π€ summary: in the shadows of the red keep, a daughter of oldtown plays a treatcherous game of masked loyalty. her razor-sharp wit finds its equal in prince valarr targaryen β the golden heir carrying the suffocating weight of a fractured realm. but when the armor of political hostility melts into raw, forbidden passion, the cold reality of the crown demands its bitterest price. a breathless dance of minds and bodies destined to burn out before the dawn, leaving only the devastating cost of duty.
π€ pairing: valarr targaryen x hightower!fem reader
π€ contents/tags: soft smut, enemies to lovers dynamics, political hostility, verbal sparring (they looove teasing each other), heavy angst, hostage situation undertones, post blackfyre rebellion, pre akotsk era, canon divergence (especially for the characters' age, they're like in their early 20s), pregnancy implied, infidelity i guess β let me know if i missed something
The Red Keep did not openly punish House Hightower for its calculations during the late rebellion; it simply invited Oldtown to dance. To the rest of King's Landing, your presence at court was a mark of royal favor, a generous invitation from King Daeron for a daughter of the Reach to brighten the capital. In reality, you were a living pledge of good faith. When Daemon Blackfyre had raised his banners, your family had chosen the safety of their ancient walls, keeping one foot in each camp until the blood dried on the Redgrass Field. Now, you were the beautiful price of that discretion, tasked with smiling at feasts to prove your family's devotion to the Crown.
And Prince Valarr Targaryen seemed to make it his personal duty to ensure you performed your part flawlessly.
The Young Prince carried the heavy gravity of his father, Baelor Breakspear, along with the unmistakable, quiet pride of his heritage. He lacked the traditional, ghost-pale hair of the dragonlords; his haie was rich, dark brown, broken only by a single, striking streak of Targaryen silver at his temple. But it was his eyes that drew the gaze of the court β one a deep, grounding brown, the other a sharp, electric Valyrian violet. He was not a cruel man β the realm knew him as a chivalrous, educated knight β but he was sharply perceptive, and he knew exactly why you were in King's Landing.
"You look remarkably regal today, Lady Hightower", Valarr said, stepping onto the sunlit terrace where you stood looking out over the Blackwater Bay. He wore a doublet of dark velvet, the red dragon of his house stitched neatly over his heart. He didn't approach with the cold arrogance of a captor, but with a slight, amused twitch at the corner of his lips. "One might almost think you own the battlements".
You turned slowly, offering him a perfectly executed, smooth curtsy that lacked even a shred of genuine submission. "The battlements belong to the King, Your Grace. I am merely admiring the view. It is much wider than the one from my chambers".
Valarr leaned his forearms against the stone balustrade, looking out at the bay, thour his mismatched eyes remained fixed on your profile. "A subtle complaint, my Lady? I assure you, my grandfather's court is entirely open to you. Provided, of course, your walks don't lead you too close to the harbor where the ships from Tyrosh dock".
A small, genuine smile touched your lips at the sharpness of his wit. He was testing you, as he always did, referencing the exiled Blackfyre loyalists across the Narrow Sea. "The sea air in King's Landing is entirely too foul for my taste, my Prince. I prefer the fresh breeze of Oldtown. But I appreciate your concern for my health".
"Oh, it is not just your health I am concerned with", Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a lower, more conversational register as he turned his head to face you. The teasing tone in his voice was undeniable, a quiet challenge that had nothing to do with hatred and everything to do with a mutual, dangerous fascination. "My father tells me your house has recently requested a reduction in the Oldtown port tariffs. He asked for my counsel on the matter".
You tilted your head, your eyes locking onto his mismatched ones. "And what did the wise Young Prince advise?".
"I told him that House Hightower is exceptionally prudent", Valarr replied, his lips curving into a soft, ironic smile. "So prudent, in fact, that they might choose to pay the full tariff just to prove how much they love contributing to the royal treasury".
"You are devastatingly generous with my family's gold, Your Grace", you breathed, stepping just an inch closer, your tone a mix of mockery and sharp amusement.
"Only because I know how much you enjoy a challenge, my Lady", he whispered back, his gaze softening with a warmth that completely bypassed his royal duty.
For months, this was your rythm. He did not abuse his power; instead, he used it to draw you out, to force you to match his wit and his intellect. It was a heavy, angsty game of political cat-and-mouse, but beneath the political distrust, a strange, breathless understanding had formed between you. You were both prisoners of your names, playing a part for the realm, and finding the only moments of truth in the sharp, teasing words you traded in the shadows.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a sensory assault of roast meats, heavy spiced wine, and the suffocating warmth of hundreds of bodies packed beneath the high raftered ceiling. King Daeron's court was celebrating the nameday of one of the royal cousins, and the wine flowed with a frantic generosity, as if the realm were collectively trying to drown the lingering memories of the Blackfyre banners.
