Bastards, Dragons and Royals
Valarr Targaryen x Targ!reader
Part 1
tags: dragonseed!reader, silver hair and/or purple eyes reader, injured dragon, healing arc, slow burn (but like… platonic soulbond dragonbondvibes), girl just wants to help, kindness as a core trait (dunk core), soft but stubborn reader, hidden dragon, dragonstone setting, canon divergence, original dragon (moonfyre my beloved), female dragon, no romance (for now, next chapter will be valarr/reader centric). content warnings: injured dragon :(, infection/wound stuff, mentions of blood, non-graphic gore, animal in pain, fear/defensive aggression from the dragon, emotional hurt/comfort vibes reader info / note: yn is a targaryen dragonseed, but her parentage is completely unknown on purpose so you can project however you want the only fixed thing is that you have at least one valyrian feature so silver hair and/or purple eyes, because it needs to be obvious you’ve got targaryen blood everything else is up to you
The sea crashed against the base of Dragonstone with a rhythm as old as the island itself, sending plumes of salt spray into the grey morning air. From the village nestled in the shadow of the great castle, the sound was a constant companion, a lullaby, a warning, a heartbeat.
You had lived beside that sound for all of your sixteen years.
You pulled your worn woolen cloak tighter around your shoulders as you made your way along the familiar path that wound up the rocky hillside. It was early—the sun barely beginning to paint the eastern sky in pale pinks and golds—but sleep had abandoned you hours ago, chased away by dreams you could never quite remember upon waking.
The villagers called you the "Silver/Purple Lark" sometimes, when they were feeling poetic. Others simply called you "that pretty bastard who helps old Marta with her goats." You didn't mind either. You had known your place in the world since you could understand words: you were a dragonseed, a child of Targaryen blood left to grow among the common folk. Which Targaryen had planted that seed, no one would say. You had been found abandoned by the woman who raised you, kind Marta with her gnarled hands and endless patience.
The silver hair and/or violet eyes that marked your heritage were both gift and burden. Gift, because they made you striking in a way that turned heads in the village marketplace. Burden, because they marked you as something other, someone who didn't quite belong among the fishermen's daughters and the farmers' wives.
But you had learned to belong anyway. You smiled often, helped wherever help was needed, and asked for nothing. You tried to be good. You wanted to be good. Marta had raised you to be kind, and kindness was the one thing you had to offer a world that had never offered you much in return.
It had been an ordinary morning, or what passed for ordinary on Dragonstone, which meant grey skies, salt wind, and the distant crash of waves against the Dragon's Tail. You had woken early, before the fishing boats went out, and slipped away from the cottage while Marta was still muttering over her morning tea. You had a basket on your arm and a purpose in mind: the eastern tunnels, where the ghost-flowers grew thickest, their pale petals closing at midday if you didn't reach them in time.
You knew the path by heart. Past the Dragon's Tooth—that great outcropping of rock that the villagers said was the fossilized fang of some ancient beast—down through the gully where the wild onions grew, and into the low arch that marked the entrance to the lesser caverns. These were not the great halls beneath the castle, the ones the Targaryens had used as dragonpits in the old days. These were smaller, humbler, the kind of tunnels that shepherds used for shelter during storms and children used for games of hide-and-seek.
You had been walking for perhaps half an hour, your torch casting flickering shadows on the walls, when you noticed the warmth.
It was subtle at first a gentle heat rising from the stone beneath your feet, as if you were walking over ground that had been baking in the sun. But there was no sun here, and the deeper you went, the warmer it became, until you could feel sweat beginning to prickle at your hairline. Strange, you thought. The caves were always cool, always damp. That was why the ghost-flowers grew here, in the chill dark where no other plants could survive.
But these were not cool. These were warm, and growing warmer, and there was something else too a smell, faint but unmistakable, rising from the darkness ahead.
Sulfur. And beneath it, something coppery, something that made your stomach clench. Blood.
