard for boundaries, he bypassed the silent request for invitation, exhaling a heavy, irritated sigh before you could even protest.

"What are you do—"

"I am here for my son," he interrupted smoothly, his voice slicing through the dimness of the foyer. He set the large crate down onto the cushions of the sofa with a muted thud, placing a weathered brown paper sack beside it with precise care.

Squinting through a blur of unshed tears, the room appeared as nothing more than a wash of fractured light and shadow.

"I can't see shit."

"Give me a moment," you muttered, retreating hastily to the sanctuary of your bedroom. Standing before the mirror, you hurriedly wiped away the residual dampness from your cheeks—even though Aerion had undoubtedly witnessed it—and deftly blinked your contact lenses into place. Upon returning to the living area, you flicked the wall switch, flooding the space with a sudden, amber luminescence.

"Where is he?" Aerion inquired, his sharp gaze scanning the room. You gestured toward the glass bowl resting on the low coffee table in the center of the room.

"Hm." His brow furrowed in deep concentration, his sharp features hardening into a mask of intense focus as he began to meticulously assess the swimming creature. He moved the newly brought crate onto the table directly adjacent to Balerion, sinking his formidable frame onto the cushions of the sofa, which offered a soft groan beneath his sudden weight. Without uttering another syllable, he began unboxing the contents with practiced efficiency.

As the cardboard fell away, you realized he had brought a medium-sized, fully equipped aquarium, and he was already assembling the complex filtration apparatus with singular focus.

"Aerion, it's already nine o'clock in the evening," you pointed out, crossing your arms.

"I am well aware; I own a phone," he replied smoothly, his hands dexterously snapping a plastic valve into place.

"I have a mountain of assignments to complete tonight."

"Then I suggest you begin now," he countered evenly, refusing to grant you even a momentary glance while his eyes remained tethered to the instruction manual.

"I am exhausted."

"Then sleep."

"You are currently invading my home!"

"Oh" He turns to you though gaze remain on your furnished floor. His brow remained slightly furrowed, and the very tip of his tongue rested in the corner of his mouth, which hung open in a rare display of unstudied concentration.

"Then I suppose we're even," then he looks to you and murmurs, his voice laced with an infuriatingly calm composure as he returns to his task.

You let out a heavy groan, running your fingers through your hair in a fit of sheer exasperation, standing frozen in utter disbelief as you watched him dominate the small room with such familiarity.

"Do you happen to have a knife?" He looked up quite suddenly, his gaze traversing your figure with a disarming, almost innocent curiosity.

Deciding that silence was the safest recourse, you spun on your heel to retrieve the tool from the kitchen, reasoning the sooner he finished, the sooner he could leave. When you returned, you handed it over and simply stood over him, watching as he minded his own business. He sat amidst the scattered plastic and glass with an air of complete belonging, as though he had frequented this apartment for years rather than stepping across the threshold for the very first time.

"Girl, quit gaping and hand over the blade," he drawled softly without looking up.

Closing your eyes, you seriously contemplated the trajectory of throwing the tool directly at his perfectly chiseled face. The temptation pulsed strongly through your veins, but thank tje Sevens, your moral perseverance triumphed over the dark impulse.

Realizing that staring would yield nothing, you gathered your heavy textbooks and lecture notes, plopping down onto the woven living room rug directly across from him to review the material. You decided that if a silver-haired psychopath intended to invade your home, you might as well supervise. For a long stretch of time, the two of you existed in a dense, working silence, each anchored in your respective tasks.The atmosphere felt strangely peaceful.

Paper rustled. Pages turned. Tools clicked softly against glass. The rhythmic sounds intertwined with the distant hum of city traffic beyond your window.

For once, neither of you argued. The image was absurdly domestic. You hated that.

To your immense surprise, his long, elegant fingers worked with astonishing speed, completing the intricate assembly far quicker than you anticipated.

"Where is the nearest faucet?"

Looking up from a dense paragraph on pathology, you realized the structure stood fully formed. You set your highlighters down, rising to lead him into the small kitchen, where you reached over to turn on the faucet. As the clear water began to cascade into the reservoir, filling the void with a steady, echoing rush, the silence broke once more.

"You live here alone?" he asked, his voice low against the sound of running water.

"Yes."

"Family?"

"Don't have any," you answered shortly, keeping your gaze fixed on the rising water level.

"Hm." He adjusted his grip on the tank. "And the redhead?"

"Rowan."

He looked at you as though his blunt questioning was entirely natural, waiting expectantly for the full elaboration. Recognizing that he lacked the humility to correct his intrusive tone, you let out a soft sigh.

"She lives elsewhere."

He hummed a vague, noncommittal reply, but then his eyes began to slowly, deliberately assess your form. A sudden wave of intense vulnerability washed over you as you recalled your current attire—a pair if pink silk shorts that have ridden high on you thighs, the glossy fabric clinging to every curve and leaving the supple skin of your legs completely bare along with an oversized, slightly translucent long-sleeved shirt that barely brushed the hem of the shorts. Though you had fortunately donned a nude brassiere before opening the door, the scrutiny made the small apartment feel noticeably colder, the air thickening under his unhurried, analytical gaze. Yet, he offered no suggestive commentary, nor did a single flicker of emotion disrupt the cool serenity of his face.

"Have you eaten dinner yet?" you asked awkwardly, desperate to divert his focus away from your bare legs.

"Yes," he replied nonchalantly. The water reached the fill line, and with an effortless display of strength, he lifted the heavy tank and carried it back to the living room table.

Setting it down, his demeanor shifted into that of a stern instructor. He pulled several items from the paper sack, placing them in perfect alignment.

"Pay close attention," he commanded, pointing to the mechanical unit. "This filter remains operational at all times. Switching it off unnecessarily destabilizes the biological environment. And they require replacement once each month. Do not neglect it.The sponges remain. They house beneficial bacteria."

He then tapped a small, premium cylinder of food. "And this is his food. Two pinches daily, no more, no less. Overfeeding will cloud the water and endanger his health."

He delivered these directives with an almost solemn gravity. Once satisfied you understood, he meticulously packed the remaining debris, cleaning up every stray scrap of plastic after himself.

"Remember to feed him," he murmured, pausing just before the threshold of the front door. You nodded in quiet obedience, entirely unsure of what to make of this rigid, responsible facet of his personality. It was fascinating to observe how his entire behavioral pattern shifted into something disciplined and fiercely protective the moment an aquatic creature was involved.

Before turning the handle to depart, he paused, lifting his chin to look at you with a matter-of-fact authority, behaving as though the emotionally charged confrontation you shared earlier that afternoon had simply never transpired.

"There is an prestigious gala that my family will be hosting at the end of this month," he stated casually. "Do you have an ensemble appropriate for the event?" Naturally, he did not extend a formal invitation; he merely operated on the grand assumption that your attendance was mandatory.

"Aerion, I am not—"

"You don't have to attend if you truly don't wish to," he intervened, his tone remarkably even. "However, should you decide to accompany me as my companion, let me know in advance. I can pay your expenses."

He spoke with an utterly serene expression, entirely devoid of his signature arrogance, his usual flirtatious banter, or that smug playfulness that usually defined his interactions.

"Why me?" The words accidentally slip from your mouth. Then you let out a soft sigh. "Look, I've told you before, if this is some elaborate charade to aggravate Valarr—"

"You are the mother of my son," he countered, eyes squinting shaking his head slightly as if articulating a self-evident truth that you were simply too oblivious to comprehend.

The sheer audacity of the statement, paired with his deadpan sincerity, left you utterly dumbfounded. You let out another defeated, weary sigh.

"I- I'll think about it."

Aerion cast his eyes down your figure one final time, shifted his gaze to Balerion, then with a brief nod of farewell stepped out into the cool night, leaving you alone in the sudden quiet.

This bizarre interaction left your mind spinning in absolute confusion. You remained entirely skeptical, unable to discern whether he was utilizing you as a pawn to wound Valarr, or if he genuinely harbored no reservations about showcasing you to his aristocratic kin. Why else would Aerion Targaryen desire to be seen with an commoner at an exclusive event reserved strictly for the elite echelons of Westeros society? The only logical motive had to be malice directed toward his cousin.

The subsequent weeks dissolved into a blur of grueling, ceaseless labor. You and Aemon spent nearly every waking hour in the laboratory, desperately attempting to develop the inaugural therapeutic trial for Ashblood. Thus far, every single formulation had resulted in a discouraging failure, leaving both of you profoundly stressed and physically drained. Aerion’s persistent text messages, which arrived daily to inquire about the welfare of his 'child' and to remind you to administer the fish food did not help. Choosing self-preservation, you left every single message unanswered.

By the Friday of the third week, the experiments remained entirely unsuccessful. It was a bitter pill to swallow since the other students were already advancing smoothly with their respective assignments.

"We are going out tomorrow, " Rowan declared during a hurried lunch the following day, propping her chin on her hand. "A proper girls' night this Saturday is exactly what the doctor ordered."

​You opened your mouth to decline, the heavy weight of the unfinished trials pressing on your mind. But before the refusal could leave your lips, your fingers absentmindedly scrolled through your phone, and you stumbled upon an article. It detailed a persistent rumor that Valarr and Kiera's engagement planning was becoming official, driven by the rising support for the Blackfyres day by day.

​Your stomach dropped instantly, a cold, hollow sensation spreading through your chest as you read the words in absolute silence. The news ignited a bitter spark of resentment in your chest. You had wanted to confront Valarr about the fencing incident, but the demands of the laboratory had kept you far too busy. Staring at the glowing screen, you realized it wouldn't have mattered anyway; any confrontation would be entirely futile now.

Locking your phone, you looked up from the screen, the lingering sting of resentment transforming into a quiet defiance.

"All right," you murmured, looking directly at Rowan. "I'll go."

​Rowan instantly jumped from her seat and let out an aggressive, celebratory screech that echoed sharply across the room. The sudden noise startled Aemon, and the sight of his completely shocked and repulsed expression made you let out a genuine, breathless laugh.

——

When Saturday evening finally arrived, you found yourself standing motionless, staring at the unfamiliar woman reflected in the full-length mirror. The image staring back felt entirely detached from your usual identity. Rowan had generously lent you one of her most prized designer garments, and your hair had been swept up into an intentionally messy, elegant bun that exposed the long line of your neck.

The ultra-thin straps of the gown framed your shoulders with an understated simplicity, while its softly scooped neckline dipped gracefully, yet dangerously low across your chest, exposing the gentle swell of your breasts. The daring cut revealed not only the elegant, sharp line of your collarbones and the delicate hollow of your throat, but also the subtle curves of your bust. The crystal-beaded, golden fabric caught the warm, dim light of your apartment, creating a dazzling constellation of shifting sparkles that hugged your silhouette tightly with an effortless elegance.

