closing the gap | exec!baelor targaryen x reader
summary: Targaryen Enterprises, Westeros’s largest real estate conglomerate. Baelor Targaryen is the Chief of Staff, right hand man to his father, the CEO, and in need of a new executive assistant. In comes a clever young woman who tilts his world on its axis and ignites a fire in him that he believed had died out years ago.
content notes: Corporate executive!Baelor, executive assistant!reader, modern AU (as in modern Westeros, not real world), office romance, employer/employee relationship (inherent power imbalance, though the story won’t focus on that), age gap, mutual pining, description of alcohol abuse, implied workplace harassment, implied toxic family dynamics, Baelor POV, no Y/N, no physical description of reader
word count: 8.2k
a/n: I’ve been reading my fair share of AKOTSK fics since its release earlier this year, so I wanted to try my hand at it. This idea has been brewing in my head for months, but I’m happy to say I’ve finally committed it to paper (or save file, I suppose). This is the first fic I’ve written in over ten years, so please bear with me as I find my footing and work out the kinks in my writing (also, I’m American, so if the British vocabulary is inaccurate, I apologize ;-;).
While the intro portion is from reader’s perspective, the majority of this story will actually be from Baelor’s POV. In terms of reader fics, I realize this decision is a bit of an unusual one. But the themes I want to explore have more to do with the dysfunctional Targaryen-ness of it all, so I feel strongly that his POV will be the most effective place to do that. I hope I’ve done our fave old man justice <3
divider by @strangergraphics !
ao3 | series masterlist
The wine feels cold against your skin as it seeps through your dress, staining the pale fabric a bloody shade of burgundy. The wound of it has spread all across your front, pooling in your lap and growing sticky on your stomach and thighs as you sit in the plastic chair. At least I can’t ruin the furniture, you think as a bead of excess merlot gathers at the edge of your sopping skirt and drip, drip, drips onto the linoleum floor.
The dress is a total loss. It’s an elegant ivory number that cost far more than it should have. Certainly far more than you could normally afford. It’s a shame; you were really excited to wear this today. You had been saving it for weeks for the right occasion. You should have rushed to the toilet as soon as it happened, tried to rinse it out before the stain set in. And then… what? Stand half naked in front of the basin as you desperately scrub at a whole glass’s worth of wine? Change into your nonexistent spare clothes? Go back to the ballroom with your colleagues and face those stuffy board members and old money donors like nothing happened?
The humming of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling shatters the fantasy, and you scoff. Even if you could have done any of those things, that kind of luxury is for normal accidents. Not for absolute fucking disasters like this.
Your gaze lands heavily on the stain again. Lifting your hand from where it had been curled around your torso, you reach down and squeeze the fabric in your lap. You watch almost disinterestedly as the wine oozes between your fingers, seeping further into the skirt in spidery red veins. It really was a pretty dress. It was…
“…beautiful. You’re a vision, you know.”
You close your eyes against the memory, letting out a shaky breath as you will it away from the surface of your thoughts. It doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s just another lost cause.
Perhaps that’s all it ever was.
Heavy footsteps outside jolt you back to the present. Your eyes flick up to door, and when it swings open, Maekar steps into the room with a huff. He looks harried as he runs his long fingers through his pale hair, mussing his pristine slick back. He’s normally such an impenetrable paragon of cold professionalism, though you suppose today is as fair a day as any to drop the facade. Slipping his phone into his back pocket, he kicks the door shut behind him.
“I called Donnel to deal with the mess,” Maekar says, tossing his suit jacket on an empty chair. “He and the others have managed to keep the fucking press away, at least.” He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as he continues, “The board is proving to be more of an issue, but that’s not much of a surprise, is it.”
You aren’t sure how to respond since he didn’t pose it as a question, so you just nod. You glance surreptitiously at the No Smoking sign on the wall as he breathes out a musky cloud of tobacco, but you remain silent. After a moment, he conspicuously pulls his mobile back out to frown at some new message, and you lean back with an appraising squint. He still hasn’t made eye contact with you, or made any real effort to acknowledge your presence. You’re used to that from Maekar, but given the circumstances, it borders on ridiculous that he won’t address the elephant in this cramped waiting room. If you weren’t so emotionally strung out, you might call him out on it.
Or maybe not. After today’s spectacle, the prospect of cowering under the scrutiny of Maekar Targaryen is a highly undesirable one.
He takes another long drag before he finally eases into the seat across from you with a groan. Elbows on his knees, sleeves rolled up haphazardly, you can almost see the exhaustion weighing on his hunched shoulders as he stares at the floor. It disarms you, the fatigue etched into his silhouette. It reminds you that, despite everything, you two now find yourselves in the same boat.
As the smoke curls up from his fingertips, the torrent of emotions you had been holding at bay all afternoon comes flooding back. The shock, the humiliation, the outrage. The heartache.
You can’t put it off anymore; you have to ask. You lean forward, a tentative step into the dragon’s den.
“Maekar,” you begin with a deep breath, “how is he—?”