You should have turned back. Any sensible person would have turned back, would have retraced their steps and gone home to Marta and forgotten they had ever noticed anything strange about the eastern tunnels. But you had always been too curious for your own good, and besides, there might be someone hurt. Someone who needed help. You couldn't just walk away from that.
You kept walking.
The tunnel opened into a chamber you had never seen before, a vast space that must have been carved by water or fire or both, its walls streaked with veins of obsidian that glittered in the torchlight. And in the center of that chamber, curled against the far wall like a cat seeking shelter from the rain, was a dragon.
Your torch slipped from your fingers.
You didn't scream. You couldn't. Your throat had closed up, your lungs had stopped working, your entire body had become a single pulse of pure, primal terror that drowned out everything else, your thoughts, your name, the memory of your own face. You were nothing but eyes, and those eyes were fixed on the creature before you.
It was smaller than the dragons of stories, the ones that filled the songs about the Dance. Only about the size of two horses, you guessed, but what it lacked in size it made up in menace. Its scales were pale, white, but with a hint of purple in certain lights, like sea foam at dusk. Its wings were folded tight against its body, but you could see that one of them was wrong, bent at an angle that made you wince.
Its lips peeled back from teeth the length of your forearm, and a sound came from its throat that was pure warning.
Your heart hammered so hard you could feel it in your throat. Every story you had ever heard about dragons flashed through your mind, the terrible beasts of the Dance, the conquerors who had burned armies, the wild ones that ate children who wandered too close to their lairs. And this one looked ready to live up to every one of those stories.
But it didn't attack. It couldn't.
You saw it now, the way its body was pressed against the stone, as if it could barely hold itself upright. The way its flank heaved with each ragged breath. The wounded wing was not just twisted but festering, the scales around it discolored and cracked. It was in agony.
"You're hurt," you whispered before you could stop yourself.
The dragon's response was immediate and violent. It snapped its jaws toward you, a warning shot that fell several feet short, but the force of it sent you stumbling backward. Its golden eyes blazed with such pure loathing that you nearly fled then and there.
You took a slow step back instead, your hands raised. "I'm sorry," you said quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I'll go. I'll leave you alone."
The dragon hissed, a sound like water on hot stone, and you took the hint. You retreated to the entrance, your heart still pounding. At the threshold, you paused and looked back.
The dragon had not moved from its defensive coil, but its head had lowered slightly, the effort of its outburst draining what little strength it had left. It watched you go with those hateful golden eyes, and beneath the hatred, you thought you saw something else: exhaustion. And fear.
You left without looking back.
The next day, you returned with a rabbit.
It was probably a stupid thing to do. Marta would have said it was stupid, anyway. But you had lain awake all night thinking about that dragon. About the wound on its wing, the way the flesh around it had looked black and wrong. About the way it could barely lift its head after that one burst of aggression. If no one helped it, the dragon would die in that cave, alone and in pain.
You couldn't let that happen. You just couldn't. It wasn't in you to walk away from something that was hurting, even something that had tried to bite your head off.
You found it in the same spot, exactly as you had left it. When you entered the chamber, its head came up immediately, and that same snarl rumbled through the darkness.
"I brought you something," you said, stopping well outside what you guessed was striking distance. You held up the rabbit. "I'm leaving it here. Then I'll go."
The dragon watched you with unblinking suspicion as you placed the rabbit on the stone floor twenty feet from its head. Its lips were still pulled back from its teeth, a continuous low growl emanating from its chest.
"I know you're scared," you said softly. "I'd be scared too. But you need to eat."
You backed away slowly, keeping your hands visible. At the entrance, you sat down just around the corner, out of sight but close enough to hear. You didn't know why you stayed. Maybe to make sure it ate. Maybe just because you couldn't bear to leave it completely alone.
Silence stretched for a long time. Then, a rustle of scales against stone. A soft thump. And finally, the crunch of bones.
You smiled in the darkness and went home.
The pattern continued for a fortnight. Every day, you brought something rabbit, fish, once a mutton chop you had traded three days of goat-milking to obtain. Every day, you entered the chamber, set the food down, and retreated while the dragon snarled and snapped at you from its place against the wall.