You sat at the lower end of the high table, dressed in the softest green silk, the bodice embroidered with the silver beacon of your house. It was a calculated choice of attire.
"You are not drinking your wine, my Lady", a quiet, resonant voice noted from behind your shoulder.
You turned your head slightly to find Valarr standing there. He had discarded his formal state velvet for a more tailored, dark charcoal tunic, the three-headed dragon embroidered in subtle, black silk thread over his chest. He looked every bit the chivalrous prince, his posture relaxed, but his mismatched eyes were bright with that familiar, mocking intelligence.
"I prefer to keep my wits about me in King's Landing, my Prince", you replied, your voice a smooth murmur beneath the roat of the feast. "A single cup of your Dornish red might lead me to say something entirely too honest".
Valarr smiled, a genuine, low chuckle that didn't reach the rest of the table. He offered his hand with a flawless, courtly bow. "Then come dance with me. Honesty is far less dangerous when it is whispered to the rhythm of a flut".
The court watched in hushed interest as the Young Prince led the daughter of Oldtown to the center of the hall. The dance was a slow, traditional courtly measure, requiring partners to step close, retreat, and loop around one another without breaking eye contact.
"My father spent the morning discussig the Reach", Valarr murmured as the music brought him close enough for his breath to touch your cheek. His hand on your waist was light, perfectly respectful, yet the heat of it burned through your silk gown. "He thinks your family's sudden enthusiasm for the Crown's grain stores is a sign of true devotion".
"And what does the son think?", you teased, your eyes locking onto his electric violet one, a playful tilt to your lips.
"The son thinks your family is exceptionally clever", Valarr whispered back, his mismatched eyes softening as he spun you gently. "You give us just enough smiles to keep us from looking too closely at your ledgers. It is a marvelous performance. You almost have me fooled".
"Almost?", you stepped closer as the music slowed, your shoulder brushing his chest. "I shall have to try harder then, my Prince. I would hate to disappoint my most attentive audience".
"Oh, you don't disappoint me", he said, his voice suddenly losing its light, teasing edge, dropping into a deeper, more restricted register that made your breath hitch. His hand tightened just a fraction against your waist, pulling you an inch closer than court etiquette strictly allowed. "You frustrate me entirely, but you never disappoint".
The sudden shift from political sparring to raw, unfiltered intimacy hung heavy in the air between you. The angst of your position β the fact that you were a living token of political submission, and he was the prince who could never truly trust your blood β pressed into the space between your chests. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and steady, matching the frantic rhythm of your own pulse.
"You shouldn't say such thing to me, my Prince", you breathed, the playful mask slipping for a fleeting second, revealing the genuine, frightening ache growing in your core. "The court is watching".
"Let them watch", Valarr murmured, his mismatched eyes sweeping over your face with a fierce, quiet intensity that shattered the last of his princely detachment. "They see a Targaryen and an Hightower keeping the peace. They have no idea how difficult you make it".
When the music finally ended, he kissed the back of your hand with a lingering, warm pressure that felt far more like a promise than a formal goodbye. You retreated to your seat with flushing cheeks and a terrifying realization: the verbal armor you had both used to protect yourselves was beginning to melt under the heat of a fire neither of you could control.
The suffocating warmth of the Great Hall did not reach the private solar of the library tower. Here, surrounded by the smell of ancient parchment, dried ink, and cold stone, the world felt distant. You had slipped away from the feast before the final toasts, unable to bear the weight of the court's eyes or the lingering heat of Valarr's hand on your waist.
But you had not been quick enough.
The heavy oak door creaked shut, and the latch clicked into place with a quiet, definitive sound. You turned, your heart instantly leaping into your throat. Valarr stood against the door, his chest heaving slightly as if he had climbed the winding steps in a frantic rush. The charcoal tunic was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled.
"You left without saying goodnight, my Lady", he said, his voice low, raspy with a mix of fatigue and a quiet, building intensity. "My father was quite disappointed. And so was I".
"I thought the Young Prince had performed enough duties for one evening", you replied, your voice trembling slightly despite your besy efforts to maintain your usual aristocratic cool. You backed away until the edge of a heavy oak table pressed against your thighs. "You shouldn't be here, my Prince. If anyone saw youβ".
"No one saw me", he interrupted smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you. His mismatched eyes were wide and dark in the dim candlelight of the solar β the brown eye soft with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, the violet one burning with that familiar, electric hunger. "And for once, I do not care about the court. I am tired of dancing around you, of pretending that your every glance doesn't throw my entire mind into chaos".
"You are teasing me again", you whispered, your fingers gripping the edge of the table behind you as he closed the remaining distance, his body casting a long, commanding shadow over yours. "Is this another lesson in loyalty?".
"Does this feel like politics to you?", Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a breathless whisper as he stopped right in front of you.
