Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Undercover!Soldier!Reader
Genre: disguise, SLOW burn, eventual smut, very slow
Description: You took your father's place in the army, bound your chest, cut your hair, and became Davos Stokeworth. You survived the latrines, the drills, and Ser Mace's cock. You even survived catching Prince Valarr's attention with your archery, but, when an arrow meant for Blackfyre's scouts hits you instead, your secret gets cut away with your tunic—and the Crown Prince discovers his best new archer is a woman who committed treason to save her father's life.
Notes: this chapter is very much a set-up, mulan-meets-kotsk, identity porn, forbidden attraction, he knows you're a girl now and he's fucked, you're fucked, everyone's fucked lmao, war is hell but the sexual tension is much worse i fear, the gender fuckery of it all, im warning you now victorian-level hand touching except it's after he finds out you have tits, cross-posted on ao3, updates will be on here as well tho , i wrote this bit on the plane (no shame)
Word Count: 9.5k (short im sorry), AO3 LINK
You were going to die.
Not in battle. Not with honor. No, you were going to die because you couldn’t figure out how to piss standing up without someone noticing you were doing it incorrectly.
The latrines were a communal sack of shit—just a ditch with a plank over it, no privacy with men lined up shoulder to shoulder like cattle in a field. You'd been holding your piss in for hours, long past the point of pain, but eventually instinct would win. You'd have to figure this out or your bladder would burst.
Think. There has to be a way, you dumb idiot.
“You sick, boy?”
You jumped. One of your tent mates—Ser Mace, a loud gloat with a broken nose and crooked teeth—was watching you with sparked amusement.
“No,” you retorted.
"Then why are you hovering round’ the toilet like you've never seen one before?" He grinned. "Unless you're shy? That it? Shy little Davos doesn't want the other boys to see his tiny cock?"
Heat flooded across your cheeks. Damn him.
“Fuck off, Mace.” Petyr—another tentmate, the one with the thick northern burr—spoke from somewhere to your left.
"Ain't nothing wrong with embarrassing the young ones," Mace said, grinning wider. Then, before you could turn away, the fat bastard shoved his breeches down and revealed the thickest—no, the first cock you'd ever seen.
Oh, Seven Hells.
Your stomach lurched and before you knew it, you were heaving, bent double at eye-level with Ser Mace's obscenely large, hairy, pale cock, vomiting the last of tonight's supper onto the ground.
"Seven hells, the boy's never seen a cock before! What, did your mother raise you in a sept?"
You spat, trying to clear the taste from your mouth, and didn't answer.
"Come on." Petyr's hand gripped your shoulder, hauling you upright before Mace had the chance to say anything else. "Let's get you away from this shit before you embarrass yourself further."
You didn't protest, and allowed Petyr to steer you away from the latrines, away from Mace's wheezing laughter and the stink of piss and vomit. Your boots dragged in the mud, and the taste of bile still coated your tongue.
"Boy's got a weak stomach," Petyr called back over his shoulder, loud enough for the others to hear. "Probably ate something that didn't agree with him. You know how it is."
A few men muttered in agreement, some laughed. But Petyr kept walking, kept his grip firm on your shoulder, until you were well away from the crowd. He stopped near the horse lines, far enough from the tents that no one would overhear. Then he let go and turned to face you. The dim light cut shadows across his face—you couldn't tell if he looked concerned or just tired.
"You all right?"
"Fine," you managed, your throat burned as you spoke. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to be sick again."
"I'm not,” You stopped and took a breath. "Thank you. For getting me out of there."
Petyr studied you for a long moment. He was older than you by at least a decade, with a weathered face and pale eyes that looked like they'd far more battle than most. Northern, definitely—you could hear it in his accent, the flat vowels and rolling r's.
"First time away from home?" he asked finally.
"Yes."
"Thought so." He crossed his arms. "Let me give you some advice, boy. Men like Mace, they can smell fear. Uncertainty. And they'll go after it like hounds on a blood trail. You want to survive this, you need to grow a thicker skin."
You swallowed hard and nodded.
"And for the love of the Seven," Petyr added, his tone softening slightly, "stay away from the latrines when Mace is around. Man's got no sense of decency."
Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Aye.”
"Good." Petyr clapped you once on the shoulder—lighter this time, almost friendly. "Now get yourself cleaned up. We've got drills at dawn, and if you show up looking like you've been dragged through the mud, Ser Alyn will have your head."
He started to walk away, then paused and glanced back.
"And Davos? Next time you need to piss, go at night. Find a tree that’s less crowded."
Then he was gone, leaving you standing alone in the dark.
For a moment, you just stood there, caught between shame and something close to gratitude. Petyr's kindness was strange and certainly unearned. You didn't deserve it—not when everything about you was a lie.
Your feet dragged through the mud as you made your way toward the treeline, away from the glow of cookfires and the noise of the camp. You found a sturdy oak set back from the others, glanced left, then right, and only when you were certain no one was watching did you shove your breeches down and squat.
Finally. The relief was immediate, almost painful.
You rested your forehead against the rough bark and let yourself breathe. Out here, alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of your own piss hitting the ground, the reality of what you'd done settled over you like a weight.
This was a mistake. A grave, monumental mistake.
You'd joined the army in your father's place, wearing his name, pretending to be a son who didn't exist. And for what? Your father had been a strong man once—a knight who'd fought at the Redgrass Field, who'd earned his scars defending the Crown. Now he was weak. Brittle. But at least he was honest.
You were neither strong nor honest. Just desperate and stupid enough to think you could pull this off. Oh Seven Hells, you prayed your parents would forgive you. For stealing your fathers armor, for lying, and above all, for saving him from what would be a certain death.
Dawn arrived too soon, dragging you from fitful sleep with all the gentleness of a boot to the ribs.
Actually, it was a boot to the ribs.
"Up, you lazy cunts!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the pre-dawn gloom like a blade. "Prince Valarr arrives within the hour, and if any of you look like the sorry sacks of shit you are, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a fortnight!"
You scrambled upright instantly, heart hammering against your ribs.
"Move!" Ser Alyn kicked at another prone form—Mace, who cursed and rolled over with a grunt. "Full kit, weapons sharp, armor polished. I want you lot looking like proper soldiers, not hedge knights that crawled out of a ditch."
The tent erupted into instantaneous madness. Men stumbling over each other in the dark, fumbling for boots and belts, cursing as someone stepped on someone else's hand. You pulled on your father's mail shirt—still too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves—and tried to ignore the way your hands shook.
A prince. Gods be good, a prince.
"Davos, you look green," Petyr muttered as he shouldered past you, already half-dressed. "Don't tell me you're going to puke again."
"I'm fine."
"You said that last night too."
You had no answer for Petyr. Your fingers fumbled with the buckles of your sword belt, and you had to start over twice before you got it right. Around you, the other men were doing the same—strapping on armor, checking blades, some of them grumbling about the early hour but most of them looked eager.
And why wouldn’t they be? This was a chance to impress a prince. The prince, to catch the eye of Valarr Targaryen himself, heir to the bloody throne was worth more than winning every fucking upcoming battle.
You, however, just wanted to survive the day without anyone noticing you were a girl.
The drill yard was a mud-churned mess by the time you assembled, boots squelching in the muck as Ser Alyn paced before the ragged line of soldiers. Fifty men, give or take. Some were knights, others common-born soldiers like you were pretending to be. All of them looked rough and tired, though a few had clearly made an effort—armor buffed to a dull shine, beards trimmed, tabards only mostly stained.
"Listen up!" Ser Alyn ordered. "Prince Valarr is inspecting the camp today. That means you stand straight, you keep your mouths shut unless spoken to, and you do not—I repeat, do not—embarrass me or yourselves. Understood?"
"Yes, ser!" The response was uneven, half-hearted.
Ser Alyn's face darkened. "I said, understood, you fucking lump of idiots?”
"YES, SER!"