It never got better. It never got friendlier. But it ate, and that was what mattered.
On the fifteenth day, you brought something else: a poultice.
You had watched Marta make them a hundred times for sheep with infected wounds. Comfrey and yarrow, honey from the village apiary, all mashed together into a stinking green paste that Marta swore could draw poison from any wound. You had no idea if it would work on a dragon, but you had to try. The infection was getting worse. You had seen it yesterday, how the scales around the break were cracking, how the smell of rot was stronger than before.
The dragon's snarl when you entered was weaker now. That worried you more than the hostility.
"I brought food," you said, setting down a fish. Your hands were trembling slightly, but you tried to keep your voice calm. "And... something else."
You held up the poultice, wrapped in a clean cloth. The dragon's nostrils flared, tasting the air. Its golden eyes narrowed.
"It's for your wing," you said. "Please. The infection will kill you if we don't—"
The dragon lunged.
It was a pathetic thing compared to what it might have done healthy, a lurch forward, jaws snapping, that carried it barely halfway to where you stood. But the intent was clear, and the fury in its eyes was absolute. You stumbled back, your heart in your throat, and your foot caught on a loose stone.
You fell.
The impact drove the breath from your lungs. For a moment, you just lay there, stunned, staring up at the dark ceiling of the cave. Your hands were scraped, your knee throbbing where it had hit the stone. When you finally pushed yourself up, the poultice was gonelo, lost somewhere in the darkness behind you.
The dragon had collapsed back against the wall, chest heaving, but its gaze never left your face. It looked exhausted. It looked miserable. It looked, you thought with a sudden ache in your chest, like it hated being seen like this even more than it hated you.
"Okay," you said quietly, brushing dirt from your palms. "Okay. I understand."
You got to your feet slowly, wincing at the sting in your knee. The poultice was ruined, smashed somewhere in the dark. You would have to make another. You would come back tomorrow, and you would try again.
You turned to go, then stopped. The dragon was still watching you, its sides heaving, its golden eyes bright with pain and fear and something that might have been confusion.
"I'm coming back," you said. "I know you don't want me to. But I'm coming back anyway."
You left before it could snarl at you again.
The next day, you brought another poultice. And the day after that, you brought another. Each time, the dragon snarled. Each time, it snapped. Each time, you retreated, waited, came back the next day with fresh food and fresh hope.
You never got close enough to apply it. Not once.bBut you kept trying.
On the twenty-third day, you arrived to find the dragon had moved.
It was a small thing, it had shifted perhaps six feet from its original position, dragging itself closer to the entrance of the chamber. But the effort must have been enormous, and when you entered, it didn't snarl.
It just looked at you. Its golden eyes were dull now, clouded with fever. The wound on its wing had worsened despite everything you'd tried. The smell of rot hung thick in the air, and you could see the infection spreading, black lines creeping up toward the dragon's shoulder.
"Oh," you breathed. "Oh, no."
You crossed the chamber without thinking. You didn't stop to consider distance, didn't calculate striking range, didn't do any of the careful, cautious things you had been doing for weeks. You just walked straight up to the dragon and knelt beside its wing.
The dragon's head came up, slow and heavy. Its jaws opened, and you saw the flicker of fire deep in its throat, a dying ember trying to catch.
"Please," you whispered. "Please, I'm trying to help."
You don't know if it understood your words. But something in your voice must have reached it, because the fire died. The dragon's jaws closed. Its head sank back to the stone, and it watched you with those clouded, feverish eyes, and for the first time since you had found it, it did not try to drive you away.
Your hands were shaking as you unwrapped the poultice. The wound was worse than you had realized the flesh was black and weeping, the bone beneath visible in places. You wanted to be sick. Instead, you pressed the poultice against the wound as gently as you could.
The dragon made a sound. Not a snarl, not a scream. Something smaller. Something that might have been a whimper.
"I know," you said, your voice wobbling. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry."
You sat there for a long time, your hands pressed against the dragon's wounded wing, not knowing if the poultice would do any good, not knowing if you were just making things worse. The dragon's breathing was labored, its chest rising and falling in great, shuddering waves.
