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Apr 1

Rise of the Dragon Dreamer - Yandere A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Self-harm, panic attack, your dreams, gore mentioned, the reader ignores everyone except her brother and Egg, the reader is clocking the crap out of Baelor(I do not blame her.) NOT PROOFREAD Read the introduction so that you won't be confused. MASTERLIST

Two days have passed since that day, and ever since, you’ve kept your distance, offering them nothing but silence as if they were no longer worth your heed.

You remember yesterday how Valarr approached you with a small box held carefully in his hands, calling it a gift. There was a quiet hope in the way he spoke, like he expected you to stop, to listen, to care. But you didn’t. You barely even looked at him. Instead, you turned away without a word and continued along the garden paths, letting your attention drift to the flowers and the soft rustle of leaves, as if he had never been there at all.

Then came Aerion, just as persistent as ever, insisting you spend time with him, whether to watch him train in the yard or simply walk the halls at his side. He spoke as though nothing had changed, as though the silence between you did not exist. But you gave him the same answer you had given the others, none at all. You slipped back into your chambers and closed the door behind you, turning the lock with quiet finality. It wasn’t long before he followed. The knock came first, firm and expectant, then louder and sharper when you refused to answer. He called out to you, his patience thinning with each passing moment, until the knocking turned to pounding that echoed through the corridor.

Still, you did not open the door.

Eventually, the noise stopped, not because he had gotten what he wanted, but because someone else had intervened. Through the heavy wood, you could hear another voice, older and sterner. His father. The tone alone told you how it ended. The scolding carried down the hall, low but unmistakable, until even that faded into silence, leaving you alone once more with the quiet you had chosen.

After a while, he finally spoke.

He apologized.

The words came out quieter than you expected, almost careful, as though he had rehearsed them before stepping into your chamber. But it didn’t matter. You had heard it all before, more times than you could count. Each apology had once meant something, had once been enough to make you soften, to give him another chance.

Now, they felt empty.

You didn’t even look at him as he spoke. Your gaze stayed fixed elsewhere, your expression unmoved, as though his words couldn’t reach you anymore. There was a time you might have answered, might have argued or forgiven him, but not now. Not after the same mistake, repeated again and again, each apology following like a shadow that never changed anything.

He kept talking, or maybe he stopped, you weren’t even sure. The sound of his voice blurred into nothing, lost against the steady weight of your silence. Whatever he had hoped for when he came here, it wasn’t something you were willing to give.

Not anymore.

He stayed for what felt like far too long, saying nothing more after his apology, as if he had realized words would get him nowhere. The silence stretched on, heavy and unmoving. You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, constant and unbroken, but you refused to meet it. You kept your attention on anything but him, turning a page, adjusting your seat, anything to avoid giving him even that small acknowledgment.

An hour passed like that.

When he finally stood, the shift was quiet, almost reluctant. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something else, try once more, but he didn’t. Whatever he had come for, whatever he had hoped for, it remained unspoken. He only looked at you, lingering for a second longer than necessary, as if memorizing the distance between you.

Then he left.

The door closed behind him with a soft sound, and just like that, the room was yours again. The silence returned, but it felt different now, heavier somehow. You knew he had wanted to do more than just sit there. It was clear in the way he watched you, in the way he never once moved closer. A part of him had wanted to reach for you, to close the space you had so carefully put between you.

But he hadn’t.

Maybe because he knew you wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Maybe not for a long time.

You were tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled deep in your chest and lingered there, heavy and unshaken.

Tired of trying. Tired of meeting expectations that were never truly yours, yet always placed upon you as if they were. Every word, every action, every choice felt watched, weighed, and judged. And no matter how much you gave, how much you endured, it never seemed enough.

You remembered the day you went to the library to return the book. The halls were quiet, the scent of old parchment and candle smoke thick in the air. You hadn’t expected anyone to be there, but when you rounded the corner, you saw your uncle, Baelor, standing among the shelves.

For a moment, you froze, unsure if you should linger or pretend you hadn’t seen him. But he didn’t speak, didn’t call out. You placed the book carefully back on its shelf, your movements deliberate and slow, as if to make the gesture matter.

He didn’t move toward you, didn’t ask you to stay. He simply watched with that quiet understanding he always seemed to carry. He knew. He knew what you wanted. And so you left, walking out of the library without a word, leaving the space between you filled only with the soft rustle of pages and the faint echo of your own footsteps.