Better. You shouted along with the rest of them, throat still raw from last night.
"Good. Now we're going to run drills. Formation work, nothing fancy. When the prince arrives, you'll be in the middle of a proper bloody exercise, not standing around with your thumbs up your arses. Got it?"
"Yes, ser!"
And so, the circus began.
Shield wall drills. Over and over, forming up in lines, shields overlapping, holding the formation as Ser Alyn walked the line and kicked at anyone whose stance was too wide or too narrow. Your shield was too heavy, the rim digging into your forearm, and your shoulder already ached from the weight of the mail. But you held on, you had to.
"Tighter!" Ser Alyn roared. "If a man can shove a dagger through that gap, Davos, you're a dead man! Closer!"
You adjusted, pressing your shield against Petyr's on your left. The man on your right—some grizzled old bastard whose name you didn't know—shoved back, and you nearly stumbled.
"Steady, boy," the old man muttered.
You gritted your teeth and held. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down your spine, soaking into the padded gambeson beneath the mail. Your arms burned. Your legs trembled. But you didn't break, you refused, especially not with a prince coming.
And then—
"COMPANY, HALT!"
The entire line went still, shields snapping up, breaths ragged.
Hoofbeats. From the edge of the yard, riders appeared. Three of them. No—four. The first was a Kingsguard knight, white cloak billowing behind him, armor brilliant even in the morning haze. Behind him came a pair of squires, both young and finely dressed.
Then, Prince Valarr.
You'd expected what exactly? A golden god? A dragon in human flesh?
What you saw instead was a man. Handsome, yes—dark-haired with that telltale streak of silver running through it, bright as a banner. He sat his horse, his armor black enameled steel chased with red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his breastplate. Younger than you'd imagined. No more than five and twenty, if even that.
He dismounted and handed his reins to one of the squires, and started toward the formation. You kept your eyes forward, focusing on the back of the man's head in front of you, on the mud, on anything except the prince walking closer. Around you, the other soldiers stood straighter, chests puffed out like roosters.
Valarr walked the line slowly, hands clasped behind his back. You could hear the soft clink of his armor, the squelch of his boots in the mud. He stopped here and there to exchange words with the men—asked their names, where they hailed from, how long they'd been in service. "You're all here because the realm needs you," Valarr said, raising his voice so the whole line could hear.
"Some of you are knights. Some are common-born. That doesn't matter. What matters is whether you can hold a line when steel is singing and men are dying around you. Whether you'll stand for your brothers, for the king, for the realm." He paused, letting the words settle. "Do that, and you'll have my respect. Fail..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the restless stamp of a horse's hoof and the distant clang of a smithy.
"Carry on, Ser Alyn," Valarr said, turning back toward his mount.
"Yes, Your Grace!" Ser Alyn's voice cracked like a whip. "You heard the prince! Back to it! Shield wall, reform!"
The line broke apart and began reassembling, and you moved with it, grateful for something to do with your hands. Your heart was still hammering, your palms slick with sweat inside your gloves. You'd been so certain he would see through you. That those pale blue eyes would land on you and know, somehow, that you didn't belong here. That you were a lie, but he hadn't even looked your way.
"Not so bad, eh?" Petyr muttered as he slotted into place beside you, shield raised. "Thought you were going to piss yourself when he started talking."
"Fuck off," you said, but there was no heat in it.
Petyr snorted. "There's the spirit. Now shut up and hold your shield higher. Ser Alyn's watching."
Supper was a grim affair.
Stew again—watery and flavorless, with chunks of something that might have been turnip or might have been boot leather. You ate it anyway, scooping it up with stale bread and trying not to think about the meals you'd had at home. Around you, the men were louder than usual, their voices carrying over the crackle of the cookfire.
"Three days," Garrett was saying, grinning wide enough to show the gap where he'd lost a tooth. "Heard it from one of the quartermasters. Supply train's coming in three days, and there's a whole wagon of whores with it."
"About fucking time," Mace said, shoving a hunk of bread into his mouth. "Been here two weeks and I haven't had a woman since we left King's Landing. I'm about ready to fuck a knothole in a tree."
Laughter rippled through the group. Even Petyr cracked a smile, though he didn't join in the commentary.
"You think they'll be pretty?" the young one—Benedict—asked. He couldn't have been more than six and ten, all gangly limbs.
"Pretty?" Tym snorted. "Boy, they're camp followers. They're not pretty, they're available. That's all that matters."
More laughter. You kept your eyes on your bowl, chewing mechanically.
"What about you, Davos?" Mace leaned across the fire, his grin turning sharp. "You ever had a woman? Or are you still a blushing maiden?"
Your face heated. "I've had women."
"Right." Mace laughed. "You probably pissed yourself the first time you saw a pair of tits, same as you did with my cock."
"I didn't piss myself.”
"Close enough!" Mace clapped his hands together, delighted. "The boy's a virgin. I'm calling it now. When those whores get here, we're all chipping in to buy Davos his first fuck."
"Leave him alone," Petyr said mildly, not looking up from his stew.
"C’mon Petyr, I'm not being cruel," Mace spread his hands in mock innocence. "Every boy needs his first. Might as well make it memorable."
You wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to throw your bowl at his smug face. Instead, you forced yourself to take another bite of bread and said nothing. The conversation moved on—speculation about which whores would be prettiest, arguments over pricing, Tym boasting about some woman he'd bedded in Flea Bottom who could allegedly do things with her mouth that defied the laws of gods and men. You let it wash over you, background noise, and focused on finishing your supper.
You were scraping the last of the stew from your bowl when a shadow fell over the fire.
"Davos Stokeworth."
You looked up to see Ser Alyn standing at the edge of the circle, his expression unreadable in the firelight.
Your stomach dropped. "Ser?"
"With me. Now."
The men around the fire went quiet, watching. You set down your bowl and stood, wiping your hands on your breeches. Petyr caught your eye, gave you a small nod—you'll be fine—but it did nothing to settle the dread coiling in your gut. You followed Ser Alyn away from the fire, into the shadows between the tents.
"You're serving wine tonight," he said without preamble. "The prince is hosting his officers for supper. They need someone to pour, and you're,” he looked you up and down, his lip curling slightly. “Well you’re small boy. We need someone who’s obtrusive. So, you'll do just fine.”
"Ser, but, I'm a soldier." You began to protest.
"You're a boy who can barely hold a shield," Ser Alyn cut you off. "This is where you're useful. Now stop arguing and get yourself to the quartermaster. He'll give you something clean to wear. You report to the prince's pavilion at sundown. If you spill so much as a drop on anyone important, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a month. Understood?"
Your jaw clenched. "Yes, ser."
"Good. Now go."
He turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the dark. Behind you, you could hear the men around the fire laughing again, their voices carrying on the night air. Talking about whores. About their women back home. About things you were supposed to want but couldn't even pretend to care about.
You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. Serving wine to the fucking prince of the realm nonetheless. To a pavilion full of officers who would be looking at you, studying you, waiting for you to make a mistake.
This was going to be a goddamn disaster.
The quartermaster's tent smelled like sweat, leather, and a mix of other shit. You ducked inside, blinking against the sudden brightness. Lanterns hung from the tent poles, casting flickering light over tables piled high with supplies—boots, belts, rolls of cloth, dented helmets waiting to be repaired. At the far end, hunched over a ledger, sat the quartermaster himself.
He was a wiry man, older, with ink-stained fingers eyes that squinted from too much close work. He didn't look up when you entered.
"Name," he said.
"Davos Stokeworth. Ser Alyn sent me. Said I need—"
"I know what you need." He set down his quill and stood, moving to one of the tables. "Serving the officers tonight, are you? Lucky boy."
He didn't sound like he thought you were lucky. The quartermaster pulled a tunic from one of the piles and held it up, and eyed you. "You're a small one. This should fit." He tossed it to you. "Put it on. Let's see."