After a while, you became aware of something warm against your side. You looked down. The dragon's snout had moved while you weren't paying attention, coming to rest against your hip. Its eyes were closed now, its breathing still ragged but slower, steadier.
You didn't move. You didn't dare.
"I'll come back tomorrow," you whispered. "I'll keep coming back. I promise."
The dragon did not snarl. It did not snap. It simply lay there, its head against you, and let you stay.
Slowly, carefully, you reached out with your other hand and laid it on the dragon's neck.
The scales were smoother than you had expected, warm, like stone that had been baking in the sun, but with a faint pulse of heat beneath. The dragon tensed for a moment, and you held your breath. Then, slowly, it relaxed, and a sound rumbled from its chest that was nothing like a growl.
It was almost a purr.
You laughed, the sound surprising you. You stroked the warm scales, and the dragon's eyes half-closed. Its head tilted ever so slightly into your touch, and your heart swelled so full you thought it might burst.
"You're beautiful," you whispered. "Do you know that? So beautiful."
The dragon's eyes opened, fixing on you with an intensity that made your cheeks warm. There was something in that gaze, something that made you feel seen in a way you never had before. Not as the bastarg get. Not as Marta's helper. Just... you.
"You must be a girl," you said suddenly, and the certainty of it surprised you. "You're too pretty to be a boy."
The dragon huffed, a puff of warm air that stirred your hair, and you laughed again.
"I mean it. Look at you. All pale and shimmering like... like moonlight on the water."
You ran your hand along her jaw, marveling at the way her scales caught the dim light of the cave, that faint purple sheen beneath the white. She was exquisite. Delicate, almost, despite the teeth and the claws and the fire you had seen flickering at the back of her throat.
"You need a name," you said.
You thought of the stories Marta used to tell you when you were small, tucked up in your cot while the wind howled outside. Stories of dragons and riders, of the Targaryen princesses who had flown above Westeros on wings of fire and scale. Your favorite had always been Baela the Brave.
Baela Targaryen, who had ridden the dragon Moondancer. Who had fought against usurpers and survived fire and war and loss, who had never stopped fighting even when the whole world seemed against her. You had loved her story as a child, loved the way she refused to be broken, the way she burned bright even in the darkest times.
Moondancer.
You looked at your dragon, at her pale scales that seemed to glow in the darkness, at the grace in her long neck and the quiet strength in her coiled body.
"Moonfyre," you breathed. The dragon's head lifted. Her golden eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world went very still.
"Moonfyre," you said again, firmer this time. "Like Moondancer, from the stories. Baela's dragon. But you're not quite the same, are you? You're a bit bigger. Paler. Prettier,i think." You smiled, stroking her snout.
Moonfyre made a sound, a low, rumbling thing that vibrated through your bones and settled somewhere deep in your chest. It was not quite a purr and not quite a growl, you chose to take it as approval.
"Moonfyre," you said one more time, testing the shape of it on your tongue. It felt right. It felt like hers.
The dragon—Moonfyre, you thought, and the name sang in your mind—pressed her snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you over. You caught yourself with a laugh, your arms coming up around her neck without thinking.
"Alright, alright," you said, your face pressed against her warm scales. "You like it, I'm glad."
She made that sound again, and you could feel it humming through her entire body, through your own. You held on, and she let you, and for a long while neither of you moved.
When you finally pulled back, your cheeks ached from smiling. Moonfyre's eyes were half-lidded, her posture loose and comfortable in a way you had never seen before. The wound on her wing was healing—slowly, but healing—and the fever that had clouded her eyes had faded to nothing.
She was going to live.
You had done that. You, the village bastard who had never been anything more than a helping hand, had saved a dragon.
"Moonfyre," you said again, just to say it.
She blinked at you slowly, and you could have sworn there was affection in those golden depths.
You sat beside her for a long time that day, your back against her warm side, your hand resting on her scales. She let you. She even seemed to like it, if the gentle rumble in her chest was any indication.