Draped loosely over your right arm was a plush, snow-white faux fur coat, which you allowed to intentionally slip downward to reveal the entirely open back of the dress. To tie the entire ensemble together, you adorned yourself with a few minimal gold accessories and a pair of Rowan's metallic gold stilettos. The delicate straps swept across the top of your foot before winding sinuously up your ankle and calf, coiling in elegant spirals that resembled veins of liquid gold wrapped around bare skin.

Rowan openly gawked at you from the doorway, letting out a low whistle.

"You look absolutely delicious," she cheered, adjusting her own equally stunning, form-fitting black mini-dress.

You let out a nervous laugh, though you could not entirely banish the flutter of anxiety in your stomach; this marked your very first foray into a high-end nightclub. Rowan’s assessment, however, proved entirely accurate the moment you crossed the venue. As you navigated through the crowded room, you caught the lingering gazes of numerous men, their eyes tracking your movements with a slow, predatory appreciation.

The nightclub pulsed with life beneath a canopy of shifting neon lights, their vibrant hues washing over the crowd in waves of electric color. Deep, rhythmic music reverberated through the room, blending seamlessly with the laughter and exhilarated chatter that filled the air. A faint mélange of expensive perfume, cologne, and sweat lingered like an intoxicating haze, while bodies moved effortlessly across the dance floor, swaying and spinning in time with the relentless beat.

Lost in the swirling lights and pulsing bass of the club, both of you were completely oblivious to the silent figure who had been shadowing your steps from the moment you arrived.

"Drink this now," Rowan urged, raising her voice to cut through the thumping music that saturated the air around you, pressing a small glass filled with a vibrant, fruity alcoholic concoction into your hand to combat your visible nerves.

The initial sting of the liquor burned the back of your throat, but after swiftly downing four consecutive shots, the warmth of the alcohol bloomed beautifully within your system. The heavy fog of academic anxiety began to dissipate, replaced by a sudden surge of bravery. Feeling the temperature rise, you discarded your heavy faux fur coat onto a VIP booth as Rowan eagerly pulled you onto the crowded dance floor.

The two of you danced happily, losing yourselves entirely to the pulsing bass, your hips swaying in perfect synchronization with the rhythmic music.

As you both dissolve into the heavy beat of the music, you and Rowan gradually drift apart without any conscious notice, each swept away by the energy of the room.

A familiar warmth suddenly wraps around you, the unmistakable, distinct scent of expensive cologne flooding your senses, intoxicating and grounding you even as your pulse quickens. Strong, toned arms encircle your waist from behind, pulling you back against a solid chest that radiated heat. The stranger’s body molds to yours, every hard plane and sculpted muscle pressing intimately against your curves as he begins to move with you, guiding your motions with subtle rolls of his hips. And before you could turn, the same pair of hands glided around your waist, halts your motion before you. Warm minty breath caresses the shell of your ear, sending a shiver cascading down your spine.

Whether it was the weight of years spent clutching buried tension, the slow burn of alcohol loosening your inhibitions, or the raw ache of heartbreak cracking your resolve, you surrendered. You allowed the 'stranger’s' touch to steer you, his fingers pressing with quiet certainty against your hips as he drew you backward into the heat of his body. His hands begin their slow, deliberate exploration.

Fingers trace the dip of your waist before sliding upward, brushing the underside of your breasts where the low neckline leaves your cleavage exposed. He cups the soft swell with possessive ease, thumbs stroking the inner curves in time with the music, until your nipples harden.

You feel the deliberate press of his groin against the curve of your ass, the unmistakable outline of his arousal rubbing in time with the beat, sending sparks of heat through you.

You allow it. Allow the alcohol to consume you. Allow your savior to release you from every painful memory that had threatened to unravel you. You lean back into him, surrendering to the exploration as his hands roaming freely. His lips brush the sensitive spot just below your ear, not quite a kiss but a promise, his voice a low murmur lost to the music as he continues his thorough, unhurried mapping of your body.

You feel one hand drift lower, smoothing over the flare of your hip before slipping between your thighs. The hem of your dress rides up with the motion, exposing more skin to the club’s humid air. His fingertips caress the tender flesh there, slow circles that make your knees soften.

His hips roll forward, grinding the firm line of his bulge against the small of your back while his mouth finds the sensitive skin just below your ear. Warm breath ghosts over you, followed by the soft press of lips, feather-light at first, then firmer, parting to taste the salt of your skin.

A quiet moan slips from your throat and his touch grows bolder, knuckles grazing the edge of your panties while his other hand continues its upward journey, slipping beneath the neckline to palm bare breast.

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, granting him better access. One of your hands rises to the nape of his neck, encouraging him to continue before your nails drag downward in a heated scratch that leaves faint red lines across his skin. The stranger responds with a low, appreciative sound against your throat, teeth grazing the spot he just kissed. He pulls you tighter, his body moving with yours in a slow, filthy grind that leaves no doubt how hard he is, how completely he intends to explore every inch the dress allows him to reach.

The stranger’s phone buzzes once against your lower back, a brief tremor that travels straight through the thin layers of fabric separating you. He pays it no mind. His palm slides higher beneath your dress, fingers curling around your breast with firmer pressure while his hips snap forward in a sharper grind. The hard ridge of his cock presses insistently against you, each roll of his pelvis more demanding than the last. Another vibration rattles against your ass, yet he only answers by dragging his teeth along your neck and thrusting his fingers deeper between your thighs, knuckles brushing the damp edge of your panties.

The music pulses around you, but his movements grow rougher, more possessive. He pulls your body flush to his, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks while the other squeezes and kneads your exposed cleavage. His breath turns ragged against your ear, hot and uneven, as he grinds his length in slow, filthy circles that make your knees weaken. The phone vibrates again—longer this time, insistent—and still he ignores it, choosing instead to slip two fingerd above the thin strip of fabric covering your folds, stroking the slick heat he finds there with deliberate aggression.

Only when the device begins to buzz nonstop, a relentless series of pulses against your skin, does he finally still. A low dissatisfied grunt leaves his lips. He withdraws his hands hesitantly, fingertips trailing across your inner thighs one last time before he steps back. You feel the sudden absence of his heat, the cool air rushing in where his body had been pressed so tightly. By the time you manage to turn around, panting, legs trembling, he has already disappeared into the crowd. The evidence of his touch lingers between your legs, wet, throbbing, and unmistakably aroused, while the memory of his scent clings to your skin. That scent was unmistakable. Sandalwood. Cardamom. And Amber.....

——

The sudden, violent vibration of your phone pierces through the heavy fog of sleep, shattering the silence and introducing you to the agonizing throb of your very first hangover. Trying to piece together the events of the previous night proves entirely futile, as the journey back to your apartment remains a disorienting blur. Your only concrete memory involves staggering through the door with Rowan slung heavily over your shoulder while she mumbled incoherent, drunken nonsense. A muffled groan from across the room breaks the silence, indicating that Rowan has also been unceremoniously disturbed by the persistent buzzing of the device.

"Just answer him and go on a date already," she mutters breathlessly into the plush safety of your pillow before instantly slipping back into an unconscious slumber.

You shoot a sharp, futile glare in her direction through the dim light of the bedroom, offering no verbal retort as you painfully squint against the harsh glare of your screen. The incoming message is from Aemon, and the stark brevity of his words immediately cuts through your physical misery:

I am in urgent need of your assistance. Come quickly. Please.

— Aemon.

The uncharacteristic desperation of the text acts like a sudden jolt of electricity, instantly banishing the residual grogginess of sleep as adrenaline overrides your pounding headache. Prop yourself up against the mattress, you force your protesting body into motion and hastily prepare to leave. You throw on a casual grey sweater and your familiar jeansaggressively running your fingers through your tangled, unruly hair in a desperate attempt to tame the chaos. Moving with frantic precision despite the throbbing in your temples, you pause in front of the bathroom mirror just long enough to blink your contact lenses into place, before rushing out the door and leaving Rowan to sleep off her intoxication in peace.

After summoning an Uber, you anxiously watch the unfamiliar streets blur past the window, guiding the driver using the address Aemon had sent you weeks prior. Upon arriving at the elegant residence, you step up to the grand entryway with a racing heart and firmly press the doorbell. When the heavy door finally swings open, the breath catches in your throat as you are suddenly brought face-to-face with the father of your child.

"How delightful. You're late."

Aerion's gaze traversed the length of you with unapologetic scrutiny, lingering upon the unremarkable gray fabric draped over your frame before his brows knit together in visible displeasure.

"What happened to you?"

"I'd rather not discuss it." You pressed the heel of your hand against your temple, attempting to quell the persistent throb behind your eyes.

Something in your tone must have warned him against further inquiry. To his credit, he possessed enough self-preservation instincts to abandon the subject.

"Where's Aemon?"

Your gaze swept beyond him into the cavernous entrance hall, where polished marble and soaring ceilings only amplified the silence.

"Out."

"Out where?"

"With my father."

A flicker of confusion pierced the haze clouding your thoughts.

"But he messaged me."

"Ah." Aerion's expression shifted into something altogether too pleased with itself. "About that." Producing Aemon's phone from his pocket, he suspended it between two fingers with infuriating nonchalance.

Your stare flattened.

The smirk that followed was positively insufferable.

"I assumed that if there existed a single individual on this earth capable of compelling your attention, it would be Aemon. Fortunately for me, he's currently occupied elsewhere.

"You can't just—" The protest died midway through the sentence. You pinched the bridge of your nose and came to an abrupt halt beneath one of the sweeping archways, waiting for the sudden surge of migraine-induced nausea to subside.

Several paces ahead, Aerion paused.

"Are you alright?" The question emerged with surprising ease. Recently, his interactions with you had begun shedding their customary formality. The polished civility remained, but the distance beneath it had begun to erode, exposing glimpses of someone far less guarded.

"I'm perfectly fine." The lie was transparent.

"Excellent." He gestured toward the adjoining room. "Then you can assist me with this."

Against your better judgment, you followed.

The living room unfolded before you in a display of effortless extravagance: soaring windows, curated artwork, and furnishings so expensive they seemed less purchased than commissioned. Aerion pointed toward the center of the room.

Seated atop an outrageously expensive Persian rug was a bald child clad in threadbare rags, clutching a wooden practice sword in one small fist with all the gravity of a sworn knight.

Aegon 'Egg' Targaryen.

Right next to him, appearing entirely lifeless as he lies face down and sprawled ungracefully across the designer sofa, is a figure you guess to be Daeron, deducing this solely from the disheveled mop of blonde hair obscuring his features.

A silence stretched. Slowly, you turned toward Aerion.

"I'm not a childcare professional."