“Don’t.” He puts his hand up before pinning you with his eyes, almost violet with rage. No, that isn’t right. It’s anguish, that thing turning them bloodshot. You just didn’t notice it before. “Just don’t.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose before reclining against the wall, his gaze still trained on you. You weather his scrutiny admirably, refusing to break eye contact. A moment passes, then another. Tension fills the room, suffocating you like the fumes from his stupid Marlboro, before he finally looks away with a shake of his head. He speaks your name like a curse before turning back at you, his earlier surliness gone, leaving only a defeated weariness in its wake.
“Gods,” Maekar says with an empty chuckle, “what the fuck are we going to do?”
“I wanted to thank you again for giving me this opportunity,” you said, your hand already stretched out toward him. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Targaryen.”
Baelor paused, taking in the stranger who had materialized in his office. He had barely set down his briefcase and plugged in his laptop before you had sauntered in at at 9:15 sharp, closing the frosted glass door behind you with a firm click. Without faltering, you strode right up to his desk with a brief good morning and introduction before launching into your little spiel.
It took him longer than it should have to place you, but your name jogged his memory. Ah, yes. The girl from Maekar’s office. The one who had been working as Daeron’s assistant. At least, until the incident at the winter board meeting last week.
From what Baelor understood, it had been a run-of-the-mill board event—meetings, presentations, networking field trips—until the final dinner. He had been on a business trip in Dorne and could not attend, but all the other members of Targaryen Enterprises’ executive team had been there; including, at Maekar’s insistence, Daeron and you. Though he didn’t know the specifics, he had heard there was an accident involving a rogue glass of whiskey—or was it wine? He had a hard time keeping track of his nephew’s proclivities—spilling all over you after you tried cutting off Daeron’s drinks for the night. It had been in front of everyone, including his father, his uncle and brothers, and all the board members, from Damon Lannister to Leo Tyrell.
Needless to say, it was a total disaster.
Baelor swallowed a wince as he recalled the explosive phone call from his brother the following morning. Dealing with the aftermath of his nephew’s indiscretion had been bad enough. The real trouble, apparently, was you.
“She’s completely intransigent,” Maekar said, a static pop punctuating his outrage. “She refuses to work with Daeron any longer, and she told me that if I don’t agree to transfer her to a different position, she’ll file a formal complaint.”
“Well, getting drenched with alcohol by your supervisor at a work event would be pretty upsetting,” Baelor replied as he stirred some sugar into his hotel coffee. “I’m surprised she hasn’t already filed one.”
Maekar groaned on the other end of the line.“It’s the fucking principle of the thing, for gods’ sake! Where does she get the nerve to threaten me or my son?”
Baelor rubbed his eyes, staring at the sugar as it dissolved in lazy brown swirls. He admired his brother’s attempts to help Daeron, and he deeply sympathized with his desire to defend his son. But he didn’t want Maekar’s parental loyalty to cloud his professional judgement, especially when it involved an innocent and unrelated bystander.
He took a deep breath. “Is her work not up to snuff? Or is it just her ‘intransigence’ that bothers you?”
“Her performance is fine; she has an exemplary resume. Came from that Baratheon fucker’s office, I think. But her bloody attitude—”
“Then why don’t you transfer her to my department? I need a new executive assistant, anyways.”
There was a pregnant pause as Maekar mulled it over. Baelor took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. Too sweet.
“Well, if it gets her off my back,” his brother finally grumbled.
And so, after negotiating the details with Maekar’s team and filing some paperwork with HR, here you were. To your credit, you seemed totally unaffected by the circumstances by which you arrived at his office. With your matching blazer and pencil skirt, a sleek Moleskin tucked under your arm, and a fire glimmering in your eyes, you didn’t look like someone who had recently been humiliated in front of some of the most powerful people in Westeros. You radiated confidence, like you were here to do him a favor, not the other way around. Like you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were just the person for the job.
“Of course,” Baelor said, taking your proffered hand and giving it a firm shake. “It’s my pleasure.”
You gave him an assured smile before continuing, “If it’s alright with you, I was hoping we could take some time to go over expectations, set some baseline norms.”
“Well, let me check if I have a meeting—” he began as he opened up Outlook.
“Actually,” you interjected smoothly, “I saw you had an open window on your calendar, so I’ve taken the liberty of blocking off some time for us.”
The Outlook window loaded just as you finished speaking. Baelor clicked to the calendar tab, and lo and behold, there it was:
9:15-9:45 | Intro Meeting and Touch-Base
“Indeed,” he said. He wasn’t used to being caught off-guard, especially by an employee. “How, ah, proactive of you.”
“I believe it’s valuable to start as you mean to go on.” If you heard the slight barb in his tone, you didn’t show it. “Anyways, it would be best to get this out of the way early. I know things are going to ramp up for you soon,” you said, glancing briefly at his desk.
Baelor followed your line of sight to the stark black folder sitting at the top of his In tray. A sleek white dragon was embossed on the corner, and the label read, in red ink, B.F. Litigation Updates. He sighed. I can always count on Uncle’s flair for the dramatics, he thought bleakly.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” he acquiesced. “Have a seat.” He raised his hand to gesture at the chair across from him, but you were already pulling one over to his side of the desk. You sat down with a decisive plop, crossing your legs and opening up your Moleskin.