And you thought about Baela the Brave, who had flown into battle with her dragon and never given up. Who had been blood of the dragon, even when the world tried to tell her she wasn't enough.
You weren't Baela. You weren't anything, really, just a dragonseed with silver hair and/or violet eyes that marked you as something you had never been allowed to claim.
But sitting beside Moonfyre, feeling the warmth of her through your worn woolen cloak, you thought that maybe you could be something. Maybe you already were.
You smiled and closed your eyes, and let the dragon's steady breathing lull you toward sleep.
"You and me," you murmured, already half-dreaming. "We'll be brave together."
Moonfyre's tail curled around you, and you knew, with the certainty of something that had always been true, that she had understood every word.
----
The news reached the village on a grey morning when the sea was calm and the gulls were quiet.
"Prince Baelor is coming," old Tom the fisherman announced in the common room of the inn, where everyone had gathered to escape the damp. "Riding to Dragonstone with his household. Something about petitions."
The inn erupted in excited chatter. Prince Baelor, Baelor Breakspear, the heir to the Iron Throne, the most beloved prince in the Seven Kingdoms. He was famous for his honor, his skill at arms, his fairness. And he was coming to Dragonstone.
You listened with half an ear, your mind elsewhere. Moonfyre's wing was almost healed now, though you still brought food every day. She had grown used to your presence, even affectionate in her way, she would curl her neck around you when you arrived, and sometimes she would let you lean against her warm side while you talked.
You had not told anyone. It was your secret, yours alone, and you guarded it fiercely.
But the news of Prince Baelor's visit stirred something in you. For years, you had wondered about your father, about the Targaryen blood that ran in your veins. You had never asked, never sought answers—it seemed pointless, like asking the sea to give back a drowned sailor.
But the news of Prince Baelor's visit stirred something in you, despite yourself. For years, you had wondered about your father or mother, about the Targaryen who had left a dragonseed child on Marta's doorstep and never looked back. You had trained yourself not to wonder. It was a waste of hope, like asking the tide to bring back a message you had whispered to the waves.
Now, with a dragon in the caves and a prince in the castle, the wondering crept back.
You pushed it down. Foolishness. The guards would never let you near the prince, and even if they did, what would you say? My prince, I found a dragon. Also, I think I might be your cousin? Or your half-sister? Or your something? They would laugh. Or worse, they would investigate. And then Moonfyre would be taken away, chained in some pit beneath the castle, studied like a curiosity.
No. Some things were worth more than answers.
---
Three days later, Prince Baelor arrived.
The whole village turned out. You had tried to stay home, you truly had, but Marta had shooed you out with a broom and told you that a girl your age should have some joy in her life, even if she had to be forced into it at broom-point.
So you stood with the others along the causeway, craning for a glimpse, and when the prince rode past on his magnificent grey destrier, you found yourself surprised.
He was not what you expected. The Targaryens in the old tapestries were silver gold-haired and otherworldly, their beauty as sharp as Valyrian steel. This man had dark hair cropped short, a strong jaw with a beard, and a face that looked like it had been shaped for smiling. He rode easily, nodding to the crowd, and when his eyes swept over you for a brief moment, he did not look away.
He smiled. A small thing, just a flicker, but it was there.
Your heart did something complicated in your chest. You looked down at your worn boots and told yourself it meant nothing.
The petitions were held in the castle, you hadn't planned to go. It was foolishness, you told yourself. But Marta had needed herbs from the castle's healer, and the healer's apprentice was a boy you had grown up with who might give you a better price if you asked nicely, and the petitions were happening, and...
And so you found yourself standing at the edge of the crowd, watching as common folk and minor lords alike approached where Prince Baelor sat, listening to their grievances and dispensing justice.
He was patient, you observed. He listened to everyone, the farmer whose sheep had been stolen, the woman whose husband had abandoned her and wanted their son back, the merchant whose goods had been seized by an overzealous customs officer. He asked questions, considered answers, and gave judgments that seemed fair.