"Neither am I." He sounded genuinely aggrieved by the circumstance. "Unfortunately, my father thinks otherwise. I have been monitoring them since yesterday. And he threatens to ship me off to Lys if I refuse." His eyes rolls as he begins retreating toward the kitchen. Halfway through the doorway, he glanced back. A devastatingly wicked smile curved across his face.

"And we both know how inconsolable you'd be in my absence, Princess." Then he vanished around the corner, leaving you speechless and profoundly irritated.

An awkward silence settles over the room, and you privately resolve that today will be the day you finally strangle Aerion for dragging you into this catastrophe on your day off.

"Are you his girlfriend?"

"Hm?" You turned.

Egg regarded you with wide, earnest eyes.

"Aerion's," he clarified. "Are you his girlfriend?"

"No. Sevens no... absolutely not." You wave your hands frantically, as though physically dispelling the notion.

The child blinked. Approaching with deliberate caution, you lowered yourself onto the rug beside him.

"May I ask why you're dressed like a starving medieval peasant?"

"I was playing knight with Daeron." Egg pointed solemnly toward the motionless figure sprawled across the sofa.

"I'm his squire, but he suddenly fell unconscious." With the tip of his toy sword, he poked Daeron's shoulder. Egg pokes the older boy with the tip of his toy sword. Daeron doesn't so much as twitch. Egg frowned.

"He's a shit knight." The profanity emerged with such innocent sincerity that it nearly gave you whiplash. You stared at him.

"Let's perhaps refrain from those types of vocabulary."

"Sorry." His gaze immediately dropped to the wooden sword in his lap.

The room fell into an awkward quiet.

Your mind drifted back to Aerion’s earlier words, how he had spent the entire afternoon supervising his siblings. If he was occupied, then who could you possibly have... Before you could trace the thought to its conclusion, he stepped back into the room, fracturing the silence as he extended a cold electrolyte drink toward you.

"For your hangover."

"How thoughtful—" You accept the chilled bottle.

The words had scarcely left your mouth before the familiar, alluring aroma of sandalwood washed over you. Your eyes widened in instant, unmistakable recognition. His cologne. A fierce heat rushed to your face, a sudden flush that neither Egg nor Aerion failed to notice.

Both Targaryen brothers immediately took note of the sudden, burning flush creeping up your cheeks. Sensing your distress, Aerion dropped into a fluid crouch to check on you. The movement was too sudden; you flinched, instinctively recoiling backward. The subtle rejection caught him off guard, a flash of rare startlement crossing his sharp features.

​It was a timely disruption, for at that exact moment, Daeron stirred. Lifting a heavy head, his face starkly pale and eyes heavily bloodshot from the previous night's excesses, he cast a weary gaze toward his brother.

​"Would you be a darling brother and fetch me one as well?" Daeron murmured, offering a faint, effortlessly charming smile. Aerion merely let out a disgruntled grunt, rising to his feet to retreat back into the kitchen.

​"Ah. And you must be..." Daeron sat up properly, squaring his shoulders as one eye squinted slightly, critically assessing you. Before you could offer an introduction, Egg eagerly intervened, his voice brimming with sweet, absolute confidence.

​"Aerion's girlfriend."

​You felt a muscle beneath your eye twitch in silent protest.

"Egg..." you warned, cutting a skeptic, sideways glance at the boy. Realizing his blunder, Egg quickly averted his gaze, looking thoroughly chastised.

​"Ah," Daeron murmured, a knowing, deeply amused smile gracing his lips. "I am Daeron." He extended a hand, which you took with a polite nod.

​"Y/N."

​"Are you a model?" Egg piped up again, his wide eyes looking up at you with pure, unvarnished innocence.

​A soft laugh escaped you, shattering a fraction of the tension.

"No, I'm not." From the corner of his eye, Daeron quietly watched the way the smile transformed your features.

​"Aerion likes models," Egg added helpfully.

​Right on cue, Aerion strode back into the room, a second electrolyte drink held firmly in his grasp. He handed it over, receiving a curt nod and a mouthed thank you from Daeron, who opened the bottle and downed nearly the entire contents in one long, desperate draught.

​"You impudent little rat, quit spouting nonsense," Aerion scolded, his voice sharp enough to make Egg flinch.

​"Hey, leave him be. He’s only playing," you interjected softly. You extended a hand toward Egg, signaling for him to step closer, offering yourself as a protective shield against his older brother's ire. Hesitantly, acutely aware that you were still technically a stranger, the boy stepped into your shadow.

​Seeking a distraction, Egg announced his desire to play knights, but Daeron instantly dismissed the idea, claiming to be entirely hollowed out by exhaustion.

​"Why don't we try our luck at fishing?" you suggested, suddenly recalling Aemon mentioning a pond nestled within the vast estate grounds. You pushed yourself up from the floor and leaned in close to Aerion, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Balerion, is going to need a mate eventually, anyway."

Across the room, Egg erupted into celebration. Even Daeron looking marginally less deceased, raised his bottle in a lazy, silent toast.

The pond lay a short distance from the main residence, tucked between groves of weeping willows whose silver-green branches drifted lazily across the water's surface.

Afternoon sunlight scattered across the pond in fractured ribbons of gold. For a brief, unexpected stretch of time, everything felt peaceful.

Aerion quickly became the unquestioned labor force of the expedition. While everyone else wandered toward the shoreline, he carried armfuls of folding chairs from the house and arranged them along the grassy bank with increasingly visible irritation.

Soon, an uncharacteristic peace settled over the gathering. You, Aerion, and Egg cast your lines into the dark water, exchanging quiet bursts of triumph whenever a fish was landed, and sharing a collective, muted disappointment whenever a line snapped clean.

​From his vantage point on the sidelines, Daeron watched the tableau unfold, a ghost of a smile permanently tracing his lips. His sharp gaze did not miss the way you occasionally leaned into Aerion's space, your shoulder brushing against his ever so lightly. What intrigued Daeron more was that his notoriously arrogant younger brother made absolutely no effort to pull away. In fact, if Daeron wasn't mistaken, he could have sworn he saw the faint, tightly guarded ghost of a genuine smile tugging at the corners of Aerion’s mouth.

​When Egg began struggling with a stubborn knot on his rod, Aerion moved down the bank to assist him. Seizing the opportunity, you wandered over to sit beside Daeron, both of you nursing your drinks to combat the lingering shadows of a hangover.

​"You know, it has been a while since I've seen him like this," Daeron remarked quietly. He kept his eyes trained on the water, nodding subtly toward his brother, deeply cherishing the rare sight. ​You remained silent, offering him the space to continue.

​"He wasn't always like this," Daeron murmured, his gaze dropping to the grass beneath him as a melancholic smile took hold. "He used to be quite a cheerful child. Adored fishing. But then mother passed. Father buried himself in his work—became reclusive, angry, distant." He looked up, his eyes locking onto yours. "Ever since that shift, Aerion was never truly the same."

​You returned his gaze before looking down at the earth beneath your feet, struck by the sudden, heavy revelation of Aerion's history. The agonizing ache of losing a mother was a phantom you knew intimately; its poison simply manifested differently in everyone. Looking back up at Aerion's silhouette against the shimmering water, you finally saw it. Hidden deep beneath layers of arrogant armor and biting malice, there was simply a boy—a boy who had never learned how to navigate the boundless terrain of his own grief. Suddenly, the profound distance between you and Aerion felt remarkably small.

​"He must have loved her deeply," the words escaped your lips before you could stop them.

​Daeron pursued his lips, offering a solemn, heavy nod. Then, his expression shifted, a spark of calculation returning to his eyes.

"I do not mean to trespass, but what, precisely, is the nature of your arrangement with my brother?"

​Startled by the directness of the inquiry, you scrambled to explain the reality, that this entire, exhausting charade was merely a ridiculous, hyper-elaborate scheme designed to provoke his cousin, Valarr.

​"Perhaps that was its origin," Daeron countered, a knowing, highly skeptical smile playing on his lips. He was clearly insinuating that while the alliance may have begun as a weapon of spite, the underlying currents had shifted into something far more dangerous.

​"No," you laughed, dismissing his romantic theory as utter absurdity. "No, I am entirely outside his sphere of preference."

​"Perhaps not initially," Daeron murmured, his smile widening. "Shall we test the theory with a wager? If my brother harbors no deeper motives, then he won't care in the slightest if I..."

​Before you could decipher his meaning, Daeron leaned in dangerously close, closing the distance between you until he was mere inches away. A faint, traitorous pink dusted your cheeks as his fingers gently reached out, catching a stray lock of hair that had escaped your bun and tenderly tucking it behind your ear.

​Across the grass, Aerion’s eyes snapped toward the display. Abandoning Egg's fishing rod entirely, he stood up and strode across the bank with terrifying, single-minded purpose. Without a word of explanation, his fingers clamped around your arm, violently pulling you up and practically dragging you toward the main house.

​As you stumbled backward in his wake, you cast a frantic look over your shoulder. Daeron was watching your retreat, a triumphant, knowing smirk firmly in place. Next to him, Egg was sadly waving a silent goodbye. You managed a weak wave in return before Aerion rounded the corner.

​"Hey! I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye to them," you protested, trying to wrench your arm free.

​"They will survive," Aerion snapped, his tone dripping with a dark, suffocating annoyance. Before leaving the threshold, he shot a venomous glare back toward the pond.

"Try supervising Egg properly this time!"

"I make no promises," came the distant reply.

Aerion's expression somehow darkened further.

​He marched you out through the grand front entrance of the estate, leading you directly toward his parked vehicle. For the first time, you had a clear, unobstructed view of it: a magnificent, custom Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail. The vehicle was a masterpiece of menacing luxury, its deep, crimson finish perfectly embodying Aerion's predatory aesthetic the exact, lethal color of House Targaryen.

​The ensuing car ride back to your apartment was shrouded in a tense, suffocating silence. Aerion stared straight ahead, his jaw locked, visibly radiating a white-hot anger. You kept your thoughts to yourself, staring out the window as the familiar, comforting concrete buildings of your neighborhood finally came into view. Sensing the imminent end of the ride, you decided to offer a truce.

​"I want to attend the gala," you stated quietly.

​Aerion offered a singular, curt nod. Though his expression remained rigid, you could see the coiled, erratic tension in his shoulders finally beginning to dissipate.

​"Daeron is utterly useless," Aerion suddenly muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "Do not associate with him."

​You merely nodded. And as the car idled near your building, your mind suddenly snagged on the contradiction from earlier. The pieces of the puzzle refused to align, and a desperate need for confirmation seized you.

​"So... are you certain you spent the whole of last night supervising him? At home?"

​"Yes," Aerion demanded, his brows furrowing into deep irritation and confusion.

​"Are you absolutely certain, Aerion?" You searched every line of his face, desperately hunting for a flicker of deceit, a trace of his characteristic playfulness, or even a hint of a lie.​There was nothing. His confusion was entirely authentic.