You also remembered another moment while walking through the halls. Your eyes had caught your father and Maekar speaking together, their voices low, carrying words you couldn’t hear. But it wasn’t the conversation that stayed with you. It was the way your father looked at you, the way his gaze lingered, heavy with something unspoken—concern, expectation, perhaps even longing.

He wanted to speak to you, you could see it in the tilt of his head, the brief pause in his words whenever your presence touched the edge of his attention. But you didn’t wait. You turned away, keeping your pace steady, your face composed, and left the hall before he could take the first step toward you.

The words remained unsaid, hanging in the air long after you were gone, a quiet echo of what might have been.

You were tired, bone-deep and soul-weary, and there was nothing left to do but rest. You didn’t know for how long, nor did you care to measure it.

All that mattered was surrendering to the quiet, letting the weight of everything, the expectations, the silences, the disappointments, slide off your shoulders for a time. You would rest and you would let yourself be still, however long it took, however far you had to go to find even a fraction of peace.

You were in your chambers with Egg. He noticed your quietness, the way you moved without sound, the stillness that seemed to cling to you. He did not speak, unsure of what he could say or do to reach you.

After a long moment, you decided to break the silence. “I found this in the garden,” you said, holding out your hand to show him the spider crawling slowly across your palm. He looked at it for a moment, then nodded, his expression calm and understanding, as if that small creature could somehow carry the weight of what neither of you dared to put into words.

“They are smart beings,” you said, your voice soft, almost to yourself. “They make such beautiful webs. I wonder how it is they do that, how something so small can create something so… perfect.”

Egg watched the spider with quiet interest, nodding slowly, as if he understood that your curiosity was more than about the creature itself. There was a thoughtfulness in the moment, a shared silence that needed no words, a quiet space where even small things could feel important.

You sighed, a soft, tired sound, and held out your hand toward the window. Gently, you let the spider crawl onto the sill. For a moment, it paused, then slowly began to make its way across the wood, moving with a quiet purpose of its own.

You watched it disappear along the edge, feeling the faintest weight lift from your chest as it went, leaving behind only the stillness of your chamber and the soft, steady presence of Egg beside you.

“Can we play now?” Egg asked, standing up and gripping his wooden sword with excitement. You were tired, every bone in your body aching for rest, but you could not deny him. How could you, when he looked at you with those pleading eyes, so full of hope and insistence?

“All right,” you said, pushing yourself to your feet. He brightened instantly and began to explain the rules, waving his sword and moving with eagerness. You listened, nodding along, letting his energy fill the room and push aside, even if just for a moment, the heaviness that had settled over you.

Egg grinned, holding his wooden sword out like a knight about to charge. “Okay, so here’s how we play,” he began, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You’re the dragon first, and I’m the knight. I have to try and tag you, but you get to fly around the room and dodge me. If I touch you, then we switch, and I become the dragon and you’re the knight. But no using the chairs to hide!”

He pointed to the furniture as if it were a serious rule of war. “And if we fall off the rug,” he added with a mock serious face, “then we both have to start over. Got it?”

You nodded, and the game began. Egg darted after you, wooden sword raised high. “Hiya!” he shouted, swinging with all the bravery of a true knight, only for you to leap out of the way, giggling as you landed on the rug.

He spun around, pretending to frown, then lunged again, his excitement infectious. The sound of your laughter filled the chamber, chasing away the lingering heaviness, if only for a little while. You dodged and weaved, feeling lighter with every step, every shout, every shared moment of play.

As you dodged another of Egg’s playful swings, a thought drifted through your mind. Would he still be like this when he grew older, full of unbridled energy and laughter, chasing around a room with a wooden sword in hand? Most likely not, you knew that. Children changed, grew into the shapes the world expected of them.

And yet, you wished he would stay like this. You wished he could remain untouched by the weight of duty, by the pressures that had worn on so many before him.

But for now, he was here, and for now, he was still Egg. And that was enough to make you smile.

Time passed quickly, and soon the game came to an end. Egg lay sprawled on the ground, chest heaving and cheeks flushed, his wooden sword resting forgotten beside him. His laughter had quieted to soft pants, and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of victory and exertion.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head at the dramatic way he sprawled across the floor, chest rising and falling with exaggerated panting. He looked every bit the heroic knight exhausted from a fierce battle, and you couldn’t help but smile at the spectacle.