You watched for longer than you meant to, until the crowd began to thin and the afternoon shadows grew long. The healer's apprentice had given you the herbs at a good price, and you should be heading back to the village before dark.
But your feet wouldn't move. And then, somehow, you were walking forward. Toward the prince. The guards noticed you when you were still twenty feet away. One of them stepped forward, hand on his sword.
"Halt. Petitions are closed for the day. Come back tomorrow."
You stopped, your heart suddenly pounding. What were you doing? This was madness. But you had come this far.
"I... I'm not here for a petition, exactly," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "I have... information. About something on the island. Something important."
The guard frowned. "What kind of information?"
"A dragon."
The word hung in the air between you. The guard's frown deepened, and behind him, you saw a few other people turn to look.
"A dragon," the guard repeated flatly.
"In the caves. It's wounded, but it's real. I've been... I've been feeding it."
There was a moment of silence. Then someone in the crowd laughed—a short, sharp sound. Another person snickered. The guard's expression shifted from confusion to something like pity.
"Girl, all the dragons died sixty years ago. Everyone knows that."
"I know what I saw." You lifted your chin, meeting his eyes. "I've been seeing it for moons now. It's white, with purple in its scales. About the size of two horses. Its wing was hurt, but it's healing."
The guard opened his mouth to respond, but a voice from behind him cut him off.
"What's this about a dragon?"
The crowd parted, and Prince Baelor himself stepped forward. Up close, he was even more striking than you had expected, not handsome in the conventional way, but with a presence that made you want to pay attention when he spoke. His dark eyes studied you with curiosity.
Your throat went dry. You dipped into a clumsy curtsey, the kind the village women used when the septon came to visit.
"Your Grace. I'm sorry to bother you. I just... I thought someone should know."
"Know what?" His voice was kind, patient. "Tell me your name, child."
"Y/N, Your Grace. I live in the village."
"Well, Y/N of the village. Tell me about this dragon."
You told him, the first discovery, the wounded wing, the moons of bringing food and water. The crowd had gone quiet. Some were still smiling, the way adults smile at children's fanciful tales. Others were watching the prince, waiting to see how he would respond.
When you finished, Prince Baelor was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, very quietly, "You say it lets you touch it?"
"Yes, Your Grace. It... I think it trusts me. I was the first person who didn't try to hurt it."
"And you've told no one else?"
"No, Your Grace. I was afraid they wouldn't believe me. Or that they would... try to take it."
The prince nodded slowly, and something flickered in his eyes, not disbelief, but consideration. He glanced at one of his knights, a big man with a scarred face, and something passed between them that you couldn't read.
Then he turned back to you, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Y/N of the village, you've brought me an interesting tale. I confess, I'm curious to see if it's true. But if there is a dragon in those caves—a wild dragon, wounded and alone—it could be dangerous. To you, to the villagers, to anyone who stumbles upon it."
"It's not dangerous!" you said quickly. "It's never tried to hurt me. Not once." You lied, a white lie you thought.
"You've been lucky, then. Or perhaps you're right, and it knows you mean it no harm." He paused, studying your face. "What would you have me do with this information? Did you come seeking a reward?"
You shook your head. "No, Your Grace. I just... I thought someone should know. And I was worried that if I didn't tell anyone, and something happened..."
"You felt it was your duty." The prince's smile widened slightly. "That's commendable."
He was quiet for another moment, and you became acutely aware of all the eyes on you, the guards, the courtiers, the villagers who had lingered to watch. Your face burned.
Then the prince spoke again, and his voice carried to everyone in the yard.
"Well, children are often more imaginative than we give them credit for. But I see no harm in humoring them." He looked directly at you. "If there is a dragon in those caves, and if it has chosen to accept your company... then I suppose it's yours. Finders keepers, as they say."
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Someone called out, "Better them than me!" and more laughter followed.
You stared at him, hardly daring to believe what you were hearing. "You... you mean it? I can keep it?"
Prince Baelor's eyes sparkled with amusement. "If it exists, and if it allows you to keep it, then yes. Consider it a gift from the crown. Though I should warn you, dragons have a way of belonging to no one but themselves. Ask my ancestors."