You caught the tunic and hesitated. It was clean, at least—dark blue wool, simple but well-made. Better than anything you'd worn since arriving at camp.
"Well? I haven't got all night, boy."
You turned your back, fingers fumbling with the laces of your gambeson. The binding beneath was still tight, still holding, but your ribs ached with every breath. You pulled the gambeson over your head as quickly as you could, then shrugged into the tunic.
It fit. Barely. The shoulders were a bit wide, but it would do.
"Turn around."
You obeyed and the quartermaster circled you slowly, tugging at the fabric here and there, making small disapproving noises.
"You'll pass," he said finally. "Barely. Do you know how to serve wine, or am I going to have to explain that too?"
"I know how."
"Good. Because if you embarrass Ser Alyn, he'll take it out on me, and I'll take it out on you. Understood?"
"Yes, ser."
"I'm not a ser, I'm a quartermaster. Just call me Orys." He moved back to his ledger, already dismissing you. "The prince's pavilion is at the center of camp. Big one, you can't miss it. Be there before sundown, and for the love of the Seven, don't drop anything."
You nodded and turned to leave.
"And boy?"
You stopped, glanced back.
Orys was watching you with an odd expression—something like pity. "Keep your head down. Don't speak unless spoken to. The officers, they like their wine and they like their talk. You do not exist there remember that and you'll be fine."
"Aye," you said quietly.
Then you stepped back out into the evening air and started walking toward the center of camp.
The prince's pavilion was impossible to miss. It stood at the heart of the camp, twice the size of any other tent, pitch black with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying from the peak. Torches burned on either side of the entrance, and two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
You slowed as you approached, your mouth going dry. This was insane. You were about to walk into a tent full of knights and officers and pour their wine like some—like some servant. Like you weren't the daughter of a knight yourself, like you hadn't been raised with tutors and music lessons.
Stop it. You're not that person anymore. You're Davos. A soldier. A nobody.
"Davos Stokeworth," you said, pitching your voice low. "Ser Alyn sent me. I'm to serve tonight."
One of the guards—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek—looked you up and down. "You're late."
"I—"
"Get inside. They're already seated."
He jerked his head toward the entrance. You didn't wait to be told twice.
Inside, the pavilion was warm and bright, lit by what felt like a dozen lanterns hanging from the support beams. A long table dominated the center of the space, and around it sat perhaps a dozen men—knights, officers, all of them older and harder-looking than you'd expected. Their armor was piled near the tent walls, and they'd stripped down to tunics and leather jerkins, sleeves rolled up, looking almost human.
Almost.
At the head of the table sat Prince Valarr.
He was laughing at something one of the other men had said, his head tilted back, that streak of silver in his hair catching the lamplight. He looked different like this. Younger, less a prince and more just a man sharing a meal with his friends.
Then his eyes swept across the room and landed on you and the laughter died.
"Ah," he said, straightening. "You must be the cupbearer Ser Alyn mentioned."
Every head at the table turned to look at you.
Your throat closed up and you managed what would be a very, very, sad, and stiff bow. "Yes, Your Grace. Davos Stokeworth."
"Stokeworth." Valarr's brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to place the name. Then he nodded. "Well, Davos Stokeworth, welcome. The wine is there—" He gestured to a table set against the side of the pavilion, where several pitchers and flagons waited. "Start with Ser Alyn, if you would. The man looks like he needs it."
A few of the officers chuckled. Ser Alyn, seated near the middle of the table, grunted and held out his cup without looking at you.
"Move, boy," someone muttered. "We're thirsty."
Right. Move. You crossed to the side table, hands trembling as you picked up one of the pitchers. It was heavier than you'd expected, the wine sloshing inside. You carried it carefully to Ser Alyn and poured, focusing on keeping your hands steady, on not spilling a single drop.
The wine filled his cup. You stepped back.
"Next," Ser Alyn said.
You moved down the line. One officer after another, pouring wine, setting down the pitcher, picking up another when the first ran dry. The men barely looked at you. A few muttered thanks. Most ignored you entirely, already deep in conversation.
"—heard Daemon's forces are larger than we thought—"
"—doesn't matter, we've got the numbers—"
"—if it comes to a siege, we're fucked. We don't have the supplies—"
You kept your head down, kept pouring, kept being invisible.
And then you reached the head of the table. Prince Valarr held out his cup, his eyes on one of the other officers as he spoke. "Ser Jorin, you were saying about the Stormlands?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The man—Ser Jorin, apparently—was older, grizzled, with a thick beard gone mostly gray. "Reports say Blackfyre's already taken Bronzegate. If he pushes north—"
You poured the wine. Your hands were steadier now, the repetition helping. The cup filled. You started to step back.
"Careful, boy." Valarr's hand shot out, steadying the pitcher before you could pull it away too quickly. His fingers brushed yours—warm, calloused—and you froze.
He was looking at you now. Truly looking with those blue eyes sharp and curious. Your heart pounded against your chest, and you looked away from the intense gaze.
Seven Hells, get it fucking together.
"Easy," he said quietly. "No rush."
"Yes, Your Grace," you managed. “My apologies, Your Grace."
He smiled—just a flicker, there and gone. "No harm done." Then he released the pitcher and turned back to Ser Jorin. "Go on."
You stepped back, heart hammering, and moved to the next officer.
He touched you. He looked at you. It's fine. You're fine. He doesn't know. He can't know.
You finished pouring and retreated to the side table, standing with your back to the wall, waiting for someone to need a refill. The conversation at the table continued, voices rising and falling, debates about strategy and supplies and how many men Daemon Blackfyre had really brought with him. You tried to listen, tried to focus on anything other than the way your pulse was still racing.
And then Valarr laughed again, and despite every nerve in your body telling you to do the goddamn opposite, you looked up. He was smiling at something Ser Alyn had said, his whole face transformed by it. He looked, gods, he looked like someone you could actually talk to.
You forced your eyes back down and prayed for the night to end quickly.
The wine flowed freely.
You'd lost count of how many times you'd circled the table, pitcher in hand, filling cups that never seemed to stay full for long. The officers drank like men who knew tomorrow might be their last day, and the conversation grew louder, looser, as the night wore on.
"—swear to you, she had tits out to here—" Ser Jorin was gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his cup. You darted forward to steady it, refilled it without a word, stepped back.
"You're full of shit," another officer said, laughing. "No woman in Flea Bottom has tits that big."
"I'm telling you, she did!”
"What about you, Your Grace?" This from a younger knight, his face flushed with drink. "Any ladies caught your eye? Half the realm's probably throwing their daughters at you by now."
Valarr leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his cup. His eyes were bright—not quite drunk, but well on his way. "I've had offers."
"Offers!" Ser Alyn barked out a laugh. "The boy's had every lord from here to the Wall trying to marry off their daughters. I've seen the letters."
"And?"
"And nothing." Valarr drank, set his cup down with a soft thunk. "I'm not interested in marrying another lords political ambitions wrapped up in a pretty dress."
"Aye, so you want an ugly wife, then?" Ser Jorin grinned.
"I want a wife I can actually talk to." Valarr's voice was easy, but there was something sharper underneath. "Someone with a mind. Someone who isn't going to smile and nod and bore me to death at the breakfast table."
"Good luck finding that," someone muttered.
"Maybe I'll marry a warrior." Valarr was smiling now, the wine making him reckless. "Someone who can hold a sword. Wouldn't that scandalize the court?"
Laughter rippled around the table. You refilled Ser Alyn's cup, moved to the next man, kept your face blank.
"A warrior wife," Ser Jorin mused. "I'd pay good coin to see that. Can you imagine? Some woman in armor, telling the prince what to do."
"Sounds like a nightmare," another officer said.
"Sounds like a good time," Valarr countered. He drained his cup and held it out. You stepped forward automatically, pitcher raised. His eyes flicked up to yours as you poured—just for a moment—and you felt the weight of it. Your hand trembled, just slightly. The wine splashed against the rim of the cup.