The distance between you and him was entirely professional—there was at least a meter between your foot and the wheels of his swivel chair. But the lack of a barrier felt a little presumptuous. Baelor recalled how his brother described you: “An impertinent pain in my arse.” As he did at the time, he felt Maekar’s assessment was ungenerous, if not downright demeaning. But seeing you now, totally unfazed by his seniority and unapologetic in your forwardness, it wasn’t hard to imagine how his brother might have come to feel that way.
“So, what kind of expectations are you hoping to cover?” He turned to face you more fully. “Do you need access to my calendar and emails and what not?”
“Actually, your brother already gave me access to all that when I reached out to him last Friday.”
Of course he did. Leave it to Aerys to update his account permissions without asking him first. “The benefit of being related to the head of IT, I suppose.”
You responded with a polite laugh; as if he wasn’t related to most of the executives. Baelor imagined you sending his little brother a strongly-worded email requesting administrative privileges before your start date. Or maybe you opted for a phone call to his direct line; you were certainly bold enough. Regardless, he knew you were precisely the type of person Aerys would roll over for, no questions asked. The thought brought a wry smile to his face.
“Before we get into broad strokes,” you said, bringing him back to the present, “I wanted to decide how often we should meet to go over your schedule, cover any tasks you want me to take care of, and so forth.”
“That sounds reasonable. What do you suggest?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms deliberately. Since your hiring was anything but standard, he never had the chance to properly assess your abilities. Maekar had been right about your resume; before working with his nephew, you had spent a few years assisting Lyonel Baratheon, right around the time the young stag took over the family’s luxury resort chain. But Baelor knew better than to blindly trust words on a page. This conversation, however unexpected, was a convenient opportunity to gauge your fit for his office in real time.
“Well, normally, I would just stick with a weekly one-on-one to go over the next week’s appointments and events. But, since you’re probably the busiest executive I’ve worked with, it might be beneficial to meet for a few minutes every morning.”
His cheeks grew warm, though the superlative wasn’t explicitly a compliment. It felt nice to have his hard work acknowledged all the same. “Quite right,” he said with a chuckle. He suspected he was undoubtedly busier than your previous boss. “Did you have these kinds of meetings with Daeron?”
Your smile tightened. “When he was sober.”
Baelor paused, his grin melting off his face. Your tone remained neutral, but the implication was clear and weighty. He should have known better than to bring up his nephew. Or to assume the board dinner was a one-off event. Mother have mercy on this family of mine.
“What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “Do you have any questions or concerns regarding my responsibilities as Chief of Staff? We do things a little differently than the Office of the General Counsel, you know.”
“I’m confident I can manage.” Though his attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters was far from graceful, you were kind enough to let it slide. Your shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly as you went on, “Besides, I took a cursory glance at your calendar and inbox, and it seems like you and the legal team have a lot of overlap at the moment.”
“Ah, yes.” The bloody litigation. “Speaking of that, could you find a way to highlight any meetings related to the case? As we get closer to the big event, I want to make sure any calls I have stand out on my schedule.”
You nodded. “Absolutely, we can color code them so they pop on your calendar.”
“Really?”
“Here, I can show you what it would look like,” you said, standing up to approach his desk. You gestured to his laptop. “May I?”
Baelor nodded, but before he could slide out of the way, you leaned over him, tilting the computer toward you as you began typing. The two of you were close now. Close enough that he could feel the heat emanating from your body, smell the fresh mix of florals and clean linen from your perfume. A strand of hair fell from behind your ear and he could feel that, too, tickling the tip of his nose. He swallowed, shifting his focus to your profile as you fiddled with his Outlook settings. You seemed totally unbothered by this new level of proximity, your eyes darting across the screen as you typed away, not even sparing a glance in his direction. He marveled at that, how unaffected you were; not just by your current closeness, but by almost everything. He couldn’t tell if it was confidence, as he had initially surmised, or naïveté. Maybe it was both.
He supposed he would find out.
Baelor unfolded his arms slowly, careful not to accidentally brush up against your torso, and rolled his chair back. Whether his movement broke your spell of concentration or you had coincidentally finished at that moment, he couldn’t say. But you flicked your gaze toward him all the same, your eyes piercing him with the same fire he saw when you first walked in. For a brief, inexplicable moment, he wondered if he would feel its heat more keenly if he had remained where he was before. Close enough to touch.
You turned his laptop back toward him, and the thought disappeared into the aether. “There. I’ve gone ahead and named the red category ‘B.F. Litigation.’ When either of us change the category of a meeting on the calendar, it will show up like this.” You pointed at the new red blocks dotting his screen.
Baelor coughed as inconspicuously as he could manage. “This is great, thank you.” He had to admit, it was exactly what he had hoped for. Unfortunately, it also had the adverse effect of reminding him how much of his time this tiresome debacle was starting to take up.