"Thank you, Your Grace!" The words tumbled out of you, overflowing with relief and joy. "Thank you, thank you—"
"Go on, then." He waved a hand, still smiling. "Go tend to your dragon. And if you ever need anything for it—within reason, mind you—you may come to the castle and ask. Consider that my promise."
You curtseyed again, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste, and fled the yard before anyone could change their mind.
Behind you, you heard the laughter and chatter resume, and someone saying, "Well, that was a kind thing to do. That one's clearly touched in the head, but no harm in letting them have their fantasy."
Let them laugh. Let them think you mad. You knew what you had found.
And now, officially, it was yours.
----
In the evening, over supper, Valarr brought it up.
"I've been thinking about that girl," he said, pushing eggs around his plate with the focused attention of someone who was thinking about anything but his breakfast. "The one with the dragon."
Matarys looked up, interested. "The mad girl?"
"She wasn't mad." Valarr frowned at his brother. "She was... mistaken, perhaps. But not mad."
"Mad, mistaken—she thinks there's a dragon in the caves." Matarys shrugged. "That's not normal."
"Lots of people believe things that aren't normal. That doesn't make them mad."
Baelor hid a smile behind his cup of watered wine. This was a familiar dynamic, Valarr the serious, always striving to be fair and just; Matarys the impulsive, speaking before he thought. They balanced each other well, these two.
"What about her, Valarr?" he asked.
"I was wondering if someone should check. The caves, I mean. Just to be sure." Valarr met his father's eyes steadily. "If there is something there—even just a wounded animal she's mistaken for a dragon—it might need help. Real help. And if there's nothing..." He trailed off.
"Then at least we'll know," Baelor finished. "And we can stop wondering."
"Exactly."
It was a sensible suggestion. Practical. The kind of thing Valarr would think of, with his methodical mind and his desire to set things right.
Baelor considered it. A search party would take time and men, but it wasn't an unreasonable request. And it would set his son's mind at ease, which was worth something.
But something held him back. A memory of the girl's face when he'd told her she could keep her dragon, that radiant, disbelieving joy. A search party would find nothing, most likely. And then that joy would be replaced by something else. Embarrassment, perhaps. Shame. The crushing weight of having been wrong about something that mattered deeply.
Was it worth that, just to satisfy curiosity?
"I think," Baelor said slowly, "that we should let it be. For now. The girl isn't hurting anyone, and she's not asking for anything except to be left alone with her... companion. If there's a wounded animal in those caves, she's already tending it better than we could. If there's nothing, then she'll figure that out eventually on her own." He met Valarr's eyes. "Sometimes the kindest thing is to let people keep their illusions."
Valarr considered this, his young face serious. Then he nodded slowly. "You're probably right, Father."
"I usually am." Baelor smiled. "Don't tell your mother I said that."
Matarys snorted. "Mother already knows. She says your wisdom is exceeded only by your modesty, and both are greatly exaggerated."
"Your mother," Baelor informed him, "is a very funny woman."
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taglist; @kyuupidwrites @mikelark-muller @mxvoid26 @margoniezniez @eexphoria @waning-m00n @br0ke-b1tch @j3ons4 @cosmoscoffeee @boiolay @read-just-cant-stop @memeorydotcom @acidalia @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @kittyblahhh3000 @bitchyfestivalbouquet @haervenya-targaryen @jungkookmiflacoo @todorokiskitten @deadwizzardlover @cassandra-reborn-anew @ladyhesperus @s1utl0v3r @sadbirdy @bsenpai @yulaxo77 @goslytherin @depressedandhornyfl @shhhhehe @alternarabuda @notannadouble @periwinkle-purple-puff @poszidonsblog @furinlvr @radiantdanvers @hddncjc @captainabodt @newstepping @justmare @vet-rina @ooooops-stuff @alexisabirdie @wizzdot @jamesbetch @huskyhunny @cherrypieyourface @chaos-istheonlyway @walt25 @itlalean @starlitslushie @kellyyn02