Steady. Steady.
You pulled back before you could spill.
"Thank you," Valarr said quietly.
You nodded, stepped away. Your heart was beating too fast, a sick, fluttering organ trapped behind your ribs. The talk shifted again and someone was telling a story about a brothel in Lys. Another was complaining about his horse. The voices blurred together, and you stood against the wall, hands clasped behind your back, and tried to breathe.
The binding was too tight. Your chest ached, every breath felt like dragging air through wet cloth.
Not now. Not here.
You locked your knees and waited. It was well past midnight when Valarr finally pushed back from the table.
"Enough," he said, standing. The word was slightly softer at the edges, blurred by wine. "We ride at dawn. Get some sleep."
The officers rose—some steadier than others—and began filtering out of the pavilion in twos and threes, clapping each other on the shoulders, still laughing about something. Ser Alyn paused to mutter something to Valarr, too low for you to hear, and then he was gone too. You stayed where you were, back against the wall. You were supposed to wait until the tent cleared. Until someone dismissed you.
And then it was just you and the prince.
Valarr stood by the table, one hand braced against the back of his chair, staring down at the maps spread across the surface. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, silent, his shoulders tight. Then he spoke without looking up.
"You're dismissed," he said.
You bowed and left, thanking the gods.
You woke to Mace's boot nudging your ribs.
"Up, cupbearer. Can't sleep all day just because you spent the night pouring wine for fancy lords."
You groaned and rolled over, every muscle in your body screaming. The ground beneath your bedroll was hard as stone, and the binding around your chest had left deep aches in your ribs. You'd barely slept three hours.
"Fuck off, Mace," you mumbled.
"Ooh, the boy's got a mouth on him this morning." Mace grinned down at you. "How was it? They treat you nice? Feed you scraps from the prince's table?"
"It was fine." You sat up slowly, rubbing your face. Your head pounded. Around you, the tent was already half-empty. Petyr was gone—probably at the latrines or getting food. Benedict sat in the corner, polishing his sword and looking like someone who had no idea what he was doing. Tym was still asleep, snoring like a dying animal.
"Word is there's archery practice today," Mace said, pulling on his boots. "Ser Alyn wants to see who can actually shoot and who's been lying about it."
Your head snapped up. "Archery?"
"Aye. Apparently we're short on archers, and if Blackfyre's forces have the high ground when we meet them, we're fucked." He stood, stretching. "You know how to shoot, Davos?"
You hesitated. "A bit."
"A bit." Mace snorted. "Well, you'd better pray you're better than 'a bit,' because Ser Alyn's in a foul mood. Anyone who can't hit a target's getting assigned to cleaning shit for a week."
He ducked out of the tent, still laughing. You sat there for a moment, heart pounding.
Archery. Gods.
The range was set up in a wide clearing beyond the horse lines—a dozen straw targets propped against wooden frames, each marked with rough circles of charcoal. Men were already gathering, maybe forty or fifty of them, talking in low voices while Ser Alyn stood at the front with his arms crossed.
You hung back near the edge of the crowd, trying to stay invisible.
"All right, listen up!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "We need archers. Good ones. If you can shoot, step forward. If you can't, fuck off back to your tents."
A few men stepped forward immediately—older soldiers, veterans with the scarred hands of bowmen. Others hesitated, shuffling their feet.
"Come on, don't be shy!" Ser Alyn barked. "I don't care if you've only shot a bow twice in your life. Get up here."
More men moved forward. You stayed where you were.
"You too, boy."
You looked up. Ser Alyn was staring directly at you.
"Me, ser?"
"Yes, you. You've got the build for it. Small, light. Good for a longbowman." He jerked his chin toward the line forming near the targets. "Get over there."
Your stomach sank. "Ser, I don’t.”
"That wasn't a request, boy.”
You swallowed and stepped forward, joining the ragged line of men. Mace caught your eye from across the clearing and grinned, mouthing good luck. Ser Alyn walked down the line, eyeing each man. When he reached you, he paused.
"You ever shot a bow before, Davos?"
"A few times, ser," you lied. Or—no, it wasn't a lie. You just didn't mention how many times. "My father taught me."
"Good. Let's see what you've got." He moved to the center of the range and raised his voice. "First round! Fifty paces! You'll each get three arrows. Hit the target, you stay. Miss all three, you're done. Understood?"
"Yes, ser!"
One of the soldiers handed you a bow—a simple recurve, nothing fancy, but solid enough. The wood was worn smooth from use. You tested the string, felt the tension. It was heavier than the bow you'd trained with at home, but not by much. Three arrows. You nocked the first one, feeling the familiar weight of it, the way the fletching brushed against your fingers.
The first man stepped up to the line. He drew, aimed, loosed.
The arrow hit the edge of the target. Barely.
"Next!"
Another man. Another shot. This one missed entirely, burying itself in the dirt three feet to the left.
“Fucking pathetic! Next!"
You watched them, one after another. Some hit. Most didn't. Your turn was coming, and your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"You! Boy! Step up!"
You moved to the line. Fifty paces. The target looked small from here, just a circle of straw and charcoal. You raised the bow, feeling the weight of it settle into your grip and drew the string back. You loosed and the arrow flew straight and true, slamming into the target dead center.
Silence.
You blinked, staring at the target. You hadn't meant to—you'd just shot. Just let your body do what it knew how to do.
"Well, shit," someone muttered behind you.
Ser Alyn was staring at you, his expression unreadable. "Again."
You nocked the second arrow. Drew. Loosed.
It hit an inch from the first.
"Again."
Third arrow. This one split the difference between the first two, all three clustered in the center of the target so close together you could barely see the gaps. The clearing had gone quiet. Every man was staring at you now. Ser Alyn walked over to the target, examined the arrows, then turned back to look at you. His face was hard to read—somewhere between impressed and suspicious.
"Where the fuck did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked.
Your mouth went dry. "My father, ser. He—he was good. Taught me when I was young."
"Your father must've been a gods-damned master archer." Ser Alyn pulled one of the arrows from the target and turned it over in his hands. "I've seen knights who can't shoot this clean."
You didn't know what to say to that. Ser Alyn looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're staying on the line. Let's see if you can do it again."
The next round started. Seventy-five paces this time. You hit the target. So did a handful of others, but most fell away, their shots going wide or falling short. One hundred paces. You hit the center again. Only three other men managed to hit the target at all.
One hundred and fifty paces. The target was barely visible now, just a smudge of straw in the distance.
You drew. Aimed. Felt the wind against your face, adjusted for it without thinking.
Loosed.
The arrow arced high, then dropped, slamming into the target just left of center. When Ser Alyn walked down to check, he stood there for a long moment, hands on his hips, staring at the arrow.
Then he turned and shouted back toward the range: "Someone get the prince. He needs to see this."
Your blood went cold.
No. No no no—
But it was too late. Across the clearing, one of the squires was already running toward the center of camp.
Prince Valarr arrived on horseback, flanked by two of his knights. He dismounted and walked toward the range as you kept your eyes down, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. This was bad, very fucking bad.
Ser Alyn met him halfway, speaking too low for you to hear. Valarr listened, his expression unreadable, then his eyes swept across the line of men until they landed on you. He studied you for a moment and then nodded to Ser Alyn.
"Show me," he said.
Ser Alyn gestured you forward. "Davos. One more shot. Two hundred paces."
Two hundred paces. The target was barely a speck at this distance, the wind strong enough that you could feel it pulling at your clothes. You nocked an arrow with hands that wanted to shake, forced them steady. You could feel every eye on you—the soldiers, Ser Alyn, the prince. Especially the prince. You drew the string back until your fingers touched the corner of your mouth, felt the tension singing through the bow, and let everything else fall away. Just you and the target. Just the wind and the weight of the arrow and the moment before release.
You loosed.