He didn't grab you roughly; instead, his large, calloused hand rose slowly, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently bryshing against your cheek. His skin was incredibly hot against yours. His thumb traced the soft line of your jaw, tilting your head up to force you to meet his gaze.
"You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met", he breathed, his eyes dropping to your lips. "You look at me as if I am nothing but a target for your wit".
"And you look at me as if I am a riddle you cannot solve", you challenged softly, your breath hitching as his thumb pressed lightly against your bottom lip.
"I don't want to solve you", Valarr growled quietly, the last of his princely restraint finally snapping. "I want to keep you".
Before you could offer another retort, his mouth closed over yours. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a courtly lover; it was a deep, viscerally intense collision of two forces that had spent months building an unbearable tension. Valarr tasted of spiced wine and dark, untamed fire. His mouth was demanding but not cruel, parting your lips with an urgent, breathless necessity that made a soft, involuntary gasp escape your throat.
Your hands, which had spent the evening folded neatly in your lap, flew to his chest, gripping the dark fabric of his tunic before sliding up to wind tightly into his hair, your fingers tangling near the silver streak at his temple. You pulled him closer, matching his desperation with your own, the fear of your political reality completely melting away beneath the heat of his skin.
Valarr let out a low, guttural groan against your lips, his hands moving to your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he lifted you effortlessly onto the heavy oak table. The green silk of your gown bunched around your thighs, the cool wood of the table a sharp contrast to the overwhelming warmth of his body as he pressed himself between your knees.
"Valarr", you breathed his name into the dark space between his mouth and your neck as his lips tracked a burning path down your jawline. His teeth nipped lightly at the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a violent jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core.
His movements became a quiet, intense negotiation of silk and skin. With steady, reverent hands, he unlaced the back of your gown, the fabric slipping down to exposed the pale curve of your shoulders to the pale moonlight filtering through the high window. He stopped for a brief moment, his mismatched eyes sweeping over you with a fierce, quiet awe that felt far more intimate than any touch.
When his bare chest pressed flat against yours, the heat was suffocating, a magnificent sort of torture that made your head fall back against his shoulder. His hands traced the line of your spine, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips, anchoring you to him as he began to move.
The rhythm was slow, deliberate, and entirely free of the polished decorum of the court. It was a heavy, frictioned heat that built with every ragged intake of breath, every quiet sigh you muffled against his neck. You arched into him, your nails digging into the smooth, scarred muscles of his shoulders, tracing the shap of the dragon lord who had completely abandoned his crown for the sake of your touch. The angst that had defined your relationship β the knowledge that you were from opposing sides of a bleeding realm β only fueled the fire, turning the intimacy into a desperate, vital confession that neither of you could put into words.
The world narrowed to the scent of ink, sweat, and silk, to the frantic cadence of his hearbeat against your ribs. The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a golden thread pulling you toward a precipice until your breath caught completely. You shuddered against him, a silent, gasping wave of release rippling through your body. Hearing your broken cry, Valarr let out a ragged, unprincely sound of his own, his body tensing completely as he buried his face in your hair, holding you so tightly against his chest it felt as though he were trying to bind your very souls together before the dawn could rip you apart.
The light that broke through the high windows of the library tower was a cold, pale grey, smelling of the early morning mist that rolled off the Blackwater. It illuminated the reality of the room with a geometric, unyielding precision. The ancient tomes remained silent on their shelves; the oak table was just wood; and the green silk gown pooled on the floor belonged to a daughter of Oldtown who knew, better than anyone, that the dawn always demanded payment for the secrets of the night.
Valarr was already dressed, standing near the narrow window with his back to you. The silver streak at his temple looked stark, almost sharp against the dim morning light. He was fastening the cuffs of his dark tunic, his movements stiff, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of the frantic warmth that had guided his hands hours before. The prince had returned, and with him, the crushing weight of a fractured realm.
"The ravens from Tyrosh arrived before the first watch", Valarr said, his voice flat, though there was a slight, telltale strain in his throat. He did not turn to face you. "The council has been in session since the hour of the nightingale. My father has just pressed the royal seal to the parchment".
You sat up slowly, pulling the silk of your gown over your shoulder. For all your months of practice, your fingers fumbled slightly with the laces β a tiny, traitorous tremor that made your chest ache. A sudden, sharp image of an unknown Essosi lady standing beside him under a wedding canopy flashed through your mind, and a bitter, toxic wave of jealousy reared its head, tasting like ash.
"Then the Archon accepted the terms", you said, forcing your voice into its familiar, smooth cadence, though your eyes remained fixed on the stone floor. "How comforting. I was terribly worried the Crown wouldn't find anyone willing to tolerate the family temper".