You looked back at his screen with a frown. “That’s funny. A new meeting just popped up for twenty minutes from now, off-site. Perhaps we should end things here—”
The sound of the door opening interrupted you, and you quickly straightened back up as Maekar strode into Baelor’s office. With his crisp trench coat draped over his shoulders and his white-blond hair gelled back, his youngest brother looked as polished as ever.
“Are you ready to get on with this fucking—ah.” Maekar stopped as his blue eyes found you, narrowing into a squint. Remaining silent, he inspected his cufflinks disinterestedly. Baelor could see the tension coming off him in waves, unmistakable yet decidedly foreign. He was intimately familiar with Maekar’s blunt and borderline hostile attitude, but he never knew him to be this awkward.
However uneasy his brother decided to be, you didn’t follow suit. “Good morning, Mr. Targaryen,” you greeted him with a polite incline of your head, the embers in your eyes extinguished and replaced with flat, inscrutable pools. In that moment, your unaffected air didn’t feel like confidence or naïveté. It felt more like a mask, and Baelor was hit with a sudden twinge of guilt for his family’s role in putting it there.
Maekar grunted wordlessly in response. Turning back to Baelor, he said, “Heads up, Uncle is expecting you to give him a debrief on your Dornish ‘excursion.’”
“Is that what this is about?” His response was good-natured, an attempt to smooth out Maekar’s surliness, but he didn’t miss the sarcasm dripping off his brother’s comment. Baelor gave you an apologetic look, but you were already returning your chair to its original place. He sighed before grabbing his unopened briefcase. “Right, let’s get on with it.”
“Before you go,” you called out, and both he and Maekar whipped their heads back in the direction of your voice, “you might want to take this.” You held the black folder from his desk and gave it a reproachful wave. Out of the corner of his eye, his brother turned away with a scowl.
Baelor reached out and grabbed it, but he met with resistance as tried to tug it out of your hand. He glanced up at your face, and there was that fire again, twinkling as bright as ever as you gave him a smirk that, if he didn’t know any better, he might have called playful. “Can’t have you unprepared on my first day, can we?”
He stood there for a moment, dumbstruck, as you released the folder. “I, ah, I suppose not. Thank y—”
“Can we get a move on, for gods’ sake?” Maekar groaned, grabbing Baelor by the shoulder and yanking him bodily toward the exit.
“Feel free to Teams me if you need anything—” you began, but your send off was cut short by the click of the closing door, your figure disappearing behind the frosted glass.
“Who in the seven fucking hells is that?”
Baelor shook himself out of his reverie, the folder still clutched in his hand. He had been preoccupied the entire ride down to the garage, running his thumb distractedly over his uncle’s white dragon while Maekar griped about how ridiculous it was for anyone to schedule a sudden meeting first thing in the morning. Near the top of the logo was a divot left by your nail from when you handed it to him. He couldn’t help but circle the indent as he mulled over the growing enigma of his new assistant.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. A shy young woman, perhaps a little shaken from the incident at the board dinner. Maybe nervous, eager to make a good first impression, as most new additions to T.E. tended to be. Whatever he had imagined, it certainly wasn’t you. Self-assured, no nonsense you. You, who blazed into his office without a hint of hesitation. Who stood tall in the face of his brother’s condescension and resentment without batting an eye. Who, as the black folder reminded him, had already saved his skin in the first hour of your acquaintance. He gripped it tightly and turned his attention to where Maekar had been gesticulating.
“Huh,” Baelor responded, nonplussed. “That isn’t Yorkel.”
And it certainly wasn’t. Standing at the curb next to one of the company’s cars was a brutishly tall young man, at least a head taller than either Baelor or Maekar. Even from afar, it was clear that he didn’t quite belong, the buttons of his uniform straining beneath the sheer breadth of him. An anxious energy that belied his size poured off of him as he wrung his hands and glanced around the garage. As the two of them approached the car, he straightened and cleared his throat.
“Uh, hullo, sirs,” he said, a distinctive Flea Bottom lilt cushioning his words. “My name is Dunk—I mean, Duncan, and I have the pleasure of being your driver today.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Maekar muttered under his breath. Duncan, or Dunk, stiffened slightly.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Duncan,” Baelor cut in, ever the diplomat. “I’m assuming Mr. Pate gave you our destination for this morning?”
“Well, um, he did right before I left to meet you, but he only said you were headed to the BloodRaven office. Said all the drivers should know it by heart? But I haven’t gotten around to looking it up yet…”
Maekar’s jaw twitched dangerously. “Don’t tell me you need one of us to give you the bleeding address.”
Baelor looked helplessly between his brother and their poor new driver, who appeared totally oblivious to the oncoming storm. “Well, actually—oh!” Before Duncan could continue, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. He pulled it out and scanned it slowly, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “My apologies for the wait, sirs,” he said, a newfound air of calm settling over him, diffusing the tension before the storm could break, “I have the correct address, so we can depart immediately.” He opened the door as he stepped aside.
Baelor glanced over at Maekar, who only rolled his eyes with a harrumph as he climbed into the backseat. He followed suit, thanking Duncan briefly before settling next to his brother. “So, did Mr. Pate send you the address after all?” he asked as Duncan bent his massive frame into the driver’s seat.