The arrow flew in a long, clean arc, cutting through the air like it had been drawn there by an invisible hand. It struck the target high and right, just inside the outer ring. Not perfect. But at two hundred paces, in the wind, it was more than good enough. Valarr walked down to the target himself this time, Ser Alyn trailing behind him. He pulled the arrow free, examined it, then looked back at you across the distance. You couldn't read his expression from here, but the fact that he was looking at all made your stomach clench.
When he returned, he stopped in front of you, turning the arrow over in his hands. "Your father taught you to shoot?" he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace," you said, keeping your voice low and steady.
"He must have been very skilled." Valarr handed the arrow back to you. "Or you're a natural. Either way, I have use for someone who can shoot like that." He glanced at Ser Alyn. "I'll take him."
Ser Alyn's brow furrowed. "Your Grace?"
"Send him to my tent after midday. I want to speak with him privately." Valarr's eyes flicked back to you. "Well done, Davos. It seems you're full of surprises."
Then he turned and walked back to his horse. You stood there, heart in your throat, arrow still clutched in your hand.
What in Seven Hells have you gotten yourself into?
You stood outside the prince's pavilion, trying to steady your breathing.
Midday had come too quickly. You'd spent the morning in a haze of dread, barely hearing the jokes and questions from your tentmates. Mace had clapped you on the shoulder so hard you'd nearly stumbled, crowing about how "little Davos" had shown up half the camp. Petyr had just looked at you with something like concern and said nothing.
Now you were here, and the guards were watching you, and there was no avoiding it.
"The prince is expecting you," one of them said, jerking his head toward the entrance.
You ducked inside. The pavilion was quieter than it had been last night. No crowd of officers, no wine-loosened laughter. Just Valarr, standing at the table with maps spread out before him, still in his riding leathers. He looked up when you entered.
"Davos. Come here."
You crossed to the table, stopped a respectful distance away. Your hands wanted to fidget. You locked them behind your back.
Valarr studied you for a moment, then gestured to the maps. "Do you know what these are?"
You glanced down. Terrain maps, troop movements marked in different colored ink. "Battle plans, Your Grace."
"Close enough." He tapped a spot on the largest map—a river crossing, forests marked on either side. "Daemon Blackfyre's forces are moving north. We know their general direction, but not their numbers. Not their exact position. If we're going to meet them, we need better intelligence."
You nodded, unsure where this was going.
"I need scouts," Valarr continued. "Fast, quiet, with good eyes. Someone who can get close without being seen and get out again without getting killed." His gaze flicked up to you. "You're small and light. And clearly you can shoot well enough to defend yourself if things go wrong. That makes you useful."
Your stomach dropped through the floor. "Your Grace, I'm not—"
"You're not a soldier?" He raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered, didn't you? Came here in your father's place?"
"Yes, Your Grace.”
"Then you're a soldier. And soldiers do what they're told." He straightened, crossing his arms. "I'm assigning you to reconnaissance. You'll ride out tomorrow with two others, get close to Blackfyre's camp, count what you can, and report back. Think you can manage that?"
No. Absolutely fucking not. This was insane.
"Yes, Your Grace," you heard yourself say.
Valarr's expression softened slightly. "You're scared. That's good. Means you're not stupid." He moved around the table, closer now. "The men you're going with are experienced. They'll keep you alive if you listen to them. And if you see something—anything—you come straight back here and tell me. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good." He held your gaze for a moment longer, and you couldn't look away. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but there was something else there too. "Dismissed. Report to Ser Alyn before dawn. He'll give you the details."
You bowed and turned to leave.
"Davos."
You stopped, glanced back.
"Don't get yourself killed," Valarr said. "I'd hate to lose a decent archer."
You nodded and left before you could say something stupid.
You'd been crouched in the same position for hours, muscles screaming, barely daring to breathe.
The other two scouts—Harwin and a lean, quiet man named Durran—had split off at sunset to circle Blackfyre's camp from different angles. The plan was simple: watch, count, don't get caught. You'd drawn the shortest straw, which meant you got the closest position, tucked behind a fallen log at the edge of the treeline with nothing but darkness and luck to keep you hidden.
Blackfyre's camp sprawled below you, a sea of cookfires and tents that seemed to go on forever. Too many. Far too fucking many. You'd tried to count them at first, but gave up somewhere past three hundred. The prince needed to know this. Needed to know how badly outnumbered you were.
Your shoulder ached from holding still. Your legs had gone numb an hour ago. The night air was cold enough that you could see your breath, and every slight movement made the leaves around you rustle. You'd been here since dusk. It had to be near midnight now.
Then you heard voices.
Close. Too close.
You froze, pressing yourself flatter against the ground. Two men were walking up the hill toward your position, their boots crunching through the underbrush. Blackfyre soldiers, had to be. You could see the dark shapes of them through the trees, close enough that you could hear their conversation.
"—don't see why it matters," one of them was saying. His voice was rough, annoyed. "Just kill him and be done with it."
"Because it has to look right," the other man said. He sounded older, calmer. "The prince dies in battle, fine. The prince dies in his tent with a knife in his back? That raises questions."
Your blood went cold.
"So what, we wait for the fighting to start?"
"We wait for the signal. Martyn's got someone on the inside, close to the prince. When the time comes, it'll look like an accident. Friendly fire, it happens all the time in wars.”
"And we're sure this source is good?"
"Good enough that Daemon's paying him in gold. The Targaryen prince dies, their army falls apart, we win." The older man spat into the dirt. "Just be patient."
They were maybe twenty feet away now. Moving closer. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. Your heart was slamming against your ribs so hard you were sure they'd hear it.
Assassination? Worse, an nside job. This had to be someone close to Valarr.
You had to get back. Had to warn him. Your foot shifted and a branch snapped under your boot. Suddenly, the voices drew to a stop.
"What was that?"
"Over there. By the log."
"Fuck."
You stood at once and ran. Didn't think, didn't plan, just scrambled to your feet and bolted into the trees. Behind you, shouting erupted. Boots pounding. Someone yelled for a bow.
The forest was a blur of shadows and branches tearing at your face. You ran blind, lungs burning, legs pumping. You didn't know where Harwin and Durran were. Didn't know which way was camp. Just ran.
The arrow hit you from behind. It punched into your left shoulder with a force that sent you sprawling forward into the dirt. The pain was white-hot, blinding, and for a moment you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but lie there with your face in the leaves and feel the warm spread of blood soaking into your tunic.
Get up. Get up get up get up, you fucking idiot, you have to get up.
You dragged yourself to your feet, gasping. Your left arm hung useless, the arrow shaft jutting from your shoulder like some obscene flag. Blood was running down your back, hot and wet. You could hear them crashing through the brush behind you, closer now.
You ran again.
The world tilted and swayed. Your vision blurred. You tripped over roots, slammed into trees, kept going. The sounds of pursuit faded—or maybe you just couldn't hear them anymore over the roaring in your ears.
You didn't know how long you ran. It felt like hours. It felt like seconds.
When you finally saw the lights of camp through the trees, you nearly sobbed with relief. You stumbled out of the forest and into the outer ring of tents, legs giving out. Someone shouted. Hands caught you before you hit the ground.
"Gods—he's been shot—"
"Wake Ser Alyn and the maester—“
You tried to speak, tried to tell them about the prince, about the assassin, but your mouth wouldn't work. The world was going dark at the edges, folding in on itself.
The last thing you heard before everything went black was someone yelling for Prince Valarr.
Pain woke you. Sharp, burning, radiating from your shoulder down through your ribs like someone was twisting a hot poker into your bones. You tried to move and your body screamed at you—don't, don't, stop—and you froze, gasping.
Something was wrong, really fucking wrong. Not just the arrow wound. Something else. Something worse.
Your eyes snapped open. Canvas overhead with dim lantern light. The smell of blood and herbs and something medicinal that made your stomach turn. You were lying on a cot, blankets pulled up to your collarbone, and your chest felt wrong—loose, unbound, the pressure gone.
