Titus Danforth is a man deeply obsessed with one person, you.
Titus has power. Goddammit his family rule the globe. He can have anything. Take anything. The one thing he wants? The maid who looks as if the world has hope. You’re below him, in power and status. But he wants you below him. On your knees. Seeing that the only hope you need is him.
Titus Danforth shouldn’t be having wet dreams at his age. But the thought of bending you over, anywhere in this goddamn mansion, and fucking you from behind? That’s his damned heaven. Or perhaps, in his case, Hell. You’d take him so nicely. Like you’re made for him. Begging for more. Then he’s awake. Sat up. Mind still on you.
Titus Danforth grabs your chin, makes you look at him. Grip tight enough to leave a mark. His eyes should be cold. That’s what you’ve been warned about. But they’re not. Pupils blown with greed. Leaning down to take your lips between his, kissing you with such harshness that when he pulls away your blood trails down his chin. Mixing with his salvia.
Titus Danforth will marry you. He’s certain of it. No one can stop him. His father’s dead. Ursula knows not to cross him. Not when he wears the ring. So he will marry you. You just have to understand and see how deeply he loves you. This is love, after all.
Titus Danforth kills for you. A man looks at you? Dares to open his mouth to speak to you? Titus is already there, hands around his neck. Eyes on you as he squeezes. But you’re not scared. And that does something even more to him.
Valarr's betrothed cannot resist the temptation to test him, pressing at his patience, dance with danger, and discover just how jealous a dragon can become. Each tease a spark thrown on dry straw.
Warnings: slight insecurity, jealousy, possessiveness, slight suggestiveness, mentions of infidelity, Aerion Targaryen (he's his own warning) Valarr’s patience being tested by his family.
Valarr Targaryen! x Betrothed! Reader
WC: 3.4k
Your betrothed lived up to every whisper of praise that followed him into the room. He was every bit the charming prince your maids had sighed over, every inch the gentleman your uncle had praised. Always courteous, never a word too sharp or a touch too bold. He was the perfect suitor, plucked from the pages of a novel.
That is what any ordinary lady would say. One who did not notice the almost undetectable falter in his smile when another man stood too close to you. One blind to the way his knuckles would gleam white when a lord other than himself dared to offer you a compliment, or how his head would turn, sharp and precise as a hawk’s, the moment he heard your laugh ring out at a joke you’d shared with someone else.
But you were not ordinary. You saw it all. The subtle cracks in his princely composure, the flicker of something raw and possessive behind his violet eyes before he smoothed his features back into a mask of pleasantry. It was a fascinating performance, and for a time, you simply watched.
Yet, watching bred a dangerous curiosity. That small, observant part of you began to wonder what lay beneath the mask. What would it take, you pondered, to make him shatter completely? To see the dragon the songs promised, rather than the gentleman he presented?
And so, with a smile as sweet as poison, you began.
It was the beginning of spring when a summons came for Valarr in the late hour, an unusual request that did not escape the prince's notice. He found his father the king in the rounded chamber, the small council assembled around them like stone sentinels. It was there they informed him that the time had come for him to wed. As the future of the realm, they explained, he must secure a match that would serve the crown politically, a union that would produce heirs whose legitimacy none would dare question. Valarr nodded, accepting the decree as he had been taught to accept all things. But beneath his composed expression, his heart wavered, not with defiance, but with the quiet uncertainty of a man surrendering to a choice he had never truly possessed.
"You will wed my niece," Lord Lannister announced, his voice carrying the weight of a arrangement already made.
The Lord of Casterly Rock allowed a pause to stretch, savouring the moment before adding with a knowing smirk, "I assure you, her beauty will not disappoint the prince."
Valarr had heard whispers of the girl, of course, who in the realm hadn't? Tales of her loveliness had circulated through court like perfume through a garden. But she had been kept hidden from public eyes for some time, a mystery veiled in shadow and rumour, and he had never been granted the chance to see her for himself. He did not know if the stories held truth.
Still, he inclined his head and accepted. It was his duty. Yet as he left the chamber, a quiet hope stirred within him, a selfish, private wish that for once, the praise might prove to be true.
And so the Targaryen procession wound its way west, following the gold-paved roads that led to Casterly Rock. It was tradition, after all for the groom to journey to his bride's home, to collect her with honour and carry her back to his own. Valarr had tried to take comfort in the ritual, in the weight of history behind each mile.
But when they arrived, something was amiss.