Turning away, you decided to find something else to do, letting him rest for a moment. The chamber was quiet again, save for the soft rustle of the curtains and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in a long while, the stillness didn’t feel heavy.

“Do you think more dragons will hatch?” he asked, his voice small but curious, still catching his breath from the game.

You stayed silent for a moment, letting the question settle, turning it over in your mind. The truth was uncertain, but hope, however faint, stirred within you. “I believe so,” you finally said, your voice quiet. “Maybe one day.”

Egg nodded, eyes bright with wonder, as if your words had opened a small door to a future full of possibilities. The room was still once more, but the weight of the silence felt lighter now, filled with the quiet promise of what might come.

“Maybe… maybe they will come from the sky, or the rocks, or the shadows that whisper when no one looks,” you said, voice uneven, strange even to your own ears. “I dream of wings that fold like paper, and fire that curls around words I cannot say. I wake, and the smoke of it lingers, twisting in the corners of my eyes… and Dalaxrys, he hums in it, like he knows the shape before I do.”

Egg tilted his head, listening, unsure what to make of it, but nodding anyway, as if your strange, tangled words held a meaning only you could see.

You stopped talking and turned to him. “Your nameday is coming soon, correct?” you asked.

Egg nodded eagerly. “What would you like to have?” you continued, curious.

He scrunched his face in thought, tapping his chin with a finger. “Mhhh… maybe we can explore Westeros for the whole day!” he said, eyes sparkling with excitement.

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s possible. To explore that much would take far too long.”

He jumped a little, undeterred. “We can go on Dalaxrys! He flies fast, so we can check everything together!”

You sighed, a soft chuckle escaping your lips despite your exhaustion. “I think… we can try, then,” you said, letting a small smile form. The idea of soaring above the lands with Egg, even just for a day, brought a faint lightness to the weight that had settled on you.

The door to your bedchamber swung open, and your younger brother came tumbling in, fresh from his nap. His eyes were wide with excitement, and in his hands, he clutched his little toy dragon like it was a treasure.

“Play with me! Play with me!” he demanded, running straight toward Egg, who looked up in surprise as the small whirlwind barreled into the room. The sound of laughter and little feet echoed through the chamber, breaking the quiet, and for a moment, the heaviness that had weighed on you all day felt a little lighter.

Your personal maid stepped into the room, eyes wide and hands clasped nervously. “S-sorry, Princess!” she stammered, bowing quickly as if she had walked into some chaos she shouldn’t disturb.

“It’s alright,” you said softly, your voice calm and gentle. The tension in the maid’s shoulders eased slightly, and she gave a small, grateful nod before stepping back, letting the children continue their playful chaos.

You watched as Egg and your younger brother chased each other around the chamber, their laughter filling the air, and for a moment, the room felt lighter, warmer, as if all the heaviness of the day had been pushed to the corners.

You watched Egg and your brother, Vaeloris, curled up asleep on your bed, exhausted from a day filled with play. Their small breaths rose and fell gently, and you leaned over, pulling a soft blanket over their tiny bodies to keep them warm.

“Daughter.”

You turned at the sound of your mother’s voice. She stepped into the chamber and quietly closed the door behind her. Her eyes lingered on the sleeping children before settling on you, calm but concerned.

“How are you?” she asked.

You did not respond immediately, only met her gaze with your own, silent and steady. After a long moment, you finally spoke. “I’m alright,” you said, turning away, letting your attention drift toward something else to occupy your restless mind.

She nodded slowly, as if she had expected your answer. “About that night,” she began, her voice soft but firm, “I just want to say that you need to follow your father. I know what he is doing can feel too much, overbearing even, but it is… normal, my heart. We women, we don’t have a decision in this.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of duty and expectation, and you felt the familiar pull of responsibility brushing against the quiet you had carved out for yourself.

“Why?” you asked, voice quiet but edged with frustration.

Your mother let out a soft, weary sigh, running a hand over her face as if the weight of the world rested there. “It is expected of us,” she said, her tone measured, “and I am trying to keep you safe. What you did that night… it was risky. Your father was angry at your behavior, and I fear what could have happened.”

She looked at you then, eyes full of concern, searching for some flicker of understanding. “I know it feels unfair, my heart, but sometimes the rules of this life are not ours to bend. I only want to protect you, even if it means guiding you where you would rather not go.”