No. No no no.
You tried to sit up. Hands pressed you back down—gentle but firm—and a voice spoke from somewhere above you.
"Don't."
You knew that voice.
Your head turned and there he was. Prince Valarr. Sitting on a low stool beside the cot, close enough to touch, his face drawn and pale in the lamplight. He looked like he hadn't slept. His hair was a mess, the streak of silver falling across his forehead, and his eyes, gods, his eyes were fixed on you. Sharp and watching.
"Your Grace," you managed. Your voice came out rough, cracked, barely audible.
He didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at you, and the silence stretched so long your heart started slamming against your ribs. His jaw was tight. Too tight. "Davos," he said finally. "Or should I say—" He stopped. Jaw working. "What's your real name?"
The world dropped out from under you. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Your hand moved without permission—reached for your chest, felt the bandages wrapped around your ribs where the binding should have been gone. It was gone. They'd cut it off.
"I—" You tried to sit up again, panic flooding through you hot and terrible. "Your Grace, I can explain."
"Don't." His hand shot out, pressed against your good shoulder, holding you down. "You'll tear the stitches."
You froze. His palm was warm through the thin blanket. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, the same ones that had brushed yours when he'd steadied the wine pitcher. When he'd looked at you and you'd thought—gods, you'd been so stupid.
"The maester had to cut away your tunic to get to the arrow," Valarr said. His voice was quiet, too quiet. "He found the binding." A pause. "And then he found everything else."
Your throat closed up. You wanted to run. Wanted to bolt upright and sprint for the tent flap and just fucking run until your legs gave out, but you couldn't move. His hand was still on your shoulder and his eyes were still on your face and you were trapped.
"So I'll ask you again." Valarr leaned forward—close enough that you could see the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. Close enough that you couldn't look away. "What's your name?"
You opened your mouth and nothing came out.
He waited. In the corner of the tent, an old man sat on a stool—the maester, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, watching the two of you . He'd seen. He knew. "I sent everyone else away," Valarr continued, reading your panic. "As far as the camp knows, you're still just Davos. Wounded, but alive." His eyes flicked toward the maester. "Maester Harrion has agreed to keep silent for now."
For now.
"But I need the truth," Valarr said. His hand was still on your shoulder. You could feel the weight of it, pinning you down, holding you there. "All of it. Starting with your name."
Your shoulder throbbed. Your ribs ached. Blood had soaked through the bandages and you could feel it—warm and sticky against your skin. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong. And Valarr was looking at you like he didn't recognize you anymore.
"It doesn't matter," you heard yourself say. Your voice sounded thin. "Your Grace, my name doesn't matter—you need to listen to me, there's going to be an assassination—"
"Don't."
The word came out sharp. Hard. Valarr's hand tightened on your shoulder—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you flinch. His jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing.
"Don't you dare try to change the subject," he said, and there it was—the anger you'd been waiting for, finally breaking through. "You've been lying to me since the moment I met you. You stood in formation with my men. You poured wine in my tent. You—" He stopped and swallowed. "I touched you."
His hand jerked back like you'd burned him.
The absence of his touch felt worse than the arrow wound. "You let me believe you were someone you're not," Valarr continued, and his voice had gone quiet again. Dangerously quiet. "You lied to Ser Alyn. To the men in your tent. To me." He stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the ground, and turned away from you. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What this means?"
"I didn't have a choice—"
"There's always a choice!" He spun back toward you, and you flinched. "You could have stayed home. You could have let your father answer the call himself. You could have—" He stopped. Dragged both hands through his hair. "Gods. Gods. You're—you're a woman."
He said it like he still couldn't believe it. Like the word didn't fit in his mouth. You wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at him that your father would have died, that you'd saved his life, that you'd done what you had to do. But the words stuck in your throat because Valarr was looking at you like he'd trusted you. And you'd broken that.
"I could have you executed for this," he said finally. "Lying to the Crown. Deceiving the army. and impersonating a soldier." He paused. "Do you understand that?"
"Yes." Your voice was barely a whisper.
"Do you understand that I should have you executed for this?"
"Yes."
Valarr stared at you. His hand moved—unconscious, automatic—toward the hilt of his sword. You watched it happen. Watched his fingers brush the pommel, hover there for a second.
Then drop.
"Fuck," he muttered, turning away again. He paced to the other side of the tent, put his back to you. His shoulders were rigid. You could see the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The silence stretched. Seconds. Minutes. You couldn't tell. Finally, he spoke without turning around.
"Why?"
"My father," you said again. The words came easier this time, like something inside you had cracked open. "He was called to fight. He's—he's old, Your Grace. Wounded. He fought at the Redgrass Field. He gave everything for the Crown. And they—" Your voice broke and you forced it steady. "They were going to send him anyway. Even though he can barely hold a sword anymore. Even though it would have killed him."
Valarr didn't move.
"So I took his armor," you continued. "Cut my hair. Bound my chest and I came here in his place." You swallowed. "I knew it was treason. I knew what would happen if anyone found out. But he's my father, and I couldn't—I couldn't just let him die."
More silence.
Then, quietly he said, "What's your name?"
You told him your real name. The one only your father had called you for the past month. Valarr finally turned around. He looked at you for a long moment, and you couldn't read his expression anymore. Couldn't tell if he was angry or confused or something else entirely.
"You took an arrow for me," he said.
"I—" You blinked. "What?"
"You heard the assassins. You could have run. Could have disappeared into the forest and no one would have known." His eyes were fixed on yours now, searching. "But you came back. You warned me."
"Of course I did." The words came out sharper than you intended. "Your Grace, they're planning to kill you. Someone close to you, someone on the inside—I heard them talking about Martyn, about waiting for a signal."
"I know."
You stopped. Stared at him.
"You—what?"
"You've been unconscious for hours," Valarr said. "Kept mumbling about assassins. About someone close to me." He moved back toward the cot, sat down heavily on the stool. "I've already doubled the guard. Ser Alyn is questioning everyone who has access to my tent."
Relief crashed through you so hard you nearly sobbed. "Then you—you believe me?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Valarr asked quietly. "You got shot trying to warn me. Why would you lie about that?"
You didn't have an answer and he studied you for another long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out—hesitated—and rested his hand on the edge of the cot. Not touching you. But close.
"I don't know what to do with you," he admitted.
Your heart was pounding. "Your Grace."
"You saved my life," Valarr continued. "But you also lied to me. Deceived me. Committed treason." He exhaled. "I should have you executed. I should. But—" He stopped and looked away, his jaw ticking.
"But?" you pressed.
"But you're the best damn archer I've seen in years," Valarr said. "And you took an arrow in the back trying to save me." He dragged a hand down his face. "And I—" He stopped again. Shook his head.
"I can't execute you," he finished quietly. "I should. But I can't."
The tent was too small. Too hot. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your shoulder, everywhere.
"So what happens now?" you asked.