Servants bustled in the courtyard like startled birds, their movements too quick, their smiles too wide. They descended upon the royal party with breathless urgency, insisting the prince and his father must be exhausted from their journey, that refreshments awaited within, that they simply must come inside and rest.
Valarr saw through it. He was certain his father did too. But Baelor, ever patient, ever pious, merely nodded and allowed himself to be ushered into the great hall.
They were made to wait.
The minutes stretched, then bled into an hour. Valarr paced the length of the chamber, pretending to study the tapestries, the Lannister gold worked into every thread. His father sat in serene silence, hands folded, a man accustomed to waiting on the will of gods and men alike.
When at last the girl's uncle appeared, the Lord who had raised her, they said, though the distinction was noted, his explanation came with an apologetic bow.
"My prince, forgive the delay. She wishes to look her best for you. A woman's vanity, you understand."
Valarr did not understand. But he nodded, as he always did, because arguing would accomplish nothing. Because this was duty, and duty required patience.
Baelor, however, spoke before the man could withdraw. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of the Iron Throne behind it.
"We do not plan to stay long. See that she is ready by morning."
The lord's smile faltered, just briefly. He bowed again and retreated.
By nightfall, Valarr's chambers felt like a cage.
The thought gnawed at him. That he had somehow already managed to frighten his bride before even laying eyes upon her. What had she heard? What fears had taken root in the hours of waiting? Or worse, was this delay her own design? A small rebellion before the gilded cage closed around her too?
He needed air.
The corridors of Casterly Rock were a labyrinth of stone and shadow, but Valarr remembered the way to the gardens they had been shown upon arrival. He moved quietly, not wishing to be seen, not wishing to explain himself to anyone.
The night air met him like a blessing cool and clean, carrying the scent of something flowering in the dark. The gardens sprawled before him, silver in the moonlight, and for a moment he simply stood there, breathing.
Then he saw her.
She was kneeling by a small pool, her fingers trailing through water that mirrored the stars above. Her hair spilled down her back like spun moonlight, and her gown was pale as mist, clinging to curves that seemed more dreamed than real. When she tilted her head, listening to some night sound he could not hear, the moonlight caught the line of her throat, the soft curve of her cheek.
A forest nymph. A creature of water and shadow and whispered legend, conjured by the night to torment him.
Valarr forgot to breathe.
And then she turned, and her eyes found his in the darkness.
The memory held him for a moment longer, the hush of the garden, the silver on her skin, the way his heart had stopped and started again all at once.
"Your prince is dreaming."
The whispered words pulled him back. She stood before him now, close enough to touch, her hand extended for his. The misty gown of that first night was gone, replaced by the bold colors of his house. She was no longer a forest nymph, wild and unknowable.
She was his betrothed. And she was smiling at him with tenderness, yet the mischief in her eyes was undeniable.
His mask slid back into place.
It happened in the space of a breath. His features once soft, hardening into something courtly, the warmth in his miss-matched violet eyes fleeting. When he spoke, his voice was measured, pleasant, and utterly devoid of the awe she had just witnessed.
"My apologies, my lady."
Not cruel. Not indifferent. Just... neutral. The voice of a prince addressing a guest, not a man speaking to the woman he would marry.
Something flickered in her chest. Irritation, perhaps, maybe disappointment. Two moons they had been courting. Two moons of watching him, studying him, cataloguing every tiny crack in his composure. And still, after all that time, he could retreat behind that mask as easily as drawing breath. As if the past months had meant nothing. As if she were still a stranger.
He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
Her heart betrayed her. It stumbled then raced, and she felt the traitorous warmth bloom across her cheeks. But he released her hand with the same casual grace he might use to hand off his cloak to a servant a duty performed, a box checked. Nothing more.
For a fleeting, unwelcome moment, she wondered: Does he even like me?
She shook the thought away. She knew he did. She had seen it. The way his jaw tightened when some young lord laughed too freely at her wit. The flash of something raw and possessive when another man's gaze lingered too long. The mask slipped, always, in those small betrayals. He wanted her. He simply refused to show it.
Which made her all the more determined to make him.
"Let us go," he said, offering his arm with perfect, maddening composure. "The others await us."
She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, her smile sweet as honey.
"Of course, my prince."
And as they walked toward the great hall, toward the announcement of their arrival, toward the watching eyes of two great houses, she began to plan.
Tonight, she would find the cracks again.
And she would make them wider.
The hall blazed with light and laughter, the great houses of Westeros gathered to celebrate a union that would no doubt reshape the realm. At the high table, Valarr sat beside his betrothed, playing his part as the dutiful prince when a shadow fell across their table.