Valarr finally turned his head, his mismatched eyes locking into yours. The violet eyes was hooded, but his brown one held a profound, raw sorrow that shattered his princely detachment. He took a step toward you, his hand half-raising as if he wanted nothing more than to kneel beside you and undo the day. "An alliance of blood to secure the Narrow Sea against the Blackfyre pretenders. I am to wed Lady Kiera of Tyrosh. The Hand makes the announcement at noon".
You stood up, quickly wrapping your dark cloak around your shoulders like armor, desperate to hide the bruises and the wildness of the night. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tilting your chin up to offer him a sharp, quick-witted smile. "A Tyroshi bride. How exotic, Your Grace. I hear they dye their hair in spectacular shades across the sea. It will certainly make the royal court look less...tedious. You might even find it an improvement".
You expected him to counter with his usual sharp wit, to keep playing the game. But Valarr didn't smile.
Instead, he closed the distance between you, his boots making no sound against the rushes until he was standing close enough for you to feel his heat. He didn't touch you, but his mismatched eyes searched your face with a terrifying, agonizing intensity. He looked at the tightness of your jaw, the faint flush on your neck, and the slight shimmer of unshed tears you were fighting so fiercely to suppress.
After months of studying your every shift, your every mark, Valarr didn't see the clever lady of Oldtown anymore. He read the truth written directly into your eyes: the grief of letting him go, and the quiet, raging jealousy of the woman who was about to watch him belong to the realm.
"Don't", Valarr whispered, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of royal authority. His mismatched eyes were bright with a deep, aching regret. "Do not hide behind your words today. Not after last night. You think I want this? You think I want to look at anyone else?".
The quick-witted armor you had worn so proudly completely dissolved. Your breath hitched, and for a single, fleeting second, the raw pain of your political reality hung naked between you. You loved the fire, but it was going to burn someone else.
"It doesn't matter what we want, Valarr", you breathed, your voice losing its sharpness, turning soft and terribly vulnerable in the grey light. You took a half-step back, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself, but your eyes remained locked on his. The jealousy, the grief, and the sudden, terrifying realization of your shared helplessness finally bled through your defenses.
Valarr took a ragged breath, stepping closer, his hand hovering near your cheek but never making contact. The sheer sorrow in his mismatched eyes was heavy, suffocating. "I am a Prince of the Blood. I am in line to the throne". He spoke the titles not with pride, but as if they were iron chains wrapping around his throat. "And I am not free to choose".
"And I am an Hightower", you whispered back, the words breaking on your lips. "My family sent me here to buy back their favor with my presence. My hand belongs to whatever alliance my father needs next. Neither of us had ever been free, Valarr".
"Last night we were", he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate register. His mismatched eyes burned with a sudden, hopeless passion as he looked at you, a raw hunger that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the man he was forbidden to be. "Last night, there was no throne. There was no duty. There was only us".
"And today the sun is up", you replied, a single, hot tear finally slipping down your cheek, cutting through the perfect mask you had worn for months. You stepped back, out of his reach, though every fiber of your being screamed to close the distance. "Go and marry your Tyroshi lady, Valarr. Be the prince the realm needs you to be".
Valarr's jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to pull you back into his arms. The silence between you was thick with everything you were forced to sacrifice upon the altar of duty.
"Farewell, my Lady", he whispered, the finality of the word heavy and bitter in the quiet room.
You looked at him one last time, letting your eyes linger on the silver streak at his temple, before lowering your gace with a heartbreak that felt as ancient as the stones beneath your feet.
"May the gods bless you, my Prince", you breathed.
You turned and walked down the long, empty corridor into the morning light, leaving the Young Prince alone in the quiet of the tower, both of you broken by the very Crown you were born to serve.
Epilogue
The grand maesterβs voice had barely faded from the Great Hall when the first ravens were sent. Beneath the heavy stone arches of the Red Keep, Prince Valarr sat alone in his chambers, the formal celebratory toasts still bitter on his tongue. He dismissed his guards, locked the heavy oak door, and dipped his quill into the ink by the fading light of a single candle.
To the Lady of Hightower,
The Grand Maester read the announcement before the Iron Throne this morning, and the lords of the court offered their hollow congratulations for the birth of your daughter. I smiled, I nodded, I drank to your Houseβand inside, I felt the phantom weight of a ghost. I write this now in the dead of night, in a room that feels far too large and far too cold, where no Kingsguard or councillor can see the ink bleed on the parchment. They expect me to be the Prince of Dragonstone, the dutiful heir who wedded for the realm, but my mind is a traitor. It drags me back to that small room in the grey light of the dawn, to the warmth of your skin and the bitter truth of our farewell. I am surrounded by the heavy stones of the Red Keep, yet I am entirely hollow. I love you still. I miss you in every breath, in every silence, in every law I am forced to uphold. May the Seven guard your little girl, though I envy the life she will lead, growing up beneath the shadow of the beacon that keeps you from me.