“No, sir.” The engine quietly rumbled to life as he turned the key in the ignition. “A friend of mine sent it to me.”
“Oh?” Baelor frowned as his own mobile vibrated with a new notification. It was a Teams message, but he didn’t need to see the sender to know who it was from.
Just heard that your normal driver is on medical leave for the foreseeable future. I know the person filling in for him, so I sent him the address for Mr. Rivers’ firm, just in case. Please let me know if you need anything else.
He breathed out in disbelief. That made it two times you had saved him today, steered him away from disasters before he even saw them coming. He recalled his earlier desire to see if you lived up to your stellar resume. But it was clear that your deft hand and superior foresight went beyond what any resume could capture; he was sure they could take you just about anywhere. No wonder my brother thought she could straighten Daeron out, he thought soberly.
“Ah, I swear I didn’t break confidentiality or anything!” Duncan babbled, taking Baelor’s lack of response as censure. Whatever confidence you had lent him was quickly evaporating. “My friend—well, a friend of a friend, really—also works here. I think she started in your office today? She and Tanselle—or, Ms. Travers, I should say, helped me get this job—”
“Alright, that’s quite enough, thank you very much.” Maekar planted his thumb on a switch in the middle console, rolling the partition shut and sealing their driver away behind the tinted glass. He leaned back with an exhausted huff before making a face at Baelor. “What? We’re about to suffer through hours of deliberating with Uncle Brynden, you can’t expect me to deal with that, as well.”
“Gods preserve me, don’t bring the case up now. We still have a few minutes of peace before we have to discuss it with him.”
Maekar scoffed. “If I had to spend all of last night and most of this morning fielding calls about those Blackfyre bastards, then you don’t get a break, either.”
Baelor let out a resigned sigh, the sprawl of King’s Landing spilling out past his window as they wound their way through the city. It felt like he had been ‘fielding calls’ about the Blackfyres for years now.
Nearly a decade ago, when his father suffered that debilitating stroke, the offshoots resulting from his grandfather’s unfortunate indiscretions mounted a hostile takeover of Targaryen Enterprises. His half-uncles and half-cousins, led by their suave and charismatic Uncle Daemon, swooped in to try and buy out the company, their betrayal coalescing under the newly-established Blackfyre LLC. With Daeron Sr. functionally out of commission, it fell to Baelor and Maekar to ward off threats of corporate espionage, stock buyouts, and board vote manipulation almost entirely on their own.
All of the corporate maneuvering and backstabbing culminated in a tiny hotel conference room outside the city two years later. They had chosen a neutral location to “encourage more productive negotiation,” but the frosty atmosphere fostered anything but. By that point, the Blackfyres had raised a substantial amount of capital—far more than anyone could have anticipated—making their offer for the company almost impossible to refuse. It was certainly enough to convince the board, who, despite professing their loyalty to Daeron and his cohort, huddled nervously around the conference table as they voiced their desire to accept the deal. If Maekar hadn’t been so focused on stalling the board vote, Baelor was certain he would have leapt across the table to strangle Daemon, just to put an end to it all.
At least, that’s what he imagined might have happened. Baelor actually wasn’t at the hotel for most of the negotiations. He was busy driving back from the airport, racing against the clock so he and Brynden, the only one of their half-uncles who stayed true to the main family, could play their trump card before the board voted to cave to the pretenders’ demands.
It began with a video call, in which Brynden exposed the dubious nature of the Blackfyre funding efforts. As it turned out, Daemon’s twin sons had been colluding with foreign actors across the Narrow Sea to try and destabilize the Westerosi real estate market. News footage of the young men being arrested played as their uncle meticulously laid out the full scope of the Blackfyre’s fraud. Then, just in the nick of time, Baelor burst into the conference room with a host of Dornish investors, whose last-minute contributions helped raise the stock value just enough to put the company out of their uncle’s reach. The board, capricious as ever, quickly withdrew their support for the Blackfyre buyout, effectively putting an end to their corporate coup.
This sudden turn of favor was so disastrous to the opposition that Daemon, overcome by rage, suffered a ruptured aneurysm and had to be rushed to the hospital. The tabloids were quick to descend on the tragedy: “Redgrass Hotel Earns Its Name as Blood Spills During Targaryen/Blackfyre Deliberation.” But, despite the tumultuous press coverage—and the morbid outcome—legally and financially, it was quite the victory. The Blackfyre company collapsed without a proper leader, and the threat to the Targaryen’s majority stake in T.E. disappeared, washing away like blood in the rain.
Baelor had thought that would be the end of it, especially once Daeron made a full recovery and Daemon’s brother, widow, and children quietly moved across the Narrow Sea. Unbeknownst to him, his traitorous relations had not given up on their efforts; they had merely relocated them. Over the last year, Brynden had turned up evidence that they had reestablished Blackfyre LLC in Tyrosh, using a logo eerily similar to the T.E. brand. There was nothing they could do about the existence of the company. But, they could go after unlicensed use of their mark, which is precisely what their father and uncle had tasked them to do.