Lord Baratheon.
He was handsome in that stormlands way, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with a laugh that carried across the hall like thunder. In his hands, he held a small box of polished oak.
"My lady," he said, bowing low, his eyes never leaving her face. "I heard a rumor that you still crave these, even now that you are soon to be a princess. I thought... a token of old friendship, before you forget us common folk entirely."
He opened the box. Inside, nestled on velvet, were honeyed figs, a rare delicacy from the Dornish marches, sticky and sweet. A thing only a few people knew she loved.
Valarr felt something twist in his chest.
She smiled, that radiant smile she wore for everyone, and inclined her head. "You are too kind, my lord."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Lord Baratheon replied, his voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "I merely wished to see you smile once more before you belong entirely to the dragons. And speaking of which..." He extended his hand. "Grant me a dance. For old times' sake."
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Valarr said nothing. He could say nothing. To object would seem childish, possessive it was beneath the dignity of a prince. Lord Baratheon knew this. The man's smirk said as much.
She glanced at Valarr, just briefly, as if seeking permission he had no right to give. Then she placed her hand in Lord Baratheon's.
"I would be honored."
They moved onto the floor, and Valarr watched.
"You're staring, cousin."
Daeron’s voice slid beside him like a blade wrapped in silk. He had, despite his tipsy state, taken the seat beside him, smile fond ,his eyes anything but.
"I am observing," Valarr corrected, his voice level.
"Of course you are." He tilted his head, studying him the way a cat studies a mouse. "He's very handsome, isn't he? Lord Baratheon. And, I heard they were close once. Very close. I wonder..." He let the thought dangle, unfinished.
Valarr's jaw tightened. He did not take the bait.
But across the table, Aerion leaned forward, his smile sharp as broken glass.
"Close? Is that what we're calling it now?" He laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "I heard the reason she was kept from court for so long was because Lord Baratheon forgot his manners. Unchivalrous behavior,” He paused letting the words hang.
“Left her with a reputation that needed... time to mend." He added with a wicked grin upon his face.
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Aerion's wife, a Baratheon, beautiful and soft-spoken, laid a hand on her husband's arm. "Aerion, that's enough. My brother is merely fond of her. Lady Lannister and I spent much of our childhood together. It was only natural they became acquainted. They were good friends. Nothing more." She fixed her husband with a look that could freeze wine. "No lines were ever crossed. I would know."
Aerion opened his mouth to argue. But one look at his wife's face, made him think better of it.
Maekar, seated further down, had heard enough. "Hold your tongue, Aerion. Before I remove it for you."
Aerion subsided, begrudgingly, but the damage was done.
Valarr's gaze returned to the dance floor.
Lord Baratheon's hand rested on her waist, lower than what was proper, perhaps, but who would notice? Who would call him out? The man leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke, his face lingering nearer than any friend's should. And she... she laughed at whatever he said. Her head tilted back, her throat exposed, her smile bright and shared.
Then their eyes met across the floor, hers and the Lord’s as they exchanged a look. A smirk, barely contained, as if they shared a secret.
As if they shared many secrets.
Valarr's hand curled around his goblet. The gold creaked, just slightly.
He did not look away. He would not give them the satisfaction. But beneath the table, his knuckles gleamed white.
His hand pressed against her waist, lower than was proper, yes, but propriety had never been their language.
"You're playing a dangerous game, little lion."
Lord Baratheon's breath warmed her ear as they turned, his voice low enough that even the nearest dancers could not hear. His smile, for those watching, was one of easy charm. But his eyes, those storm-grey eyes she had known since childhood, were sharp with knowing.
She smiled back, radiant and untroubled. "I expected you to notice."
"Notice?" He laughed, spinning her smoothly through the steps. "I walked in here with honeyed figs, a gift only a handful of people knew you loved. I asked for a dance in front of your dragon prince and every lord in the hall. I've been holding you closer than any friend should." His grip tightened, just slightly. "You think I did that by accident?"
"I think," she murmured, "you're returning a favor."
Something flickered in his eyes. Gratitude, perhaps. Or memory.
They had been each other's shields once, in a season that felt like another lifetime. She had been young, barely a woman, when she discovered his secret, not through gossip or spying, but because he had trusted her enough to tell her himself. The weight of it had nearly crushed him. The expectations of lords and heirs, the endless pressure to be something he was not.
So she had offered him a mask.