“You are his wife,” you said, voice steady but firm, “you can command it. You can make him listen.”

She shook her head slowly, a shadow of sorrow crossing her face. “My heart,” she whispered, voice tight with resignation, “I have tried… I have tried more than you can know. But he… he will not listen. Not to me, not to anyone.”

Her eyes softened as they met yours, filled with a mixture of pain and love. “I can guide you, I can protect you where I am able, but some battles… some battles, even a mother cannot fight for her child.”

The weight of her words settled between you, heavy and unyielding, and for a moment, the quiet of the chamber felt colder, the responsibility sharper, as you both faced the limits of what even love could do.

Silence hung between you, thick and unbroken, as her words lingered in the room.

“About your betrothal,” she began finally, her voice cautious, “I know you do not want to be sent to another castle, so I suggest… you marry your cousin, or your uncle, so you can remain here—”

“I’m not marrying them,” you interrupted, your voice sharp, cutting through the stillness. “Any of them.”

Your mother’s shoulders stiffened, a flicker of worry crossing her face, but she said nothing, letting the weight of your refusal settle in the quiet chamber. The children slept, oblivious to the tension, while outside the walls of your room, the expectations of the world pressed ever closer, waiting for an answer you were not ready to give.

Your mother let out a long, weary sigh and rubbed her temples, as if the weight of the conversation had settled deep into her bones. Without another word, she moved toward the window, drawing it open to let in a breath of cool air.

“Prince Baelor or Prince Maekar would be a great match,” she said, her voice soft but insistent, still looking out the window. “Especially considering how close they are to the throne. Their positions… their influence… it would secure your future, and keep you here where you belong.”

Her words hung in the air, measured and deliberate, but you felt none of the comfort she hoped they might bring. Instead, the weight of expectation pressed down heavier, and the thought of marrying either of them only tightened the knot in your chest.

You scoffed, the sound sharp in the quiet chamber. “I said I do not want them,” you repeated, voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

Your mother turned slightly, her expression tightening, a mix of frustration and worry flickering across her face. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused, as if weighing her next words against the stubborn resolve she had always known in you. The children slept peacefully, unaware of the tension threading through the room, and for a moment, the silence between you and your mother stretched, taut and unyielding.

“Gods, Reader, must you be so—” she began, her voice a mixture of exasperation and concern, struggling to find the right word.

“So what?” you interrupted, turning to face her fully, eyes sharp, challenging her even in your weariness.

The words hung between you, heavy and unresolved, as the quiet of the chamber pressed in. Neither of you moved, each waiting, each testing the limits of what the other might say next.

She sighed once more, the sound heavy with weariness and resignation. “I… I will see you at dinner,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, edged with something like sorrow.

Without another word, she turned and left your chambers, the door closing gently behind her. The room was still again, the children asleep, the quiet stretching around you, and for a moment, you let yourself simply breathe, alone with your thoughts and the weight of what had just passed.

It was almost time for dinner, and you sat quietly in your chamber, unsure if you should attend or not. Part of you knew you ought to follow the routine, to be present as expected, but the thought of facing the hall made your chest tighten.

Guilt pressed at you. For the past few days, you had asked your personal maid to bring your meals to your chambers, sparing yourself from company you weren’t ready to face. You knew it was unfair to her, yet the quiet of your own room felt safer, a place where you could breathe without expectation.

You shifted on your seat, restless and uncertain, wondering if you could bear the world outside your chamber tonight, or if you would remain here a little longer, alone with your thoughts.

“Nialla, I apologize, but could you bring my dinner?” you asked softly.

She smiled and nodded eagerly. “Yes, Princess,” she said, stumbling over the words. “Yes… I bring you dinner, Princess!” She was not good at speaking the common tongue, but her meaning was clear, and her eagerness to help shone through despite the awkward phrasing.

She hurried from the room, her skirts swishing softly against the floorboards. A few moments later, she returned, carrying your meal carefully on a tray. The scent of the food reached you first, warm and familiar, a small comfort against the weight of the day.

“Thank you, Nialla,” you said softly, giving her a small, tired smile. She returned it nervously, setting the tray down gently before stepping back.

She left your chambers, closing the door softly behind her, and you were left alone with your meal. The food sat warm before you, but your thoughts had already wandered elsewhere, drifting back to what your mother had said earlier.