Unfortunately, the laws surrounding copyright infringement were different, less stringent than in Westeros, and conducting an international lawsuit was proving to be a nightmare of red tape. And, as his recent business trip made clear, the T.E. mark wasn’t the only thing the Blackfyres were infringing on.
“I take it your visit to our Sunspear office wasn’t promising?” his brother asked, breaking the silence.
Baelor stared morosely at his hands, twisting one of his rings absentmindedly. “I’m afraid not. Our partners not only confirmed the Blackfyre use of our mark throughout the Free Cities, they also substantiated the rumors of land sales and development encroaching on our previous contracts.”
His revelation lingered for a moment before Maekar let out a loud and exasperated groan, making him flinch. “Fucking brilliant. So, you come back from Dorne with only bad news—which will be a nightmare to explain to Uncle and Father, by the way—meaning that you skipped out on the board meeting for nothing.”
Baelor stared at him, incredulous. “Are you still upset about that? That I—”
“That you left me alone to deal with those pretentious whoresons on the board and clean up the fucking mess with Daeron and your new star employee? No, I’m not upset at all.”
He chose to ignore the sarcastic jab at you. “If I may be frank, that could have been avoided if you hadn’t forced Daeron to go in the first place.”
“And let him do what instead? Waste all his time, and my money, on booze and girls?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Perhaps not, but you know if it weren’t for my intervention, that’s exactly what he’d be doing.” Maekar rubbed his face before pulling out a cigarette. The flame from his lighter illuminated the shady confines of the backseat. “Fucking unbelievable, I tell you. I try and try with that boy, but I feel like I have to hound him constantly to keep him on track.”
Baelor gave his brother a pained look. He sympathized with his nephew; after almost flunking out of his grad program at King’s Landing University and taking a leave of absence, it seemed like he was still struggling to get back on his feet. He had broached the possibility of enrolling Daeron in another rehab, but Maekar was quick to shoot it down. He’s not so far gone as Rhaegel that we need to embarrass ourselves again. He’ll get better, I’ll make sure of it. So, he had backed down, and Daeron got a cushy position in his father’s office; lots of prestige with few responsibilities. Baelor hoped, rather than believed, that it would help.
That was several months ago. Now, as he recalled how aggrieved you were this morning at the mere mention of his nephew, he wasn’t so sure.
He reached over to crack open his brother’s window as the car idled at a red light, letting the smoke waft away in the breeze rolling off Blackwater Bay. “Maybe the hounding is the problem, Maekar. Maybe you need to give him a real break, instead of having him join the company so you can keep an eye on him.”
The light turned green, and Maekar slammed his finger on the switch to roll the window closed again. “I don’t need to listen to you lecture me on parenting—”
“Did you know that Daeron has been drinking at work? Or at least showing up to the office drunk?”
“Oh, please. Who did you hear that from, then? Her?” Maekar’s sneer cut through the smoke, but it lacked his usual sharpness. From his strained expression and the glint of humiliation in his eyes, it was clear that he already knew.
Baelor studied his hands again, rubbing his thumb over the family insignia on his pinky finger. The metal was cool to the touch, the edges of the engraving worn smooth from years of anxious fiddling. “I just think it’s naive to expect Daeron to get better if we aren’t honest about the gravity of his situation, and his behavior,” he said finally.
Maekar cleared his throat gruffly, but didn’t respond. The two of them spent the remainder of the ride in silence as the car slipped deeper into the heart of the capitol, the architecture of the city cutting a jagged silhouette against the grey sky.
Baelor realized something was off when he looked up from his computer to find the sun had already set. He glanced back at his screen. The tiny digits were glaring and unforgiving: 8:41 p.m.He ran his fingers through his cropped hair with a weary sigh. He had been trapped behind his desk since he had returned from the BloodRaven office around noon, taking calls from his Dornish counterparts or reviewing briefs, press releases, and updates about the Blackfyre case.
Maekar had been right about one thing: Brynden was not happy to hear the report from Sunspear. Unlike his brother’s explosive outburst, his uncle had listened to his debrief in such stoic, cryptic silence that he swore the temperature dropped a couple degrees. After he finished, Brynden steepled his fingers and leveled them both with a pensive stare. Well, he said, cracking his knuckles methodically, no need to pull our punches, then.
The three of them spent next couple hours planning and deliberating their next moves, which was just as insufferable as Maekar had predicted. It didn’t help that their uncle insisted on serving them this absurd Northern iced coffee he had picked up from his travels, instead of bourbon or port or even just water. I find it helps me focus, he would say whenever either of his nephews would try to protest or refuse. This family is in desperate need of focus, don’t you think? Even hours later, Baelor still couldn’t get the bitter aftertaste out of his mouth.
The one saving grace of the day had been you. When he got back to his office, the marks of your influence were everywhere. His In tray straightened, his Out tray emptied. Pens and stationery tucked away in designated containers. Paperwork related to the Blackfyres and his other projects laying neatly on his desk, paper clipped and marked with different colored sticky notes based on deadline. Opening his laptop, his calendar bloomed with color, each meeting assigned a different label indicating the topic and participant affiliation. In his inbox, his unread emails were flagged for priority or labeled by sender. To top it all off, there was an email from you delineating all the changes you had made, signed off with: Let me know if you need anything else.