​In that horrific, breathless second, a profound, paralyzing cold rushed through your veins, turning your blood to ice. The truth settled over you with the crushing weight of a nightmare: the man you had held so close, the man you had danced with in the shadows of the night before was....

"You are back quite late once again," Kiera observed, her voice carrying a fragile neutrality that barely masked her curiosity. "How was the meeting with the executives?"

The heavy mahogany door of the penthouse clicked shut, sealing out the muted roar of the city below as Valarr stepped into the expansive entryway. Kiera stood lingering by the doorway of the spare room, her arms crossed as she silently assessed his exhaustion while he slipped out of his leather dress shoes and hung his tailored wool coat on the rack. The room she occupied was a sterile guest suite, a space he had strictly assigned to her under the noble pretense that he did not wish to sully her virtue before their impending marriage.

"It was fine," Valarr replied shortly, his fingers automatically loosening the restrictive knot of his silk tie.

Kiera hummed softly, recognizing the familiar, distant rhythm that governed their private lives. To the public eye and the eager society journalists, they presented the picture-perfect image of a devoted couple, yet behind these closed doors, they remained nothing more than polite strangers sharing a luxurious expanse of marble and glass.

"You should get some rest, it's quite late," he told her evenly, his tone lacking any genuine warmth. Without waiting for her response, he brushed past her, crossing the dimly lit living room with quick, deliberate strides before disappearing into the master bathroom.

"Your father called earlier and asked rather pointedly about your whereabouts this past Saturday night. He attempted to call you several times but you failed to answer," Kiera called out across the open floor plan, her voice echoing clearly off the high ceilings and reaching him just as he began unbuttoning his crisp dress shirt.

"I had other, more pressing matters that required my personal attention," he replied, turning his head slightly toward the open doorway so his explanation would carry back to her through the quiet apartment.

Kiera nodded to the empty hallway, knowing he could not see the gesture, but as she stood near the path he had traveled, a sudden drift of air caught her attention. She noticed a distinct, unfamiliar scent lingering in his wake—a sharp departure from the crisp, metallic cologne he traditionally favored. It was an alluring, earthy fragrance that felt hauntingly familiar, reminiscent of rich.... Sandalwood... perhaps Cardamom? Dismissing the thought, she retreated into her assigned quarters and quietly closed the door for the night.

Meanwhile, Valarr stood entirely motionless in the master bathroom, staring intensely at his own reflection in the mirror under the harsh vanity lights. His eyes appeared incredibly dark, nearly consuming his mismatched irises, while his long fingers slowly rose to trace a faint, agitated red line marking the pale skin of his neck. As his fingertips grazed the irritated flesh, the vivid memories of Saturday night resurfaced with a sudden, intoxicating force that made his breath catch. He knew with absolute certainty that he had crossed a dangerous boundary, yet he harbored no regret. Somewhere deep beneath years of control and discipline, something had awakened.

And it wanted more.

Notes: I can make a taglist but please remember to turn on the option . Love you all😂

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[strawberry0verlord]

THE THINGS WE NEVER SAID

Modern AU (Info)

Dark!Valarr Targaryen x femReader x ???

Chapter VII:

PLAYING WITH FIRE PART II

"Pervert," you muttered beneath your breath. Fortunately, no one heard. No one except Aerion. One violet eye twitched.

"What?" Kiera asked, bewildered.

Your attention snapped back to the present.

"Oh. Nothing." You laughed awkwardly.

"There was a bug on your shirt, darling. You know how I am around insects." The lie caused you physical pain. Reaching up, you brushed an entirely imaginary insect from Aerion's shoulder.

He had doned a long black overcoat that draped effortlessly across his broad frame, layered over a fitted black turtleneck that lent him an air of sleek sophistication. Wide-legged tailored trousers fell elegantly to his feet, their crisp pleats enhancing the ensemble's understated refinement. A silver watch gleamed discreetly at one of his wrist, the sole contrast against the monochrome palette.

And that same arm tightened around your waist, drawing you close enough to feel the warmth radiating through his shirt and the metal itself digging into your skin. His gaze lowered to yours, and a devastatingly charming smile curved across his face.

"Thank you, my love. You are always so attentive." The endearment nearly inflicted spiritual damage.

"You must forgive me for arriving late." His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was executed with such effortless grace that any reasonable woman would have swooned.

For you, however, every instinct screamed for retreat. How was this insufferable man capable of behaving like the very embodiment of a perfectly mannered gentleman?

"It is rather impolite to keep a lady waiting and embarrass her merely for exercise." Valarr's voice remained calm.

Aerion's attention drifted toward him. A thoughtful expression danced on his features as his lips pursed and his brows drew together.

"I'm certain it is still preferable to abandoning her for duty." He lifted his gaze to meet Valarr's. The corner of his mouth curved upward in quiet provocation.

Valarr said nothing. The silence revealed far more than words ever could. Even years of discipline failed to conceal the fury simmering beneath the surface.

This was the accomplished, handsome man who had treated you with nothing but kindness? This was the man for whom you had once been willing to step beyond the boundaries of your comfort?

The irony tasted bitter.

When Rowan had suggested a double date, you had refused almost immediately. The idea had made you uncomfortable, and Valarr had never pressed the matter. Yet somehow, you had agreed to do exactly that for Aerion.

Aerion Brightflame????

Of all people?

His cousin. The most reckless, infuriating, and thoroughly unsuitable member of the entire family. The realization stung far more than it should have.

"Perhaps we should continue," Kiera suggested brightly. "Everyone must be famished, and the sun grows warmer by the minute."

Her intervention severed the mounting tension before it could tighten any further. Rowan and Raymund blinked as though suddenly remembering they had been standing there the entire time.

"I do not mean to delay everyone," you said quickly, "but I would appreciate a private word with Aerion. Please go ahead and board without us."

Everyone nodded. Valarr was the last to leave, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. Only when they had put a sufficient distance between themselves and the two of you did you turn sharply toward Aerion.

"What are you doing here?"

He released your waist, and the polished gentleman vanished instantly.

"What does it look like, Princess?"

"Daeron is supposed to be here."

"Didn't Aemon inform you? My brother failed spectacularly. As usual."

"So Aemon sent you?"

Aerion scoffed.

"Do not be absurd. That little rat lacks the authority to compel me into anything."

A powerful urge to wrap your hands around his throat briefly presented itself.

"I volunteered entirely out of the boundless generosity of my heart." He placed a hand over his chest with such magnificent insincerity that even he appeared amused by the performance.

You stared. Then let out a breathless laugh. The sound contained absolutely no amusement.

"Your generosity is unnecessary. We are going to tell them you have somewhere important to be and end this charade immediately."

"No." The answer came without the slightest hesitation.

You blinked.

"No?"

A grin spread languidly across his face.

"Abandon such a singular opportunity? I think not." He stepped closer. "Do you have any idea how many years I have spent attempting to crack that infuriatingly flawless façade?" His attention drifted briefly toward Valarr.

"I have watched him maintain that image at every gathering, every banquet, every conversation." His gaze returned to yours.

"For reasons known only to the Seven, something about you unsettles the remarkable equilibrium he has spent years cultivating."

The way he looked at you made your skin prickle, like a predator observing the slightest movement before deciding whether to give chase. Instinctively, you stepped back. Aerion followed.

"And if the Seven have graciously placed this opportunity in my hands, who am I to refuse?" His arm found your waist once more.

You turned. Your eyes sought Valarr. And there it was. The composure remained along with dignity. Yet something deeper had fractured.

His attention lingered on Aerion's hand where it rested against your waist. The sight seemed to strike somewhere beneath the armor of restraint he wore so effortlessly. For the briefest instant, hurt flickered behind his eyes, swift and unmistakable, before it was swallowed by something darker. Something possessive. Something raw. It smoldered beneath the surface like embers buried beneath ash, threatening to ignite at the slightest provocation.

For a fleeting moment, pity stirred within you. Then you remembered. How he had chosen. He had chosen Kiera. He had chosen to walk away from everything the two of you had built together. Most importantly, he had decided your love was not enough.

The pity vanished almost instantly. You turned back toward Aerion.

"Fine."

His brows rose.

"Under one condition."

He responded with an amused hum.

"No kisses."

A wicked glimmer entered his eyes.

"What a tragedy." He pouted as he pulled you impossibly closer, his mint-scented breath brushing your lashes. The mock sorrow in his voice was infuriating.

"Should remorse overtake you, Princess, you need only say the word. I am nothing if not accommodating."

You nearly slapped him, but that would ruin the entire plan, and neither of you had a viable alternative.

Instead, you closed your eyes and drew a measured breath. Gathering what remained of your patience, you smiled. It was brilliant. Entirely false. But brilliant nonetheless.

Removing his arm from your waist, you threaded your own through his instead. His arm was warm and firm.

Disturbingly reassuring, you hated to admit. Aerion on the other hand brightened with unmistakable satisfaction. Together, you boarded the yacht.

He offered his hand as you stepped aboard, and the moment you settled beside him, his palm returned to your waist, subtly encouraging you closer. You complied with visible reluctance.

Across the deck, Valarr observed everything. Every touch that lingered. Every glance. And every smile.

The breeze drifting across the marina remained cool and fragrant with saltwater, yet it seemed to lose all of its refreshing qualities the longer he watched. A faint sheen of perspiration had begun gathering beneath his collar.

Meanwhile, Rowan and Raymund followed the unfolding spectacle with unconcealed fascination, their widened eyes darting between you, Aerion, and Valarr as though they had somehow secured front-row seats to a catastrophe of legendary proportions. And judging by the direction this day was taking, they probably had.

Lunch proved surprisingly ordinary. The yacht drifted across tranquil waters beneath a cloudless sky, its polished deck gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. Gentle waves lapped against the hull in a soothing rhythm while a salt-kissed breeze carried away the lingering warmth of the day. Around the table, conversation flowed easily from one topic to the next, touching upon classes, work, mutual acquaintances, and the countless mundane details that occupied ordinary lives.

To anyone observing from afar, the gathering would have appeared perfectly pleasant. You, however, remained painfully aware of the hand resting upon your thigh beneath the table. Aerion seemed determined to ensure you never forgot its presence.

Kiera, fortunately oblivious to your internal suffering, smiled as she set down her glass.

"So," she began, curiosity brightening her features, "how did the two of you meet?" The question struck like a cannonball.

Across the table, Rowan's eyes widened so dramatically that you feared they might abandon their sockets altogether. Without hesitation, she seized her teacup and began drinking opting not too drink wine.

You immediately scrambled for an answer. Unfortunately, every possible explanation sounded more ridiculous than the last. Before you could fabricate an elaborate lie, Aerion spoke.

"We met through my brother Aemon." The answer arrived effortlessly.