Valarr looked at you. Really looked at you, like he was seeing you for who you were, truly, the first time. "Now," he said slowly, "you tell me everything those men said. Every word. Every detail. And then—" He paused. "Then we figure out how to keep you alive."
| summary: valarr takes you to summerhall to introduce you to his family and has to protect you from some gossiping old-money wives.
from fury, from fire: @sehaedazokla
| summary: Lady Baratheon encounters an unexpected visitor when she sneaks out to the jousting lists in the late hours of the night during the tourney at Ashford Meadow.
hopelessly devoted: @ghost1nn
| summary: in which valarr can’t help but yearn for his betrothed
the young prince’s lady: @starxs-s
rescue mission: @spcncershybrid-library
| summary: the scorching heat of kings landing and pregnancy was a fierce combination. taking it upon yourself to find the coolest place leads to your husband Valarr searching the whole castle for you.
make it count: @tcrgarien
| summary: in which it’s your name day and a tournament is being held in your favour. however, you hadn’t expected a certain relative who you loved for as long as you could remember to participate.
pretty when you cry: @konalis
| summary: You saw the future. You saw that spring would be the last for the young heir prince, Valarr. On the day they buried the Breakspear, you convinced him to trade his crown for a life with you.
not the realm’s, but mine: @cosmictheo
| summary: as maekar’s eldest daughter, you are a trophy to every man of the realm. and for that, one evening your husband’s protective streak turns into a cruel accusation that escalates into a heated argument. you’ve mastered the art of the silent treatment, and for a man who treats you like his entire religion, one day of being ignored is enough to drive him to the brink of insanity.
nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter: @vvesteros
| summary: you have always yearned valarr, he was the perfect man to you, but you did not act on those feelings due to your promise to aerion, your betrothed. but what happens when baelor’s death make those mutual feelings stronger?
in the night: @vvesteros
| summary: during the commemoration of prince baelor, you had kissed valarr and you had absolutely no regrets or sympathy for your betrothed, aerion, until you step into his chambers, but then spot valarr, what happens when your mixed emotions threaten to spill out?
only yours: @valarrsgirl
| summary: Valarr is forced to confront the fact that being everyone’s golden boy means nothing if the only person he loves feels unseen.
the look of love: @osarina
| summary: you are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
gentle caresses: @martellias
| summary: the friendship escalates into a rushed relationship after having been going around for months.
heartache: @valarrsgirl
| summary: you’ve been complaining about every forgettable man in your life, only to realize the one who’s always truly seen you is right there.
academic rivals: @beentainted
| summary: the targaryen family was known for their expert mind games, often using it to desguise their own emotions—so it isn't all surprising that, when valarr targaryen finds himself a crush, he will take desperate measures trying to hide it.
children and art: @louloucake
| summary: your first date at a museum, talks of the future and having kids, aspirations and dreams, sweet fluff
| summary: you had been betrothed to Valarr long before you even knew what marriage truly meant, and yet you had never met him. He seemed to be the closest guarded secret in Westeros, at least when it came to you. How were you supposed to know the man who greeted you with kind smiles and mismatched eyes was to be your husband?
like the songs: @dearlizzies
the untamed princess: @samstardust
steel and silk: @lilyswritings
| summary: summoned to the red keep to prove her family's loyalty a decade after the blackfyre rebellion, the lady of house peake only intends to survive court politics — becoming entangled with prince valarr targaryen was not part of the plan
i do not burn, yet i fall: @thelhc
| summary: growing up with Valarr had been easy, but falling for him had been anything but. You knew he was unattainable, that he was never yours to have, that he was bound by duty. What better reminder of that than the king inviting all of the ladies of the realm to the Red Keep to vie for the prince's hand in marriage?
more than blood: @dracaryshoney
american wedding: @rottenbites
| summary: as the presidents daughter, you have high standards to follow, none which include falling in love with an heir to the iron throne of westeros
heart of mine: @chuluoyi
| summary: now carrying his child, your prince dotes on you with the devotion of a man utterly enamored with the woman he loves
where dragons lay dying: @knightbloods
| summary: reader is a skilled woodswitch who heals with herbs and whispered spells, summoned to the red keep she must heal a dragon or watch him die.
skin and bones: @goonofthrones
| summary: university life is fun, you study hard, do well, party, spend time with good friends and actually feel hopeful for the future. It's just unfortunate that your love life is so tumultuous...
my heart: @eternalbuckley
| summary: your mother wants to marry you off to the son of an old friend while your father is away. You don‘t want to accept such a future because your heart has already chosen another man — Valarr Targaryen. You don‘t want to and cannot lose your love, your heart.
golden restless age: @breakspearz
history took note: @dragonslass
dragon blood: @rottenbites
| summary: house targaryen; home of the dragons. even the young prince valarr — sweet, quiet, and poised, has the blood running through his veins
a dragon’s fire: @mariposium
| summary: your new husband is the epitome of chivalry, especially when it comes to you, but he cannot quite divorce himself from his less-than-perfect family, either. when his cousin fancies you as his new target to publicly humiliate, valarr is forced to strike a balance between his head and his heart.
| divider by: @honeyluvsw !
always check any warnings before reading! I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I do! :) Big thank you to these authors for creating such immersive and interesting plots! <3 Teach me how to write fr!! 😚💞
here's a collection of my fave works recently - linked and tagged
⋆˚࿔ you can see these fics and more reposted to @chaoticrecomends
𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓉𝑜𝓃
gates of hell [series] by @aloneinthehellfire
— personally been bingeing this fic, it is that good. angsty horror slowburn with enemies to lovers? sign me up!
attitude [one shot smut] by @taylors--cornercorner
— bratty steve AND bratty reader? i'm sat. give me fourteen more.
old town, old feelings [series smut] by @trizharrington
— part 1 | part 2 : the closest thing i can get to a decent hallmark movie with steve harrington, and that is a compliment
funny mouth [one shot smut] by @moonstoneandmoonlight
— i do not play about this fic or this author, this left me staring at the ceiling for at least five minutes
𝓀𝓊𝓇𝓉 𝓀𝓊𝓃𝓀𝓁𝑒
let's collab [one shot smut] by @gutsnhugs
— the camgirl trope for kurt is always going to serve and this one sets a standard
𝑔𝒶𝓉𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓂𝒶𝓃
if i catch you [one shot smut] by @keeryhours
— i'm taking this fic to my grave, same with everything by keeryhours
nasty [one shot smut] by @keer-y
— besides being my go-to hype moot, keer-y provides so many good fics that there is something for everybody and thank god for that
the diner [one shot smut] by @levanswrites
— i'm recommending this fic, but i am urging you to just go through their masterlist and read absolutely everything they write. lev never misses and each work is a somethinng new. literally one of my fave authors ever.
a one time thing [series smut] by @kind-of-a-writer
— three parts so far and each one had me begging for more
other fic authors that i cannot go without recommending include:
@meadowsbaird - specifically this series
@keerymehome @bluntkeery @mcrdvcks @harringtonsdiary @buckysgrace @s111ut @munsonify @sheisjoeschateau @kill3ill @honorschem @linaslore @suprclark @basicallydjo @upsidedownwithemmy
don't forget to like, comment, and reblog with your fav fanfic authors because engagement is how fandoms stay alive!
drew fanart for @thedarkrose17 s AMAZING fanfic As the tears flow out on Ao3 because i had to draw these yearnful losers in their sonic pjs :))
again i cannot thank the author enough for taking my idea and expanding it into something beautiful- (seriously i love all the little details and tidbits for the characters (especially till) that make them feel more real)- again, thank you sososos much 🙏🙏🙏
even though its not in the story: i gave sua amy pjs cause 1. amy probably reminds her of mizi (strong buff pink women) and 2. cause it matches her limited addition (mizi) pink bunny slippers (duh lol)
i genuinely love how you protrayed them author- especially in the latest chapter like "AAUIAQHSHSW OF COURSE THEY WOULD THATS ADORABLE!!!"
thank you so much again for bringing this idea to life and i hope i did your fanfic justice!! :)👍
anyways sua & till besties cause theyre an amazing dynamic we need more
MORE heated rivalry fics that are conceptually clever or unsettling or thorough. or all of the above
not all of them are aus . many are under 15k hits
put my hand on the stove (and the cross) - unseemlyndisturbed
(beautiful eerie prose, the religiosity holds substance and is hypnotic. Load bearing fanfiction)
“And there.
Through a break in the trees, there is a house. Wooden, old, the pale white paint of it greyed with age and dampness.
"I—" His voice comes out level, at least.
The man has tilted his head. "What? You want to sleep in your car?" He pulls his chin toward the dark interior of the house, a small gesture. "No. Come in. Is no trouble."
God hasn’t abandoned him yet, ha.