It wasn’t a total rearrangement or an upheaval of his space. Rather, it was a series of careful, subtle adjustments following the existing grooves that his work and habits left behind. You were a controlled burn, leaving the necessities untouched and changing the rest for the better.
Perhaps it was a testament to how poorly he chose his assistants in the past that something as simple as color coding his calendar and tidying his desk gave him such relief. Baelor was a rather independent executive, taking responsibility for a lot of tasks that others would normally foist onto their subordinates. It had made his executive assistant position the family’s dumping ground, a place to keep people busy (and make other people happy) since he never asked or expected that much from them. Like when Aemon needed a summer internship, or when one of the Dondarrions was between jobs, or even when his father was still keen on Rhaegel joining the company. Baelor shuddered recalling the number of nervous breakdowns he had to talk his brother down from after asking him to reschedule a meeting or call a restaurant to change a reservation.
Maybe Maekar had a point. Daeron’s situation wasn’t quite so severe. Yet.
Lights flicked on outside as the automatic sensors picking up movement in the corridor. He couldn’t imagine who among his staff would still be here at this hour. Maybe the cleaner was making the rounds? Or perhaps Tanselle finished the summary from the board meeting, he amended as he heard the clicking of high heels approaching. The clicks stopped briefly in front of his office before the glass door swung open.
“You can just leave that there, Tanselle,” Baelor said without looking away from his computer.
“Close, but not quite.” His eyes shot up and found yours as you leaned against the doorframe, your blazer draped over your arm.
“Ah, my apologies.” He reclined in his chair slowly, his body stiff from being in the same position all afternoon. “What are you doing here so late?”
“I could ask the same of you,” you said as you stepped inside. “You weren’t too far off; I was just popping by to grab something for her before heading out.” He noted that you didn’t close the door behind you, leaving it ajar as the lights turned off again. Even with it open, the darkness that swallowed the rest of the floor made strikingly apparent how alone the two of you were, secluded in the solitary beacon of his office.
“Well, carry on, then.” He gestured toward his filing cabinet, and you began carefully rummaging through it. You pulled out a binder with a flourish, flashing him a triumphant grin—one that, he couldn’t help but notice, didn’t quite reach your eyes. Perhaps it was just fatigue after a long day, but Baelor couldn’t help but think back to the morning, how you slipped on that mask of detached professionalism with such ease. He was struck by the urge to take the burden of it from you, to at least make your relationship with him, out of all your Targaryen bosses and coworkers, one where you didn’t need it.
As you made your way back to the entrance, he quickly called out, “Just so you know: unless I ask otherwise, you don’t need to stay after hours. I don’t want you overworking yourself.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. I fully intend on leaving at five o’clock sharp from now on,” you drawled, letting your response hang in the air for a moment before giving him a smirk. He blinked and let out a bemused chuckle; he would have to get used to your candor.
“In all seriousness,” you continued, “I appreciate your concern; I do value my work-life balance. But that being said, if there’s work to be done, I want to stay to do it.”
“Well, as glad as I am to hear it, I’m equally serious when I say the work isn’t more important than your wellbeing, or your happiness.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to add the last bit, but he forged onward, “Of course, I trust you to judge for yourself when you need to stay outside business hours without my say so. But please be sure to keep that in mind.”
You raised your hands in mock surrender as you retreated toward the corridor. But as you reached the door, your hand hovering tentatively over the handle, you turned back to him. “You know,” you said, “you really should take your own advice. About not overworking yourself, I mean.” There was an uncharacteristic hesitancy in your voice, and Baelor cocked his head. It was the first time all day, he realized, that you sounded anything other than completely sure of yourself.
You coughed before resuming, “As we get closer to the litigation meeting with Blackfyres, things will only get busier. We can’t have our fearless leader burning out before we make it to the finish line, can we?” You tried couching your concern in a joke, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes again. He felt a strange mixture of gratitude and discomfort well up inside him, fostered by the fiery intensity of your attention. It was unusual for anyone, especially an outsider, to be so openly worried for his welfare.
It was a funny notion, burning out over the family business. Baelor understood what you meant, of course; theoretically, anyone could suffer from overwork. But your consideration, while generous, ultimately felt misplaced. It was different for you, as a random employee. But for him, the heir to the Targaryen legacy, there was no such thing as “too much work,” no room to prioritize his wellbeing or happiness. It was the maxim that governed his efforts during the original Blackfyre debacle, as it did again now. To devote himself to protecting his family, to securing the business, to ensuring that the empire his ancestors had built would outlast them, outlast him—what was the point of it all, if not that?
But he couldn’t say all of that, especially not to his assistant of less than twenty-four hours. Instead, he settled on, “Quite right. I won’t stay for too much longer, so be sure to get home safely.”
You fixed him with a pointed look, doubt curling at the edges. “Alright, then,” you said eventually, stepping into the corridor. The automatic lights flickered back on, illuminating your silhouette and casting a shadow deep into his office. “Good night, sir.”