"They are collgues. We exchanged numbers, continued speaking, and the rest is history."

You blinked.

Well. At least that part was true.

A small measure of relief settled over you. Thankfully, he had omitted the rather significant detail where you assaulted him.

"How fortunate." Valarr's voice carried its customary composure. His attention shifted toward Aerion.

"I must admit I am pleased you've finally found someone. Such developments are rather rare where you are concerned." The smile on his face remained perfectly courteous. Unfortunately, the faint edge beneath his words was impossible to miss.

"You have always seemed somewhat... indecisive." The implication lingered delicately in the air.

Aerion heard it. Of course he did. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. His gaze lowered briefly toward the table while his thumb traced an absent pattern against your leg. The corner of his mouth curved upward ever so slightly, as though he had discovered a particularly entertaining opportunity.

Then he looked at you.

"She's different." The words emerged softer than expected. A brief silence followed. Just long enough to command everyone's attention.

"Though she does have a habit of becoming rather..." His fingers tapped lightly against the fading bruise along his jaw. The gesture was subtle.

"Passionate when we-" Beneath the table, his hand slid marginally higher.

Everything happened at once. Rowan choked on her tea. Violently. Raymund nearly launched himself from his chair to make certain she was still breathing. Even Kiera's cheeks acquired a delicate flush. You stared at Aerion in disbelief. The sheer audacity of the man was breathtaking.

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to correct whatever absurd conclusions everyone was drawing, when the sharp scrape of a chair interrupted the moment.

Every head turned. Valarr had risen abruptly from his seat. Silence descended across the table. Kiera blinked.

"My love?" Concern immediately softened her expression.

"Are you alright?"

Valarr stood motionless. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. The tendons along his forearms stood out in stark relief beneath his pale skin, while tension carved itself into every line of his posture. His jaw appeared so rigid that one careless movement might shatter whatever restraint remained holding it together.

For a moment, he said nothing. The sea breeze swept across the deck. Silver sunlight danced across the surrounding water. Somewhere overhead, birds cried against the endless blue sky. Yet an oppressive weight had settled over the gathering, transforming the beautiful afternoon into something distinctly uncomfortable.

Kiera rose halfway from her seat.

"You look pale." Concern deepened in her voice.

"Are you certain you're well?" The question seemed to reach him at last.

Valarr blinked. Awareness returned to his expression as he realized every eye at the table was fixed upon him. Every eye except Aerion's.

Aerion appeared thoroughly occupied helping himself to a handful of chocolate-coated nuts from a nearby glass bowl. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, chewing with infuriating leisure. A glimmer of satisfaction lingered in his violet eyes. Meanwhile, his other hand remained precisely where it had been all afternoon. Resting possessively upon your thigh. Valarr noticed. Aerion knew he noticed. The tightening of his jaw confirmed it. A muscle feathered dangerously beneath his cheek.

Then, with visible effort, he cleared his throat. The sound sliced through the silence. His gaze shifted toward the glittering horizon stretching endlessly beyond the yacht.

"The view," he said after a pause, his voice carefully measured, "is exceptionally beautiful." For one suspended moment, nobody spoke. Then Aerion's fingers delivered the faintest tap against your thigh. You did not need to look at him to know he was enjoying every second of this. Far more than any reasonable person should.

"Shall we, my love?" Valarr extended a hand toward Kiera. The gesture was elegant, natural, and practiced, yet those two simple words struck somewhere deep within your chest, unfurling a dull ache beneath your ribs.

My love. For months, you had imagined hearing those words from him. You had dreamed of a future in which they belonged to you, spoken with the same quiet affection he now bestowed upon another woman.

Instead, you watched Kiera place her hand in his, watched him smile at her, and watched him guide her away. The sight left an unpleasant hollowness in its wake.

Before leading her toward the railings, where the river stretched endlessly beneath the afternoon sun, Valarr paused and turned his attention toward Aerion.

"I would advise you to keep private matters between yourself and your lady private," he said, every word measured with meticulous care. "Such subjects are highly inappropriate for public discussion."

"Of course, Cousin." Aerion lifted his wineglass in a casual salute.

"My apologies." The apology possessed no sincerity. A dangerous gleam lingered in his violet eyes, and you could have sworn he was only moments away from laughing outright.

Across the table, Raymund was still ensuring Rowan had survived her near-fatal encounter with tea.

"Are you certain you're alright?"

"I am perfectly fine."

Despite everything, a reluctant smile touched your lips. Rowan caught your gaze and offered a reassuring expression while Raymund continued patting her back in fear any remnants of the liquid remained in her system.

You were just about to reprimand Aerion for his outrageous behavior when movement at the edge of your vision stole your attention. Kiera had risen onto her toes, and a soft kiss brushed Valarr's lips.

The world seemed to tilt.

Suddenly, the sunlight felt too bright and the laughter around you unbearably distant. Every sound dissolved beneath the crushing weight of memory as months of healing unraveled in an instant. You remembered stolen evenings beneath lantern light, quiet conversations, and promises whispered in confidence. You remembered believing that love alone could overcome anything. Most vividly of all, you remembered the night everything fell apart—the night he chose duty, the night he chose her, and the night he left you standing alone when you had needed him most.

You had spent months convincing yourself you had moved beyond it, burying the pain beneath textbooks, assignments, new friendships, and endless distractions. Yet the wound had never truly healed. It had merely lain dormant, waiting patiently beneath the surface until a single moment awakened it with vicious clarity.

A terrible reminder surfaced, one you had fought relentlessly to suppress.

Your love had not been enough. You had not been enough.

The realization struck with the force of a wave crashing against stone. Your chest tightened, making each breath increasingly difficult, and suddenly the yacht felt impossibly small. You needed distance, needed air, needed some means of escape before the suffocating weight of memory consumed you entirely.

If someone had offered to drop you in the middle of the Honeywine and leave you to swim ashore, you might have accepted without hesitation.

Before you could embarrass yourself by demanding the captain disembark you at the nearest patch of riverbank, a hand closed firmly around yours. The grip was warm, steady, and grounding, anchoring you before your thoughts could spiral any further.

You looked up. Aerion was already standing.

"Come."

"What?"

"We're going fishing."

The declaration was so absurd that your spiraling thoughts came to a screeching halt.

"Fishing?"

Aerion stared at you.

"Are you deaf as well?"

"I—I don't know how to fish."

"That is precisely why you have me."

Before you could protest, he released your hand and crossed the deck. A fishing rod rested near one corner of the yacht, and he retrieved it with complete confidence before glancing toward Kiera.

"May I borrow this?"

"Of course." Kiera smiled warmly. "My father occasionally fishes during his trips."

Aerion appeared entirely uninterested in the explanation. The moment permission was granted, he returned, wrapped his fingers around yours once more, and guided you toward the bow. Away from the table. Away from Valarr. Away from the memories threatening to consume you.

The wind was stronger at the front of the yacht, sweeping across the water in cool currents scented with salt and river reeds. Sunlight scattered across the Honeywine like shattered crystal, glittering brilliantly upon the rippling surface.

Aerion positioned himself behind you.

"Hold it here." His hands adjusted your grip.

"No. Like this." His voice had changed.

The familiar arrogance remained, yet something quieter lingered beneath it—a surprising degree of focus and concentration, accompanied by a patience you had never expected from him.

You found yourself glancing upward. Given the difference in height, the movement caused the back of your head to rest lightly against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, and his expression was unexpectedly serious.

The discovery caught you so off guard that a laugh escaped before you could stop it. Aerion looked down. One brow arched.

"What?"

"Nothing." The corners of your mouth twitched.

Aerion leaned slightly closer, far closer than necessary.

"Enjoying the view, Princess?"

There it was. The familiar arrogance. Any appreciation you had begun developing evaporated immediately.

"I swear, if you kiss me—"

The fishing line jerked violently. A startled shriek escaped you as the rod nearly slipped from your hands. Aerion's hands immediately closed over yours.

"Careful." His voice sharpened with sudden focus.

"Something's on the line."

Your eyes widened. The ache that had haunted you only moments earlier vanished beneath a surge of excitement.

"There is?"

The rod pulled again.

"There is!" Your entire face brightened. "We caught something?" Another sharp tug answered your question. "We caught something!"

The excitement ringing through your voice carried across the deck, drawing everyone's attention.

Kiera looked over first. Then Raymund. Then Rowan. And finally Valarr.

From where he stood beside Kiera, he watched as genuine delight transformed your features, sweeping away the sorrow that had shadowed your eyes only moments before. He watched Aerion standing behind you, one hand covering yours as he guided the rod, and for reasons he refused to examine too closely, the sight lodged itself somewhere deep beneath his carefully maintained composure.

The smile illuminating your face struck him with far greater force than it should have.

It was genuine and entirely unrestrained, the sort of smile that reached your eyes and transformed your entire expression. For months, he had convinced himself he remembered it perfectly. Now, seeing it again, he realized memory had failed him. Memory had not preserved its warmth. Memory had not captured the way your laughter softened the world around you. Memory had not captured how effortlessly it drew the attention of everyone fortunate enough to witness it.

An ache settled heavily within his chest. How many burdens had that smile carried without either of you realizing it? How many exhausting days had been rendered bearable simply because you had been there?

Countless memories surfaced unbidden. Long nights spent studying until exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. Difficult decisions that had seemed impossible to make. Moments when duty had felt less like an honor and more like a prison. Through all of it, there had been you. There had always been you. Your laughter. Your stubborn optimism. Your unwavering belief in him.

There had been times when he had wanted to surrender beneath the crushing weight of expectation, and times when your smile alone had given him the strength to continue.

The realization left a bitter taste behind. Because that smile no longer belonged to him. It was directed elsewhere. Toward Aerion. Toward the cousin standing beside you now. The man responsible for the joy currently brightening your face.

Something unpleasant twisted within him, something he refused to examine too closely. His fingers tightened around the railing until his knuckles paled. Across the yacht, Kiera continued speaking about something. Valarr did not hear a single word.

Aerion found himself equally distracted. The excitement radiating from you had caught him completely off guard.

Women rarely reacted this way to anything he enjoyed. Most of the women he associated with preferred lavish dinners, expensive gifts, and extravagant entertainment. Fishing had never impressed any of them.

Years ago, he had casually mentioned wanting to spend an afternoon beside the water with a fishing rod. The woman he had been seeing at the time had laughed directly in his face. He could not even remember her name now.

Your reaction, however, lingered. You had not laughed at him. You had laughed because you were genuinely delighted. The distinction was small, yet somehow it felt significant. And something unfamiliar stirred within him. Dangerous and disgusting. The sensation vanished the moment the line jerked again.

"There." His attention snapped back to the rod.