Shane Hollander's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. The man who answers the door is charming, warm, and just his type. Ilya Rozanov is a very religious man. He has a lot to say about repentance.”
HOLLANDER VS ROZANOV I - gone_girl
(i know nothing about boxing, but this conveys the world so clearly. outsider pov in chapter 1. knowledgeable clever cool character study)
“After nearly a decade separated by weight class, Shane Hollander has given up his cruiserweight title to challenge undefeated heavyweight champion of the world Ilya Rozanov. The following is a presentation of HBO Boxing.”
A Side Door Into the Dark - magnetica
(climatology physics scientists in antarctica. includes citations at the end. in a short amount of words the sense of setting is sooo strong. very endearing and cold)
“Amundsen-Scott Station, Antarctica
—
In grad school the only flirting he had mastered was the strategic deployment of phrases like ‘oh, really?’ and ‘is that so?’ It was brought to his attention by one of his more regular hookups in the kitchen of his apartment while they were cooking dinner, and he had said whenever Shane wanted to fuck he started talking like a coastal elite college girl who’d never had to ask for it outright. Now, in this strange point of contact with Ilya where it was obvious something vaguely carnal had passed between them, he thought about emulating his particular brand of assured charm. Whatever ideas he’d concocted devolved rather quickly into his own unintentional directness, and he said, “Does it scare you?”
“Does climatology scare you?” Ilya’s face was measured and calm, his foot still pressed against the curved joint above Shane’s heel.
“Yeah,” the word came out like a laugh, “it does, actually. A lot.””
decadent stress chamber - garagepaperback
(every word is intentional. frenetic. load bearing wall of a fic! buzzy. anything by garagepaperback is immaculate)
“Rush week confirms a lot of things. Ambitions, fears. Where do I fit? What if I don’t fit anywhere? Nervous freshman bitten-lip shit. Being an active, a senior, means having answers. Shane has no further questions.
–
Or, Shane’s in a frat. Ilya rushes.”
i looked over it and i ached - IsvsWorld
(very very good character study and exploration of shane’s japanese canadian experience. doesn’t shy away from the harder realisms.)
““I don’t really think about stuff like that,” Shane replies in interviews, his lips wooden at the words.
---
Shane and being haafu, 2nd gen, and Asian.”
helpless, tender, open - makomoris
(sexy and sickly and loving..)
“Shane gets an annual cold, Ilya notices, when they start to officially date. It happens when they're both on the road, and he calls Shane from his shitty hotel and hears him sniffling, nose all blocked while he grumbles about having to sit out a game. Ilya lets him whine, says I know, I know, sweetie, it doesn't feel too good, I am sure. He's imagining Shane a little helpless in bed, unable to move, struck down with fever. It stirs something inside him, seeing Shane, usually so whip strong, fastest skater he's seen, laid away to waste by the simple common cold.
or Shane gets sick, and Ilya still wants.”
HOLLANDER & ROZANOV ARE DEAD - eurydicees
(buzzy and heartfelt and nosy)
It is December, and Scott has been out for long enough to pretend to be used to it, and things are not perfect but they’re fucking good, and Ilya Rozanov is at his apartment for dinner—has been for over an hour—and he’s still waiting so stupidly hopefully to introduce a boyfriend who very, very clearly isn’t coming.
(Or: studies on coming out, learning patience, one-sided conversations, and other absurdist waiting games.)
got milk? i mean, got yoghurt? - unseemlyndisturbed
(fascinating mixed media storytelling…chapter 2 ending we still think about you. read the tags but also it’s sick (like crazy?) but earnest and emotional. sexy and comedic too! :P Also really well researched and realistic which enhances the reading experience so much)
“There was a small recoil, nothing Shane would consciously register as a recoil, just a slight drawing-back of his head and a micro-expression crossing the bridge of his nose.
His brows pulled together for one second, and he pulled the carton away from his face, examining the opening.
Ilya Rozanov has seven cameras. Ilya Rozanov has a blog.
His gay roommate doesn't know about any of this”
hockeybot - hiljainen
(gratifying. mixed media)
“Here is what everyone thinks of you. It’s exactly what you feared. It might actually be worse.”
Thirsty Little Flower - anonymous
(like ok i guess we’re getting into the pervert section of the fic rec list. i really like the shane characterization and the representation of finding out you’re a freak on the family computer and running from it forever. very charming seriously.)
tag i love: “think of this like an erotic expansion pack. the base game has plenty of smut already.”
“Fuck, something was really wrong with him. It was one thing to jerk off in the shower thinking about a hot guy. So maybe it was kinda gay, whatever. It happens. It's really another thing to jerk off thinking about your rival. Who beat you in *two* competitions today. A guy who, in all likelihood, didn't even mean to brush your fingers like that. That's kinda pervy, right? But plenty of other guys are also kinda pervy.
It's really definitely not normal to jerk off thinking about a guy telling you to stay hydrated.
Fuck. Shane Hollander is a freak.”
welcome to the family - pressuretoparty
(so satisfying and makes me flinch. whole house mad❤️. really honest ottawa hollanov depiction.)
“"We are actually so fucking washed," Shane bitches. "I'm never getting better and you are stuck on a losing team that sucks. Everyone is going to forget about us."
"Don't make me trip you," Ilya says, calmly. "Let's do another lap."
"No," Shane barks. Ilya raises his eyebrows.
Shane refuses to accept this. This perpetual cycle of suck. When he invited Ilya to his cottage almost four years ago now, he didn't expect their relationship to turn into their fucking burial ground.
Shane finds himself grounded in Ottawa for the foreseeable future. With his newfound free time, he hangs out with his family, eats Costco Rotisserie chicken, and whips Ilya Rozanov back into a champion.”
Jealous Zuko - a party at the palace leads to a deep revelation for zuko
No title - a private moment between you and your boyfriend is interrupted by your unsuspecting friends
No title - zuko asks you to remove his bandages
Thunderstorms - zuko helps you get over your fear
No title - your sudden disappearance makes zuko reevaluate his behavior
No title - zuko apologizes and receives something in return
Wingman - Zuko isn’t sure how to tell you he likes you, so he looks to Sokka for guidance
All I Ever Wanted - as a peasant and servant girl for the palace, you should have known better than to fall for the Prince
No title - Zuko shows his love for you the only way he knows how to
By: @zukosprettyprincess
Midnight discussions - Zuko's always loved staying up late. It's the only time he gets to relax and think and be alone. But...maybe having someone by his side isn't so bad, either.
Dibs - Zuko can be a bit territorial when it comes to his favorite people...or person.
Don't make me beg… - Zuko wishes to make amends. The only problem is...I won't hear him out. But he's never been one to give up easily.
By: @zukoszukhoes
Daisies - Zuko doesn’t know how he feels about you. you make him feel complete, safe, and at peace- but that doesn’t mean anything. Does it?
The Last Time
By: @beifongsss
firebending - If someone told you that you’d end up dating the Fire Nation prince one day, you would’ve laughed in their face. If only you knew how right they were.
fake it till you make it - Takes place during season 3, “The Beach”. As the request said, fake dating to make Mai jealous but it backfires. For Zuko that is.
warmth - You and Zuko get separated from the Gaang and things happen
blush
By: @carpecaelo
of love & destiny
what I'm here for.
marriage is stupid.
in another world
Silk Sheets with No Heat By: @matchakura
dating zuko would include By: @girlkisser13
5:36 By: @seumyo
No title By: @passable-talent
Best Kind of Medicine - All you wanted was for Zuko to take better care of himself. By: @panda-noosh
𝐋𝐄𝐒 By: @par4disee
A classic - 2 teenagers, 1 bed, By: @unfriedough
oh, spirits - literally just the ‘there was only one bed’ cliche with zuko By: @atlabeth
Imagine trying to help Zuko convince everyone that he’s good… By: @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction
𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 - "I have to go but-one more kiss." By: @thefandomthings