Yours,
Valarr
Weeks passed before the reply returned, carried not by a royal courier, but hidden deep within the mundane trade ledgers of the Citadel. In the quiet sanctum of her solar in Oldtown, you had waited until your lord husband was asleep to press your signet ring into the soft wax, your hands trembling in the dark.
To the Prince of Dragonstone,
Your letter arrived hidden beneath the ledger of the Citadel grain reports, and I read it until the paper grew soft under my fingertips. Do not speak of that grey dawn as a curse, Valarr; it is the only sanctuary I have left when the world grows too loud. I wear my green velvet, I sit at my lord's side, and I play the perfect lady of Oldtown with a grace that would make my father proud. Yet, it is all a mummerβs farce. My heart did not stay here. It remained with the dragon, left behind in the ashes of the night we shared. I love you, and the longing does not fade; it merely learns to hide in the quiet hours before the castle wakes. You speak of my daughter, and my soul aches to hear it from your lips. I only pray to the Mother that one day, the Gods will be kind enough to bless you, too, with another child.
The final sentence of your message left a cold, sharp ache in Valarr's chest. Caged in his royal duties, the word haunted his thoughts for three days and three nights, until the ambiguity became a torment he could no longer endure. Strangling his own caution, he penned a rushed, demanding note.
Your response burns through me, but it leaves a question I cannot silence. You pray the Gods bless me with "another" child. My wife shows no signs of carrying an heir, and my bed is as cold as the Wall. I have no children to speak of. Why do you use that word? What is the meaning of your prayer? Speak plainly, I beg of you, for the doubt is tearing me apart.
The final reply did not come in a formal letter, but on a jagged strip of vellum, sealed with no crest, only a smear of plain wax. It was delivered directly to Valarr's hand by a silent, hooded rider who vanished into the King's Landing docks before the sun rose.
The archives of Oldtown hold many secrets, but some truths are too dangerous for ink and ravens. If you truly wish to understand the word I chose, my Prince, then leave your crown behind. Come to the High Tower. Come alone, by the light of the thief's moon.
The journey south had been a blur of midnight roads and strained horses. Valarr had ridden hard, cloaked in rough-spun wool, his Valyrian features buried deep beneath a heavy hood. To the realm, the Prince of Dragonstone was resting in his chambers; to the dark roads of the Reach, he was just another lonely traveler.
When he finally breached the private, lower gardens of the High Tower, the sheer scale of the citadel loomed above him like a giant of pale stone, its beacon cutting a green swathe through the starry sky. The air here was heavy with the scent of salt from the Whispering Sound and the sweet, suffocating perfume of night-blooming jasmine. Every shadow seemed to stretch and whisper. Valarrβs hand rested white-knuckled on the pommel of his sword, his heart hammering a fierce, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
A rustle of silk broke the silence.
You stepped out from the archway of a weeping willow, looking like a spirit of the woods in a gown of deepest forest green. In your arms, nestled closely against your chest, you carried a bundle wrapped in thick, white wool.
Valarr took a step forward, his hood falling back just enough to catch the faint starlight on his high cheekbones. His voice was a raw, trembling whisper. "I am here. No ravens, no riddles. Tell me".
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with tears that reflected the green glow of the tower above. You didn't speak a word. Instead, you stepped closed, until the warmth of your body reached him through the chill night air. With trembling fingers, you gently folded back the edge of the wool blanket.
The thief's moon broke through the clouds, casting a pure, silvery light directly upon the infant's face.
Valarr froze. The breath died in his throat, and the world seemed to stop spinning.
The child was not a babe of Hightower stock, but she was not a traditional dragon either. She was his perfect, impossible mirror. Beneath the moonlight, Valarr stared at a head of soft brown hair, broken by distinct, striking streaks of pure white that glowed like fresh winter snow. As if sensing the sudden stillness, the little girl stirred, her eyelids fluttering open for a brief, fleeting second.
Valarr felt his heart shatter and mend all at once. Looking back up at him were his own mismatched eyes: one a deep, warm brown, and the other, a haunting, unmistakable Valyrian violet.
A dragon born in the heart of the beacon, carrying his exact bloodline written on her face.
"My husband believes she was born too early", you whispered, your voice cracking as you pressed a soft kiss to the baby's forehead. "The maesters called her survival a miracle, a blessing from the Mother. But she is no miracle, Valarr. She is the night we stole from the dawn. She is ours".
A tear slipped down Valarr's cheek, hot and unbidden. He reached out with a hand that shook violently, his thumb brushing the soft brown and white hair on the baby's head. The crushing weight of the Iron Throne, the politics, the arranged marriage, the duty that had broken them β it all evaporated, replaced by a sharp, beautiful agony.
"My lord husband has named her Jocelyn", you continued, your gaze locking onto his with a fierce, defiant pride. "A proper name for a lady of the Reach. But she does not belong to the Reach, Valarr. She deserves a name that carries the blood of Old Valyria, like her father".