"Reel it in." His larger hand settled over yours as he guided the motion, though after several moments he noticed something peculiar. The line offered almost no resistance. His brows furrowed. That could not be promising. Sure enough, the moment the catch broke the water's surface, disappointment arrived in spectacular fashion.

The fish was tiny. Embarrassingly so. A creature so small it appeared more offended than captured.

Aerion stared at it. The fish stared back. Frankly, an assault on his dignity would have been less insulting.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Valarr suddenly becoming very interested in the horizon. The subtle movement of his shoulders suggested he was suppressing laughter.

Raymund fared considerably worse when a snort escaped him before he immediately covered his mouth. Rowan jabbed him sharply with her elbow.

Aerion's expression darkened. Wonderful. An audience. Turning toward you, he fully expected mockery. Instead, he froze. Your eyes were shining. Beaming so brightly he swore you outshone the midday sun.

You stared at the tiny fish as though it were some magnificent sea beast hauled from the depths. Then you looked up at him. The sunlight caught in your eyes. Your brows had drawn together slightly. Plump, glossy lips were pursed in concentration.

For reasons he could not immediately comprehend, the sight caused something inside his chest to shift.

"Can we keep it?"

Aerion blinked.

"What?"

Your gaze immediately returned to the fish.

"It's so cute." You sounded gently aggressive, if that made any sense.

"I want it." Then you looked at him again.

"Please?" The single word struck with startling precision. Aerion found himself staring. For perhaps the first time in years, he was completely speechless. The realization irritated him immensely.

Unfortunately, his heart chose that exact moment to betray him yet again. An uncomfortable warmth crept steadily up his neck.

Absolutely unacceptable. With only a distressed grunt, he rolled up his sleeves, turned sharply and strode toward the dining table. You watched him go, thoroughly confused.

Aerion ignored everyone. He ignored the curious looks directed his way, ignored Valarr's increasingly suspicious expression, and ignored the faint amusement lingering on Rowan's face. Reaching the table, he seized the floral arrangement decorating its center, removed the flowers with little care, and set them aside before marching toward the edge of the yacht.

Several moments later, he crouched and dipped the glass container into the river. Water splashed over the sleeves of his coat while a few droplets darkened the front of his shirt. He did not care. When he returned, he thrust the vase toward you.

"Hold this."

You obeyed, still bewildered.

With surprising care, Aerion removed the tiny fish from the hook before lowering it into its new home. The dark little creature immediately began darting around the glass vessel in frantic circles.

"There." The word emerged far more gruffly than he had intended.

You smiled.

"Thank you." The response came absentmindedly, your attention fixed entirely upon your newest companion. Several moments passed before you finally looked up.

"You're really good at this."

Danger.

Immediate danger.

Aerion recognized it at once.

Meeting your gaze seemed profoundly unwise. His heart had already demonstrated an alarming lack of loyalty, and looking directly at you would only encourage further stupidity. Consequently, he looked elsewhere. The river.

"I am good at everything." The answer emerged automatically, a familiar defense mechanism and a well-worn shield he had relied upon for years. A soft click of your tongue followed. Yet there was no irritation behind it.

When he finally allowed himself to properly look at you, he found it unexpectedly difficult to look away.

You stood at the bow of the yacht with your makeshift aquarium cradled carefully against your chest, entirely unconcerned by the water that had splashed across your dress and darkened portions of the fabric. Your attention drifted beyond the tiny fish swimming within the glass vessel and toward the landscape unfolding around you.

The Honeywine wound through the Reach like a ribbon of liquid sapphire, its waters catching the afternoon sunlight and scattering it into a thousand fractured diamonds. Vast emerald fields stretched across the valley in gentle waves, interrupted by clusters of wildflowers that painted the countryside in vibrant strokes of gold, lavender, and crimson. Ancient oaks dotted the rolling landscape, their shadows drifting lazily across the grass while clouds sailed overhead. The breeze carried the scent of river water and flowering meadows, and in the distance, the silhouette of Oldtown rose gracefully upon the horizon like something lifted from an old painting.

You understood immediately why the Honeywine Valley was considered the agricultural heart of the Reach. The land seemed impossibly alive. Rich and abundant. Beautiful in a way that words could not fathom.

A contented sigh escaped you. The tension that had haunted you throughout the afternoon gradually loosened its grip, carried away by the river breeze and the gentle rocking of the yacht. Before you even realized what you were doing, your head tipped backward until it rested lightly against Aerion's chest.

Neither of you moved.

You simply stood there, holding your ridiculous little fish while gazing upon the countryside.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The words emerged softly, almost reverently. Aerion's eyes drifted across the landscape. For once, he found himself without a clever response.

"Hm." The sound was unusually calm. His arms settled around you, keeping you steady against him as the yacht continued its journey downriver. The gesture felt surprisingly natural.

More surprisingly still, something inside him eased. A restlessness he had carried for so long that he scarcely noticed its presence seemed to quiet beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun, the peaceful rhythm of the water, and your comfortable silence.

Across the deck, Valarr quickly looked away. The sight before him had become unbearable. As he attempted to redirect his attention toward Kiera, a sudden splash shattered the tranquility. The sharp clink of glass followed immediately afterward with several startled voices rising at once.

Valarr turned instinctively. Judging by the horror spreading across Rowan's face, something had gone terribly wrong. His gaze followed hers. You were swaying. Aerion had both hands firmly wrapped around your arms, holding you upright before you could collapse entirely. The vase remained clutched securely against your chest despite your obvious distress. Every trace of amusement had vanished from Aerion's expression. Concern had replaced it.

"Are you alright?" The question had barely left his lips when Valarr moved. Instinct propelled him forward before reason had any opportunity to intervene. Kiera's hand slipped from his grasp as he crossed the deck in seconds.

He shoved Aerion aside. The movement was swift enough to surprise everyone including Aerion. Your grip loosened on the vase. Fortunately, Aerion managed to catch it before it shattered against the deck.

Meanwhile, your knees buckled. Valarr reached you in time. Strong arms wrapped around you as he lowered you gently onto the deck rather than allowing you to fall. His coat was already being removed, and within moments it had been draped around your shoulders as he noticed the portions of your dress still damp from the river water.

"What happened?" His voice was sharp. The glare he directed toward Aerion carried enough venom to poison a kingdom.

"What did you do to her?" The accusation hung heavily in the air.

Aerion stared at him. Equally stunned. Yet before either man could continue, a familiar agony erupted within your chest.

Your breath hitched. Ashblood had chosen an exceptionally unfortunate moment to remind you of its existence. Pain radiated through the left side of your chest with brutal intensity, causing your fingers to immediately press against the source of the ache while your other hand instinctively latched onto Valarr's forearm. The grip was stronger than you intended. Desperate and Valarr noticed immediately. His expression tightened. The fear in his eyes surfaced before he could conceal it.

"I'm taking her to the hospital." The decision came without hesitation. His hands moved toward your knees, prepared to lift you into his arms exactly as he had countless times before.

That is until your hand stopped him.

"I'm fine." The words emerged weakly and breathless. The pain had already begun to recede, though traces of it still lingered. Valarr looked unconvinced.

"Aerion."

Both men froze. You released your grip on Valarr, trembling hand extended toward Aerion.

"Can you take me home, please?"

Silence followed. Aerion stood motionless for half a second before carefully setting the vase aside.

You turned back toward Valarr. The concern etched across his face threatened to undo every ounce of progress you had made over the past several months.

"I'm fine, Valarr." Your voice softened to a whisper only Valarr could hear. "You should not concern yourself with me while your Lady is present. It is most disrespectful to her." The words landed precisely where intended. Something flickered across his features. Pain. Regret.

Before he could respond, Aerion stepped forward. His shoulder nudged Valarr aside just enough to create space between the two of you. The movement appeared casual on the surface, but there was nothing casual about it. Without a word, he removed Valarr's coat from your shoulders and returned it to its owner. Then he shrugged off his own jacket and draped it around you instead.

Before you could protest, Aerion bent down and lifted you into his arms. The yacht was already approaching the docks.

Fortunately, the journey had not carried you far from shore. By the time Rowan had gathered the belongings, the yacht had docked completely.

Aerion carried you the entire way to his car. His movement was surprisingly careful. And once he reached the passenger side, he lowered you gently into the seat before closing the door.

"Wait here."

You nodded. Through the window, you watched him return toward the docks. Several minutes later, he reappeared carrying your purse.

And the fish.

A smile immediately touched your lips. Aerion took note. The sight of you looking so absurdly pleased over a tiny river fish despite your obvious exhaustion only reinforced his growing suspicion that you were ridiculous. Yet somehow that smile tugged at something inside him all the same.

He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"I'm sorry."

Aerion said nothing at first. His attention remained fixed upon the rearview mirror as he carefully reversed out of the parking space. Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

"Are you always like this?"

You blinked.

"Sick?"

"No." His expression remained serious.

"Apologizing."

"Oh."

A brief silence followed.

"Don't." The answer sounded blunt enough to be mistaken for irritation but something in his voice suggested otherwise. Something that made you suspect he was telling you that illness required no apology.

"Sorry." The word escaped automatically.

Aerion glanced sideways.

"I mean—" You immediately looked down at the fish. "Force of habit."

"Hm."

───

The remainder of the drive passed quietly. Exhaustion had begun settling heavily over you, and Aerion could see it. Every so often his gaze drifted toward the passenger seat. And every single time, you were still staring at the fish. Finally, you broke the silence.

"Balerion."

Aerion frowned.

"What?"

"I'm naming him Balerion."

His gaze shifted toward the tiny fish swimming around the vase then back to the road. A scoff escaped him.

"The Black Dread?"

You nodded.

"Is it unsuitable?"

"Extremely."

"Well, I don't care." You pulled the vase closer protectively.

"He's my son. I can name him whatever I want."

"Our son." The correction arrived immediately. Entirely serious.

You stared.

"Our son?"

"We caught him together." Aerion cast a brief glance in your direction.

"If memory serves, you said we caught something."

You continued staring before shaking your head.

"Fine. But I want custody."

Aerion considered this carefully.

"I shall pay child support and alimony."

The ridiculousness of the statement nearly broke you. Your lips pressed together when a laugh threatened. You turned toward the window in a desperate attempt to preserve your dignity. Aerion caught it anyway. A faint smile appeared before he redirected his attention toward the road.

Silence settled once more. Comfortable between the two of you. He had intended to ask about the incident aboard the yacht but te question never came. Because at some point during the drive, exhaustion claimed victory.

Your head had fallen against the window with one arm wrapped protectively around the vase. The fish, apparently, continued ranking higher than personal comfort. The sight was simultaneously absurd and strangely endearing. Thus Aerion decided against waking you.

When the car finally came to a stop outside your apartment building, he was already preparing to carry you inside. The sudden absence of motion woke you first.