Baelor nodded as you closed the door behind you, the echo of your footsteps receding into the night. As the lights outside shut off, he found himself alone once again, with only the lingering scent of floral perfume to keep him company.
On principle, Baelor still stood by his thoughts last night. In practice, he desperately wished he had heeded your (or his, he supposed) advice. Contrary to what he had promised you, he ended up staying well past midnight, working on briefs and sending out inquiries. Not even six hours after he collapsed in his bed at home, he was dragging himself back to the office like some kind of cursed spirit. It would have been easier to sleep over, he thought irritably, his back aching from sitting behind his desk for twelve straight hours.
“Good morning, Mr. Baelor. Goodness, you look like you had a long night.” Tanselle’s voice rang like the world’s most pleasant alarm clock: sunny, melodious, but still unwelcome so early in the morning. How she maintained such an amiable attitude when she dealt with the snooty folks on the board all day, he had no idea.
Shaking his head free from fatigue, he responded with as much cheer as he could muster, “Ah, good morning. I trust the summary from the board meeting is almost finished?”
“I believe so, sir. I’m just waiting on approval from Mr. Maekar’s office.”
That gave Baelor pause. “Why would he need to approve it?”
“He insisted on looking at it before it went to you for circulation.” Tanselle cleared her throat, glancing sheepishly at the open door. “I think it probably has to do with, um, the incident with, you know—”
“Good morning, Mr. Targaryen.” You waltzed into his office, coffee in hand, and stopped as you noticed the deer-in-the-headlights expressions on both his and Tanselle’s faces. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, not at all,” Baelor said a little too quickly. Luckily for him, you didn’t have the chance to question it before Tanselle giggled, “That’s so like you.”
“What is?” you asked.
“Insisting on using everyone’s last names, all formal-like. Everyone we work with is Targaryen something-or-other. If you’re not careful, you’ll lose track of which ‘Mr. Targaryen’ is which.” She gave Baelor a conspiratorial wink, and he chuckled nervously. Given your history, he wasn’t sure he was ready to toe the line of acknowledging his family’s nepotism again.
You shifted your gaze back toward him, a thoughtful look on your face. It didn’t seem like you were discomfited by the mention of his family. Rather, you appeared entirely concerned with him. Your eyes swept over him slowly, and his skin prickled in their wake. Baelor wasn’t sure if it was just the exhaustion, but under your scorching appraisal, he felt decidedly bare.
Whatever you were looking for, you must have found it, because you turned back to Tanselle with a knowing smile. “I think you can trust me to keep track,” you replied.
“If you insist,” she said good-naturedly. As she made her way toward the exit, she placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s good to have you on the Chief of Staff team.”
You reached up to squeeze her hand back. “I’m happy to finally be here.”
Tanselle smiled at that. With a final nod at Baelor, she stepped out of his office, letting the door swing closed behind her.
“I see the two of you are already acquainted,” he noted as the door clicked shut.
“We’re friends from university. She’s been trying to convince me to join T.E. for ages, so it’s nice to be reunited.”
“And, er, Duncan, was it? Were the two of you also uni friends?”
“Oh, Dunk? I’d say he’s more Tanselle’s friend than mine,” you said with a laugh and a shake of your head that Baelor couldn’t quite decipher. “But no, we met afterwards. She actually introduced us back when I started here, on the legal team.”
“I see.” He swallowed a grimace at the mention of his brother’s office. The earlier discussion of Maekar’s intrusive oversight reminded him how few allies you had. “Well, I hope you remember: you have people who care about you here.”
You raised your brow, letting the silence stretch on as Baelor realized what he had let slip out of his mouth. “I merely meant, it can be difficult to adjust to a new team when you don’t know anyone. So, I’m glad that isn’t the case. For you.” Gods, and he thought Maekar was awkward with you yesterday.
“Right,” you said, eyeing him with a mortifying mix of skepticism and amusement. He was about to dismiss you so he could wallow in his own social ineptitude when you snapped your fingers suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot—here.” You put down the coffee you had been holding and slid it over to his side of the desk. He stared it in disbelief. Did you get this… for him?
“I’m sure you probably stayed too late last night, so I figured this would be helpful,” you added nonchalantly, as if this weren’t one of the most thoughtful things a person had done for him in recent memory.
Baelor took the coffee gingerly, cupping it in his hands as if it might disappear. “That’s too kind. You really didn’t have to.”
“It’s my job to anticipate your needs, isn’t it? What’s the point of me being here, if not that?” You met his gaze, and he felt bare and exposed all over again. This time, though, it definitely wasn’t exhaustion. It was the unmistakable vulnerability that came with being seen, being known, without even trying. That familiar fire twinkled in your eyes, and this time, he wondered just how much its light would illuminate, if he let it.
You smiled before opening the notebook you had tucked under your arm. “Now, I went through your schedule…”
As you rattled off his appointments for the day, Baelor took a sip of his coffee. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. Just right.
© @clare-m-est— do NOT repost my work anywhere. i do not condone unauthorized translations, plagiarism, or the feeding of my work into generative a.i.