"Daenys", Valarr breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer. "Like The Dreamer, the one who saved us from the Doom of Valyria".
"Daenys", you agreed, smiling through your tears.
Valarr leaned down, his lips brushing the baby's warm cheek. He did not promise her kingdoms, nor did he speak of crowns or glory. He only gave her the one truth he could offer: that no matter what lie the world forced her to live, she belonged to the blood of the dragon.
He closed his eyes, whispering into the quiet dark in the low, ancient tongue of his ancestors: "Bona jΔdo Jocelyn iksΔ, mΔri Γ±an Daenys iksΔ. Ao Γ±uha zaldrΔ«zes iksΔ, sΔte". (To the world you are Jocelyn, but to me you are Daenys. You are my dragon, always).
He wrapped his arms around you both, pulling mother and child into a tight, desperate embrace hidden in the green shadows. You were divided by laws, by oceans, and by kingdoms β but you were bound forever now, by blood and silver, under the watchful eye of the High Tower.
actually, i will post valarr x hightower!reader oneshot later and i'll write something about hotd season 3 ep.1-2 just to share my opinion and hear yours as well.
still haven't finished my exams, but who cares?? it's dragons season.
It is said that Jacaerys Velaryon leapt free and clung to a piece of smoking wreckage for a few heartbeats, until some crossbowmen on the nearest Myrish ship began loosing quarrels at him. The prince was struck once, and then again. More and more Myrmen brought crossbows to bear. Finally one quarrel took him through the neck, and Jace was swallowed by the sea.
hello thereβ‘ β i'm alive and kinda well. i'm so focused on my last exams and the heatwave doesn't help actually. i will come back soon, i promise. i'm so so sorry β‘
hello thereβ‘ β after the exam on monday i'll post baelor x niece next part and maybe something else (still don't know what yet).
also, i'm so excited for hotd season 3. can't wait to see my favorite dysfunctional family and their crazy friends on screen again. but i'm mentally not fully prepared to face what's coming.
hey!! i'm sorry but what about baelor x niece!reader?
hello thereβ‘β i'll post it soon.
don't worry, i haven't forget about it. it's just that i have barely time to think right now, the final exams are draining the life out of me. but the next part will be out soonβ‘
and also, thank you so much for sticking with the story so farβ‘
RULES: Make a poll with 10 of your favourite shows. They can be just 10 shows you loved watching or your top 10 tv shows of all time. Then tag 10 people.
thank you @vhagar-balerion-meraxes for tagging me β‘β‘ (love youβ‘)
Choose your fighter
Game of Thrones
Friends
House of the Dragon
The Last Kingdom
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Vikings
The Mandalorian
The White Queen
Obi-Wan Kenobi
Stranger Things
Voting ended onJun 18
No pressure tagβ‘: @thenameswinter99 @sunfyredefender77 @anedpev @alicentismyqueen @aegonette @witch-of-letters @westerosi-archivist @thewindsofwolves @alicentdeservedbetter @blue-aconite and whoever wants to join!β‘
β§ summary: within the cold, unforgiving walls of the red keep, two opposites collide in the dead of the night. a lady-in-waiting, raised to value duty and perfection above all else, discovers the shattered reality behind prince daeron "the drunken".
β§ pairing: daeron targaryen (the drunken) x fem!reader
β§ contents/tags: soft/fluff, hurt/comfort, panic!attacks, severe!anxi3ty, sleep deprivation, vivid descriptions of dragon dreams and impending doom, mention of alcohol as coping mechanism for traum4, pre akotsk era, canon divergence
β§ word count: 2k+
other works
notes: hello there β‘ β based on this request. hope you like itβ‘ sorry it took a while, i was busy :')
The Red Keep was a labyrinth of echoing stones and suffocating expectations. For a woman of your standing, the castle was not a home; it was a stage. Every morning, before the sun have even kissed the Blackwater Bay, you were already awake, breathing became a secondary concern to posture.
Your mother, a woman whose heart was forged from the same unyielding iron as the Great Gates, had raised you with a single, devastating philosophy: "A lady is the ink with which history is written; if she blots the page, the entire story is ruined". You remembered a summer in your youth, perhaps your tenth year, when you had tripped during a formal dance at a harvest ball. You hadn't even fallen, merely stumbled, but the look of pure, curdled disappointment on your mother's face had stayed with you longer than any physical bruise. You had spent the next three days in a darkened room, practicing your steps until your slippers bled.
As a lady-in-waiting to Lady Kiera of Tyrosh, you were the epitome of that harsh upbringing. Your dressed were never wrinkled, your hair was a masterpiece of braids and silk, and your voice never rose above a melodic, controlled murmur. You moved through the draughty halls like a ghost of perfection, carrying the weight of your family's honor on your narrow shoulders.