"Oh." You blinked sleepily. "I fell asleep." A nervous laugh followed. Then immediate panic. Your attention dropped toward the vase.

"Is Balerion alright?"

Aerion almost laughed, but chose to maintain a perfectly straight face.

"He's alive."

Relief visibly washed over you.

Several minutes later, you gathered your belongings while Aerion held the vase so you could step out of the vehicle properly.

Once outside, you reached for it.

"I don't need help getting upstairs."

Aerion handed it over. Your attention shifted toward the jacket still resting around your shoulders.

"Your coat." Since your hands were occupied, he removed it himself. The lingering warmth disappeared immediately.

"Thank you for today." The words emerged awkwardly, yet sincere.

Aerion merely nodded. Then his phone vibrated from the pocket of his trousers. Retrieving it from his pocket, he answered, followed by a faint frown.

A woman's voice, low and sultry, drifted through the speaker. She was asking whether he was still available that evening. Aerion immediately began walking back toward the driver's side of the car, creating distance.

You politely nodded farewell before turning toward your building. Moments later, he pulled away from the curb. And as the car merged onto the road, his gaze drifted toward the rearview mirror one final time.

You were still standing there. Still holding the makeshift aquarium. Still watching the tiny fish Balerion with the same wonder you had displayed all afternoon. The sight drew a small smile from him before he could stop it.

On the other end of the call, the woman was still speaking barely audible to him. Aerion interrupted her.

"I'm busy." Before she could respond, he ended the call. Then blocked the number.

───

For several blissful hours you were wrapped comfortably beneath your blankets, surrounded by the familiar darkness of your apartment, you slept deeply enough that even your alarm would have struggled to wake you.

With classes resuming the following morning, and after the emotional catastrophe that had been the weekend, you had every intention of spending the night unconscious and undisturbed.

That is until your phone vibrated. Insistently. The sound was faint.

A low groan escaped you as you blindly groped across the mattress in search of the offending device. After several failed attempts and one near-fatal encounter with the edge of your bedside table, your fingers finally closed around it.

You squinted at the screen. The brightness assaulted your retinas with the force of a divine punishment. For several moments, all you could see was pain. Eventually, your vision adjusted enough to read the message.

I have a fencing match today at 2 p.m. Don't be late.

─Unknown Number

You stared. The sender was immediately obvious. Every word radiated the same insufferable confidence. The same assumption that the world would naturally rearrange itself around his schedule. That same complete disregard for basic human decency.

You checked the time.

4:03 a.m.

This Targaryen child had sent a message at four in the bloody morning. Whatever fondness had survived yesterday's fishing expedition immediately packed its belongings and departed.

With the composure of a saint rapidly approaching martyrdom, you dropped the phone onto the mattress and buried your face into your pillow. A muffled sound emerged. Somewhere between a groan and a death threat.

"Asshole."

The insult disappeared into the fabric. With a final grunt of irritation, you dragged the blanket over your head and attempted to reclaim what remained of your sleep.

───

Monday arrived with all the enthusiasm of a looming storm cloud. The lingering weakness in your body clung stubbornly to your muscles, making even the simple act of leaving your bed feel like a small victory. After staring at the ceiling for a moment longer than necessary, you finally dragged yourself upright and prepared for the day. A black long-sleeved shirt offered both comfort and concealment, paired with your favorite worn jeans and a pair of faded sneakers abandoned somewhere in the apartment and rediscovered only through necessity.

By the time you arrived at school, the familiar rhythm of classes had already resumed. You greeted Aemon in passing before settling into the mundane procession of lectures, assignments, and professors who seemed determined to stretch every minute into an hour.

When lunchtime arrived, you, Rowan, and Aemon unanimously abandoned the crowded classroom in favor of the open courtyard. The winter air carried a pleasant chill, and scattered leaves drifted lazily across the stone pathways while students occupied every available bench and patch of grass.

Aemon unwrapped his sandwich and glanced toward you with unmistakable curiosity.

"I take it the date was not an utter disaster," he remarked, taking a bite. "Aerion did not appear particularly displeased when he returned home."

The moment the words left his mouth, a groan escaped you. You folded your arms atop the table and buried your face in them, as though hiding from the conversation might somehow erase it from existence. Rowan wasted no time seizing the opportunity.

"They have a child now," she announced between fits of laughter.

Your head snapped upward. The glare you directed at her could have withered entire gardens.

"This is entirely your fault."

"Oh, please," Rowan replied, waving a dismissive hand. "You must admit Valarr's expression alone made the entire evening worthwhile. Besides, Aerion graciously informed you that he intends to pay child support." Her laughter only grew louder.

Without hesitation, you grabbed the orange resting beside your lunch and hurled it across the table. Rowan let out a startled shriek and ducked just in time as the fruit sailed past her shoulder.

"Y/N!" she exclaimed, placing a hand dramatically against her chest. "Did your mother never teach you that food is not to be played with?" The shock in her voice was thoroughly undermined by the grin threatening to break across her face.

"To be fair," Aemon interjected, "you deserved it."

A victorious smile appeared on your face.

"Thank you, Aemon."

You reached over and patted his head affectionately.

"Oooo taking sides are we now?" Rowan mocked offense eyes scanning aemon. For a brief moment, he seemed pleased with himself.

Then he turned toward you.

"So, does that make me an uncle now?" The innocence in his expression was genuine. Unfortunately for him, so was the murderous glare you immediately fixed upon him.

"Do not." The warning carried enough force that Aemon visibly reconsidered every life choice that had led him to that question. His gaze swiftly drifted elsewhere.

Curiosity still lingered, naturally. Any reasonable person would wonder whether the child was a niece or nephew. However, the only object within your immediate reach happened to be a rather substantial textbook on pharmacology, and Aemon possessed enough self-preservation instincts to recognize a threat when he saw one.

Combat had never been among his strengths. Survival, however, was. He wisely abandoned the subject.

"Where is Raymund, anyway?" he asked instead. "Do you not usually spend Monday afternoons with him, Rowan?"

"He is preparing for his fencing match," Rowan replied, adjusting her position before settling more comfortably onto the bench. "There is a practice event scheduled before the tournament in a few months."

The mention of schedules triggered a memory. Your expression darkened instantly. At four o'clock that morning, a particular text message had shattered any hope of a peaceful week.

An exasperated sigh escaped you. Both of them looked your way.

"Do we happen to have any lectures at two today?"

Aemon tilted his head, eyes drifting upward as he searched his memory.

"A short one with Professor Hightower."

"Perfect." The word left your mouth far too quickly. "Would you be willing to take notes for me?"

The two exchanged a glance.

"Where are you going?" Aemon asked, concern creeping into his voice. "Are you feeling alright?"

Meanwhile, a mischievous smile spread across Rowan's face, signaling imminent disaster.

"Or perhaps," she mused sweetly, "you have another rendezvous planned with your son's fathe—" The textbook struck her before she could finish. A sharp yelp echoed across the courtyard.

The remainder of lunch unfolded in predictable fashion. You sat fuming while aggressively devouring your sandwich, Rowan rubbed the various places where the textbook had connected with her person, and Aemon happily enjoyed both his meal and the unfolding spectacle.

As far as he was concerned, lunch had never been more entertaining.

───

Two o'clock arrived far sooner than you would have preferred.

After gathering your belongings, you cast one final glance, frown on your lips, toward Aemon before the two of you separated, each disappearing toward opposite ends of the academy.

The route to the fencing hall was one your feet remembered long before your mind consciously registered it.

The building stood apart from the rest of the campus, its architecture grander and more deliberate than the surrounding lecture halls. Tall windows allowed pale afternoon light to spill across polished wooden floors, while the vaulted ceiling stretched high overhead, supported by dark beams that lent the room an almost cathedral-like dignity. The scent of varnished oak lingered heavily in the air, mingling with traces of leather, steel, and exertion.

The hall buzzed with activity.

Several students stood in small groups fastening protective jackets and gloves while others carefully inspected the edges of their sabers. The occasional metallic ring echoed through the chamber as practice blades struck one another in brief demonstrations. Along the walls, rows of wooden benches held competitors waiting for their turn, some chatting idly while others sat in focused silence.

The sight was achingly familiar. Years ago, you had spent countless afternoons here.

Back then, missing a lecture for the sake of watching Valarr fence had seemed a reasonable sacrifice. You had always justified it by promising yourself you would catch up later.

Valarr had never approved of it. At least, that was what he claimed. Yet every time he spotted you waiting near the entrance, his eyes would brighten in a way he could never quite conceal. He often insisted that his victories belonged to you because knowing you had come to watch him made him fence better. Knowing how seriously you took your studies only deepened his appreciation. Every missed lecture felt like proof that, for a few hours, he had mattered more.

The memory lingered as you stepped into the hall. Your gaze swept across the room. And just as it always had, someone noticed.

Valarr looked up from where he was adjusting his gear. For a fleeting second, something warm stirred within him. The sight was painfully familiar.

You standing at the entrance. Your expression curious as your eyes searched the room. The anticipation laced with quiet excitement. The innocent smile that always appeared whenever you finally found him.

Except this time, your eyes passed over him entirely. And settled upon Lyonel Baratheon.

Valarr's jaw tightened. A scoff escaped him before he could stop it.

Of course.

Lyonel was already making his way toward you. Just as he always had.

"It has been far too long," Lyonel greeted smoothly, stopping before you. "I have scarcely seen you around here. I must confess, I have missed your company."

With theatrical elegance, he offered a courteous bow before lifting your hand and brushing a featherlight kiss across your knuckles.

You rolled your eyes immediately. A laugh escaping in process.

"You're love for theatrics —"

The words never reached completion. A firm arm suddenly wrapped around your waist and pulled you backward.

Your breath caught.

"She's here for me."

The voice was unmistakable. Three words: Arrogant. Confident. Possessive.

Aerion Targaryen stood beside you, one arm secured around your waist as though the matter were already settled.

"Do not entertain any ideas."

Lyonel's grin widened.

"Of course, my prince. Forgive my dreadful manners." The apology was entirely perfunctory, offered more out of amusement than remorse.

Before departing, he offered you a conspiratorial wink. Aerion clicked his tongue.

"Do not allow men to touch you so freely."

You stared at him, mouth agape. The hypocrisy was astounding.

"You always do that," you muttered beneath your breath.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—he did not hear you. Aerion had already moved toward a nearby bench where his fencing gear awaited him.

As he began fastening the protective straps around his arms, he pointed toward the spectator seating.

"Sit over there."

You crossed your arms.

"Why exactly am I here?"

"Moral support." The grin spreading across his face immediately revealed the lie.

You almost laughed. Aerion Targaryen did not require moral support. Not from anyone. And certainly not from a commoner. And definitely not for a fencimg match.

The man had been trained by the finest maître in all of Westeros since childhood.