Pretend, she had said. Court me. Let them talk. Let them think we are lovers. It will give them something to whisper about, and no one will look closer.
He had kissed her hand then, trembling, and called her his salvation.
The rumors that followed the "unchivalrous behavior," the "reputation that needed time to mend", had been for him. All for him. She had let the world believe what it wanted, had smiled through the whispers, had hidden from court not out of shame but because the lie required distance to be believable.
And now he was repaying that debt.
"Your prince is turning white-knuckled up there," Lord Baratheon observed, glancing toward the high table. "Aerion is whispering poison. Your good-cousin is smiling like a cat with cream. And still, he does nothing."
"Because he is a prince," she said. "Because he is composed. Because he will not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him break."
Lord Baratheon's brow arched. "And you want him to break."
She did not answer. But her smile deepened.
He studied her for a long moment, reading truths she had not spoken. Then he laughed, warm and surprised. "Gods help him. He has no idea what he's married into."
"He is not married yet."
"Close enough." He spun her again, and when she came back to him, his voice had softened. "You know I would do anything for you. After what you did for me..." He shook his head. "But this feels different. This feels like you're playing with something that might bite back."
"Perhaps I am."
"And if he breaks? If the dragon wakes and does not like what he finds?"
She considered the question. The music swelled around them, bright and celebratory, a stark contrast to the darkness of her thoughts.
"Then I will finally see what he truly is."
Lord Baratheon sighed, long-suffering. "You are terrifying. You know that?"
"I have been told."
They danced in silence for a moment, two old friends moving through steps they had practiced a hundred times in sunlit courtyards, back when the world was simpler. Then he leaned close again, mischief kindling in his grey eyes.
"Shall I hold you tighter? Whisper something scandalous? Make him storm down here and challenge me to a duel?"
"He would never. He is too controlled."
"Pity." Lord Baratheon grinned. "I would have enjoyed watching him try."
She laughed, a real laugh, head tilted back, throat exposed, the sound carrying across the dance floor like music itself. Let Valarr see it. Let him wonder.
Let him burn.
The dance ended. They stepped apart, bowing deeply to one another with the formal grace of courtiers who knew every eye was upon them.
Lord Baratheon took her hand.
And slowly, deliberately, he pressed his lips to her knuckles in the exact spot where Valarr had kissed her before they entered the feast.
His eyes met hers as he straightened. A silent question: Enough?
She gave the barest nod. Perfect.
He released her hand, bowed once more, and melted back into the crowd.
She turned toward the high table. Toward Valarr. Toward the game.
Her heart was beating faster than it should.
He did not look at her when she sat.
He offered her wine with a courteous nod. He asked if she enjoyed the music in the same pleasant tone he might use with any lord's wife. He smiled that perfect, polished smile that revealed nothing at all.
It was maddening.
She answered him in kind, matching his courtesy with her own, determined not to let him see how his indifference pricked at her. But he had already turned away, engaging his cousin in quiet conversation, leaving her to stare at the profile of his face as if he had not just witnessed everything.
Then, without turning, without warning
"Did you enjoy your dance, my lady?"
His voice was still polite. Still pleasant. But the question hung in the air between them, weighted with something she could not quite name. He still did not look at her. He simply waited, as if her answer were a matter of idle curiosity and nothing more.
She hesitated, just briefly, just enough before offering her own polished smile.
"Immensely. Lord Baratheon is an excellent dancer."
"I see."
Two words. That was all. Then he returned to his conversation, leaving her with nothing but the uncomfortable awareness that she had somehow lost that exchange.
The meal continued. The laughter swelled around them. But he did not look at her again.
Not once.
And the longer his attention remained elsewhere, on his cousins, on his wine, on anything but her, the more that restless, hungry part of her began to stir.
Ignore me, she thought, watching the perfect line of his profile. See how long I let you.
Notes:
Thank you all for the love you showed My cruel prince <3 there will be a part 2 released shortly
as you might have figured "Hung by a Thread" will most likely have multiple parts the exact number of which I'm unsure of
But I've already begun writing the second part so hopefully it wont be long before I post it!
Also let me know if you wish to be tagged in future posts
I want to make these characters kiss like barbie dolls just as much as the rest of yall, trust me - but please dont send hate to anyone who went into making Dispatch.
You can have your expectations, sure, but we weren't promised anything specific and thats ok. Just let them tell a fun story about a seasonally depressed flat ass guy working at a superhero company where everyone is an asshole.
It's going to be ok. If you dont like how the game ends, thats why fanfiction and fanart were invented lol