To you, duty was a religion. And that was precisely why you loathed Prince Daeron Targaryen.
He was the blot on the page. Known to the court as Daeron the Drunken, he was a prince who traded his dignity for the bottom of a wine flagon. You had watched him from afar for months β stumbling through the gardens, his eyes unfocused and glazed, his sandy brown hair matted with sweat. To you, he was an insult. He had been given the greatest gift in the world β the blood of the dragon β and he was throwing it away while you struggled every day just to keep your chin at the correct angle.
Every time you passed him in the Great Hall, you felt a surge of visceral disgust. You woul look at him with eyes as cold as the Wall, your spine so straight it looked ready to sharp. You saw the way his lips would curl in a defensive, bitter sneer when you glided past. You were the Perfect Lady, and he was the Royal Failure. You hated him because he was allowed to be broken, while you were forced to be a statue.
The night of the encounter began as many other. The air was thick with the scent of old incense and the damp salt of the sea. You had just finishe a grueling evening of service, reading Tyroshian poetry to Lady Kiera until your throat was dry. The moon was a silver bone in a sky of ink as you began the long walk back to your quarters.
The Red Keep at night was a different beast. The tapestries of ancient kings seemed to watch you with judgmental eyes, and the shadows stretched like grasping fingers. You walked with your candle held high, the flame steady β a reflection of your own discipline.
But as you turned the corner near the library, a sound broke the stillness. It wasn't the rhythmic clanking of a Gold Cloak's patrol. It was a ragged, wet gasp, followed by a frantic thumping, like a trapped bird beating its wings against a stone cage.
You stopped, the flickering candlelight casting long, distorted shadows against the masonry. In a deep, arched alcove, you saw a figure. At first, you though it was a beggar who had snuck past the gates, but the shimmer of a fine silk doublet β now stained and rumpled β gave him away.
It was Daeron.
But he wasn't drunk. Not tonight. He was slumped against the freezing stone, his head between his knees, his entire frame shaking with such violence that his heels were drumming a frantic rhythm against the floor.
Your first instinct was to turn away. The lady in you recoiled at the sight of such raw, unkempt emotion. Disgraceful, you thought. Another night of excess and shame. But as you turned to leave, a sound escaped him β a broken, high-pitched whimper of genuine, agonizing terror. It wasn't the sound of a drunkard; it was the sound of a man facing his own executioner in the dark.
"Prince Daeron?", you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to remain poised.
He didn't look up. "Go away", he choked out, his voice a jagged ruin. "Leave me to my madness, little saint. Go back to your nests of silk and propriety. You shouldn't be here. You'll get your skirts dusty".
Ignoring the voice of your mother in your head β the one that told you a lady never touches a man in the shadows β you knelt beside him. The ston floor was freezing, and you could feel the dust of centuries clinging to your fine skirts, but for the first time in your life, you didn't care.
"You are not well, My Prince", you said, reaching out a tentantive hand. The moment your fingers brushed his shoulder, he flinched as if you had touched him with a red-hot iron.
"I am never well!", he shouted, finally snapping his head up. His violet eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown wide with a primal terrifying panic. "How can I be well when the world is burning in my head? How can I be well when I see the end of us all before it even begins?".
He lunged forward, his fingers digging into your wrists with a strength born of desperation. His hands were like ice, yet he was sweating. "I saw it again. Just now. The moment I closed my eyes to rest. I saw a dragon, massive and black β so large its wings blotted out the sun. It lay dead in the mud, its heart stilled, its fire extinguished. And beside it...a knight. A common, wandering knight with no name, standing over the corpse of a god, watching the world turn to ash".
He began to hyperventilate, his chest heaving in jagged, uneven bursts. "It's coming. The doom of my house. I see the fire, I smell the copper of the blood, I feel the heat of the pyre. Every time the sun goes down, the dragons die, and I am the only one who has to stand watch at their funeral".
You stared at him, the candle light reflecting in the tears streaming down his face. You had heard the whispers of Dragon Dreams, the curse of the Targaryen bloodline, but you had awlays dismissed them as the dramatic excuses of an eccentric family. Looking at him now, seeing the raw, unadulterated horror in his eyes, you realized it wasn't a legend. It was a physical weight β a psychic burden that was crushing the soul out of him.
"This is...why you drink...", you whispered, the realization hitting you with the force of a physical blow. All those months of judgment, all those sneers of The Drunken Prince β they were all wrong.
"I drink to kill the dreams...", he laughed, a hollow, jagged sound that broke into a sob. "Wine is the only wall I can build. If I am drunk enough, the black dragon stays in the shadows. If I am sober...I am a prophet of the grave. Tell me, Lady of Duty...what is the 'honorable' path for a man who carries the weight of a thousand deaths in his mind?".
For the first time in your life, the armor of your upbringing shattered. Your parents had taught you how to act, how to speak, and how to represent your name. But they had never taught you what to do for a man who was drowning in a sea of time.