According to Aemon, Aerion rarely relied solely upon skill despite possessing enough talent to dominate fairly. Whether motivated by amusement, competitiveness, or simple pettiness, he enjoyed finding alternative ways to win.

Unbeknownst to you, Aerion had already chosen you as his most effective weapon against the one of the finest fencers in all of Westeros —his cousin, Valarr Targaryen.

Aerion could already see it. The stiffness in Valarr's shoulders. Tension settling into his stance. The subtle tightening of his jaw.

Every experienced fencer understood the danger of tension. A rigid body reacted slower. Dodging became more difficult and precision suffered. Excitement surged through him.

To make matters even better, Kiera had not come. She had chosen her law courses over the exhibition match.

You, however, had found time. For him. The realization was enough to make Aerion feel victorious before either man had drawn a blade. And judging from the glare Valarr kept sending his way, his cousin had felt the same.

​Deciding to relish the occasion, Aerion sauntered toward Valarr, with the assurance of a man who had already secured his triumph.

"Do not worry, cousin," he drawled. "I have no intention of embarrassing you today. I am attempting to impress a beautiful la—"

A fist collided with his face. The impact sent him sprawling backward onto the polished floor.

The entire hall froze.

Warm blood brushed his lip, and a heavy, suffocating silence descended. Slowly, he raised his fingers to his mouth, finding the tips stained in crimson.

Every trace of his amusement vanished, his pale lilac eyes sharpening with a violent, livid intensity. In their depths, a dangerous calm settled. He spat blood onto the floor, slowly running his tongue across his teeth.

Then he began rising, with every intention of returning the favor with considerably more force.

​A sudden warmth enveloped his face as soft hands cupped his cheeks, causing the fire to evaporate in an instant.

"You're bleeding." Your voice was soft. "Stay still."

Aerion looked up.

​You.

​There was no judgment in your expression—no mockery, only genuine worry. He watched as you retrieved a white handkerchief from your pocket and carefully dabbed at the blood staining his mouth. Across the room, Valarr stared, the raw shock on his face impossible to miss. Aerion noticed it immediately, and in that instant, a terrible idea formed.

​He hated acting injured; his pride bristled at appearing weak, and his ego despised looking defeated. Yet the sheer devastation on Valarr's face made every sacrifice worthwhile. Slowly, dramatically, Aerion allowed himself to lean back until his head settled directly onto your lap.

​You froze. "Aerion—".

He lets out a low grunt, his brow furrowing as he muttered, "It hurts." You resume, tenderly tapping at his jaw.

Meanwhile, the fencing maître had already reached Valarr's side, grasping his arm and delivering a furious lecture regarding sportsmanship and conduct.

Valarr heard none of it. His gaze remained unalterably fixed on you—on Aerion—on the agonizing sight of your fingertips brushing the blood from another man’s skin. Something dark and violently fractured flickered behind his eyes. Without a word, he violently wrenched himself free from the tightening grip, spun on his heel, and strode away into the shadows of the hall, the frantic maître pursuing him in vain.

​Watching his retreating figure, a dull, suffocating ache bloomed within your chest, a heavy convergence of confusion, longing, and betrayal. Valarr Targaryen had always been the very architect of honor, patiemce, and absolute discipline. You had never witnessed him succumb to such erratic fury, and neither had anyone else in the academy. The surrounding hall remained cloaked in an eerie, breathless stillness. Several students stood petrified; a girl nearby pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Even Lyonel Baratheon, a man who habitually extracted humor from the darkest corners of life, had fallen silent. Though an amused smile still lingered at the corners of his lips, he wisely chose not to comment.

A desperate impulse urged you to follow Valarr—to demand answers, to untangle the storm raging in his wake—but reality intervened with cold precision. He belonged to Kiera now. You no longer held a sanctuary in his life, and whatever ghost haunted him was now another woman's burden to bear. The realization cut with a cruelty that defied reason, because despite the months of forced distance, despite every conscious effort to heal, a stubborn fragment of your heart still belonged to him.

​Aerion detected your sudden melancholy immediately. He cataloged the sorrow, the lingering yearning, and an unfamiliar tightness gripped his own chest. The sensation was foreign, deeply uncomfortable, and he resented it instantly. Seeking to shatter the suffocating gravity of the moment, he resorted to the only defense he knew: he let out a dramatic, strained groan and pressed a hand flat against his jaw.

Your attention instantly returned to him. Exactly where he wanted it.

After carefully wiping away the last trace of blood from Aerion's face, you folded the stained handkerchief and handed it to a nearby colleague to dispose in a bin. The injury had never been particularly serious, a split lip and what would likely become an ugly bruise by morning, yet you still found yourself guiding him away from the fencing hall and toward the infirmary, your hand resting lightly against his arm as you navigated the crowded pathways of the academy.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, bathing the grounds in warm gold and amber tones, though the beauty of it barely registered. Your thoughts remained trapped inside the fencing hall, replaying the scene over and over until it became impossible to separate memory from imagination. Every time you blinked, you saw Valarr's expression again. The tension in his jaw. The anger in his eyes. The way he had torn himself free from the fencing maître's grasp and walked away without a single explanation.

Something inside your chest ached with a persistence that bordered on cruelty.

You had spent months trying to convince yourself that what happened between the two of you no longer mattered. You had repeated the same painful truths until they became a mantra: he had chosen someone else, he had left, and whatever existed between you belonged firmly in the past. Yet the man you had witnessed today had not looked indifferent. He had not looked content. Most frustrating of all, he had not looked like a man who had forgotten.

The realization made moving forward feel infinitely more difficult.

When the infirmary finally came into view through the trees, you stopped walking and gently withdrew your hand from Aerion's arm.

"It is just ahead," you said, gesturing toward the stone building. "Rowan should be working there today." You forced a small smile.

"You will be fine from here."

Turning to leave seemed like the simplest solution. Unfortunately, Aerion had never been a man who appreciated simplicity. Before you could take more than a single step, his hand closed around your wrist. The gesture was not rough, but it was firm enough to halt you in your path.

You looked down at his hand before slowly lifting your gaze to meet his.

"I cannot do this, Aerion." A faint crease appeared between his brows.

"What are you talking about?"

You released a tired breath.

"I will find a way to get the money."

His expression only grew more perplexed.

"What money?"

"The money for your bruise." You glanced away briefly.

"The one I gave you."

For a moment, he merely stared at you.

"I cannot promise I will have it by tomorrow," you continued, determined to finish before you lost your nerve entirely, "but I will find a way to repay. Just not like this."

His grip tightened ever so slightly. You finally looked directly at him, and whatever he saw in your expression caused the irritation to vanish.

"I know why you are doing all of this."

The silence that followed was immediate.

You swallowed.

"You're trying to provoke him. And I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

Aerion did not deny it. That alone felt like confirmation.

"I hate what he did to me," you admitted quietly, the words scraping painfully against your throat. Your gaze drifted toward the path ahead.

"But this..." You gestured helplessly between the two of you, encompassing the entire exhausting situation. "Whatever happened yesterday, today, whatever this arrangement has become, it isn't me." The confession left you feeling strangely exposed.

"I cannot do that to him."

Aerion's jaw hardened.

"You owe him nothing." Perhaps that was true. And it should have been enough reason, y et your heart had always possessed a remarkable talent for ignoring such things.

"Maybe I don't," you said softly, "but I still cannot do it." You attempted to pull your hand free. He did not immediately release you.

Instead, he simply stood there, watching you with an intensity that felt unusual even for him. Gone was the amused arrogance he wore like a second skin, replaced by something quieter and far more difficult to understand. For the very first time since you had met him, the habitual arrogance vanished from his features, replaced by a gravity so absolute it made him look like an entirely different man. The weight of that expression made your chest tighten.

"Kostilus." The High Valyrian word slipped from your lips almost unconsciously.

Please.

Something flickered across his face.

The change was subtle enough that you might have imagined it, yet the effect was immediate. His fingers loosened around your wrist, and a moment later his hand fell away entirely.

You offered him a grateful look before turning and walking away. This time he made no attempt to stop you.

You never saw the way he continued standing there long after you had disappeared from view, nor did you witness the slow tightening of his jaw as he stared at the empty path where you had vanished.

───

By the time night settled over the city, exhaustion had seeped into your bones, though sleep remained stubbornly out of reach.

Your apartment sat shrouded in darkness save for the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting silver patterns across the floorboards and walls. The stillness should have been comforting, yet it only amplified every thought you had spent the day attempting to suppress.

Curled beneath your blankets, you finally surrendered to the tears. The sobs came quietly at first before building into something far more difficult to contain. You pressed your face into your pillow in a futile effort to muffle the sound, but grief cared little for dignity.

Everything would have been easier if Valarr had simply forgotten you. If he had moved on completely. If he had looked at Kiera with unwavering devotion and never once glanced in your direction again.

At least then there would have been certainty. At least then you could have hated him. Instead, he continued looking at you as though some invisible thread still connected the two of you despite every effort to sever it. His jealousy, his anger, and the pain that occasionally surfaced behind his composure transformed every encounter into a fresh wound because they suggested a possibility you desperately wished did not exist.

Perhaps he loved you.

The cruelest part was that such a revelation changed nothing.

He had still left. He had still chosen another path. Though knowing that did little to quiet the aching hope your heart stubbornly nurtured.

A fresh wave of tears threatened to overwhelm you when a knock sounded at the door. The sound immediately captured your attention.

Three gentle taps. Measured. Familiar.

Your breath hitched sharply. The distinctive rhythm of the rap against the wood sent a jolt through you; there was only one person who knocked like that. Hope surged through you before caution could intervene.

You practically stumbled from bed as you hurried across the room, your pulse hammering wildly against your ribs. Questions flooded your mind faster than you could process them. You wanted answers. You wanted explanations. You wanted to understand why Valarr had behaved so unlike himself today and why, despite everything that had happened between you, he still possessed the power to unravel you so completely.

Without hesitation, you pulled the door open.

Every thought, every desperate hope, dissolved alongside your expectations. For you were not met by the familiar comfort of mismatched eyes. Instead, a pair of brilliant, vivid lilac stared back at you from beneath a fringe of long lashes, and as stark recognition settled over you, a cold sensation remarkably like dread began to creep through your chest.

Aerion stood framed in the doorway, and your gaze instinctively dropped to the object held in his hands.

<PREVIOUS||NEXT>

Notes: sorry... it was a bit long.

[strawberry0verlord]

girl is the part 2 coming in days or hours I LITERALLY FANT WAIT I BEG U lmaoo BUT THANKS FOR THE RLLY GOOD WRITING

I'm transferring it rn but it's quite long😂. Tysm for following up ❤️

Update: I lied. It's too long and I need to sleep cause I have a hospital appointment tomorrow. Sorry but I promise you the chapter will be extremely long.