"I am sorry...", you said, and the words felt heavy and real. You reached out and, this time, he didn't pull away. You pulled his head to your shoulder, letting his forehead rest against the crook of your neck. "I judged you for your weakness, but I did not know the strength it took just to stand up every morning with that fire in your head".
Daeron let out a long, shuddering breath. He leaned into you, his hand clinging to your waist like a child afraid of the dark. The silence of the hallway swallowed you both. In that moment, the hierarchy of the court vanished. There was no prince, no lady-in-waiting β only two sould in the dark, one terrified and the other offering a anchor.
"Help me to my room...", he murmured against your skin. "Please. If the guards see me like this...if my father sees me...I cannot bear the look in their eyes. Not tonight".
The journey to his chambers was a tense, agonizing crawl. You supported his weight, his arm draped heavily over your shoulders. You could feel the heat of his body through his doublet, a stark constrast to the chilled air of the castle. Every time a shadow moved or a torch flickered, your heart leaped into your throat.
You passed a bust of Aegon the Conqueror, and for a moment, the stone eyes seemed to judge you for your shattered propriety. You were a Lady-in-Waiting, a woman whose reputation was her only currency. If you were caught now, your life as you knew it would be over. Yet, as you looked at Daeron's pale, sweat-slicked face, you realized you didn't care about the Perfect Lady anymore. She felt like a stranger, a doll made of wood and paint.
"Almost there", you whispered, your voice a soothing balm. "Just few more steps, Daeron. I have you".
His chambers were a chaotic reflection of a fractured mind. The hearth was a heap of grey ash, and the air smelled of old parchment and stale wine. Scattered across the desk were frantic sketches β dragons with broken wings, circles of fire, and names of kin crossed out in dark, aggressive ink. This was the laboratory of a man trying to solve a puzzle that had no solution.
You eased him onto the furs of his bed. The room was dark, so you moved to light a candle, but he caught your hand, his grip desperate.
"Don't leave", he pleaded. "The knight...he's waiting in the corners of the room. He's waiting for me to close my eyes so he can show me the end again".
"I'm not leaving", you promised.
You sat on the edges of the mattress, and without hesitation, he moved, curling up against you. He buried his face in your lap, his arms winding around your waist as if you were the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
You began to stroke his hair, the sandy brown strands feeling like a cool silk between your fingers. You began to speak, your voice a soft, rhythmic hum that filled the empty spaces of the room. You didn't talk of duty or kings; you told him of the Tyroshian coast, of the way the sun looked when it hit the sea, and of the quiet, mundane things of the world that didn't involve prophecies of fire.
"Why are you doing this?", he asked, his voice muffled by your skirts. "You've looked at me with such hate for so long. I thought you were made of marble".
"I thought I had to be", you confessed, your own voice cracking. "My parents...they taught me that any emotion was a crack in the foundation. I hated you because you were the person I was most afraid of becoming. I was afraid of losing control".
"Control is an illusion", Daeron whispered, his breathing finally beginning to slow. "We are all just leaves in a storm. But tonight...the storm feels a little further away".
As the hours ticked by, the castle grew even quieter. Your back began to ache, and the cold of the night seeped through the stone walls, but you didn't move. You watched his face soften in the dim light. The lines of terror that usually etched his brown began to smooth out, replaced by the peaceful mask of a man who had finally found a moment of silence.
You leaned down, pressing a chaste, soft kiss to his temple. "Sleep well, Daeron", you whispered. "The black dragon is gone. The knight has ridden away. There is only the wind against the stones and the warmth of this room. I am here. I am watching".
Every time he stirred or let out a soft, subconscious moan, you would tighten your hold, whispering sweet, nonsense words of comfort until his breathing leveled out again. You became his sentry, guarding the borders of his mind against the horror of the future.
As the first grey light of dawn began to creep through the heavy velvet curtains, you realized that your parents had been wrong about everything. Duty wasn't just about being a perfect statue for the world to admire. Sometimes, the highest, most sacred duty was to be the shield for a broken heart that had no one else to turn to.
You remained awake, curled around the sleeping prince as the sun began to rise over King's Landing. You were exhausted, your reputation was at risk, and your life would likely never be the same. But as you looked down at Daeron β peaceful, at last, in your arms β you knew that you had never been more perfect than you were in this messy, silent, and beautiful moment.
You would stay until the sun was high, ensuring that when the Drunken Prince finally woke, he would find not a shadow, but a light.
hello there! okay so, i re-read my valarr x hightower!fem reader and didn't like it. so i will rewrite it and correct it and then post it.
while i was on my drafts, i found out i have an old daeron the drunken x reader oneshot, it was a request that someone asked long time ago (i'm sorryy). so, i'll post it now. whoever asked for it, forgive me!