Her words echoed in your mind—the warning, the expectation, the reminder of your place. You chewed slowly, almost mechanically, tasting little, your mind spinning with the weight of duty and the stubborn resistance you felt pressing against it. The quiet of the chamber seemed heavier now, filled with the unspoken rules and impossible choices that would not leave you alone.

Everything felt unbearably unfair, and a part of you wondered if you were being dramatic. But even as the thought flickered through your mind, it didn’t lessen the tightness in your chest or the weariness that clung to you. The rules, the expectations, the constant weighing of every action against someone else’s judgment, it all pressed down, and it was hard not to feel crushed under it.

Maybe it was dramatic. Maybe it was just your mind protesting the impossible weight of a world you had little control over. Either way, the frustration and exhaustion were real, and for now, that was enough to fill the quiet of your chamber.

Your thoughts drifted to the man from your dreams, the tall figure whose presence lingered even after you awoke. His voice had been soft, like silk brushing against your mind, and it echoed in your memory with a strange, compelling clarity.

You found yourself wishing you could meet him, to understand why he haunted your dreams so, why his image and voice had burrowed into the quiet corners of your mind. There was something about him, something unspoken, that felt important, as if the dreams carried a message you had yet to grasp.

You stared at the warm meal before you, untouched for the moment, lost in the strange pull of curiosity and longing, wondering what it meant that he appeared in your mind so insistently, night after night.

You were getting ready for bed, brushing your hair slowly, the quiet of your chamber stretching around you. The soft scrape of bristles against your hair was nearly hypnotic, easing some of the tension of the day, when a knock sounded at the door.

You knew it was not Nialla; she had already been dismissed to rest. Hesitantly, you called, “Enter.”

At first, there was only silence. Then, the door creaked open, and Prince Baelor stepped inside. His presence filled the doorway, calm yet deliberate, and you felt the familiar mix of wariness and curiosity stir in your chest as he entered the quiet space of your chamber.

“What is it?” you asked, continuing to brush your hair, letting the bristles glide through the tangles as if it could untangle your thoughts as well.

He stepped further into the room, his gaze steady, almost concerned. “You were not at dinner for the last few days,” he said, his voice measured but carrying a weight you could not ignore, “and today as well.”

You paused, feeling the brush in your hand slow for just a moment, aware of his eyes on you. The quiet tension between the two of you filled the room, heavier than any words yet spoken.

“I ate my food here,” you said, not looking at him, letting the brush move through your hair in steady, practiced motions.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm but firm. “I asked the maids about it. What I’m worried about is that you do not leave your chambers as much."

You felt the weight of his words settle over you, heavier than the bristles in your hand. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, brushing silently, unsure if you wanted to meet the concern in his eyes or let it linger unspoken between you.

“You should not stay here all the time. You need air and sunlight,” he said, voice gentle but insistent.

“At once, your grace,” you muttered sarcastically, rolling your eyes. With a sharp movement, you slammed the brush down on the table, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber, and turned to face him fully, letting the frustration you had carried all day show.

Baelor watched you steadily, unshaken by your outburst, his calm presence standing in quiet contrast to your restless energy.

For a moment, you froze, surprised at your own actions. You had never spoken or acted like that toward your uncle before. The sharp words, the roll of your eyes, the slam of the brush, it all felt strangely bold, almost reckless.

“I did not mean to offend you, if that is what you think, sweet girl,” Baelor said softly, his voice calm, almost coaxing.

“Stop calling me that,” you snapped, stepping a little closer, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to call me that.”

The words hung sharply in the chamber, your frustration and defiance clashing with his composed presence. For a moment, the room felt smaller, tighter, as if the space between you carried the weight of all the unspoken rules and expectations that neither of you wanted to admit.

“I apologize,” he said, his voice low and steady, carrying the quiet authority that always seemed to follow him, even when he softened. There was no hesitation, no softness, only the weight of a man used to command, tempered now with a rare patience.

You studied him, unsettled by the shift in tone. It was not merely words; there was a firmness behind them, the kind that brooked no argument but also demanded attention. The chamber seemed heavier, charged, as if the air itself recognized the measure of restraint Baelor Breakspear carried in that single, simple apology.

You turned away, uncertain of what to say, your thoughts tangled and restless.

“If you were to choose me,” he said quietly, his voice firm yet gentle, “I would protect you, in all things. I would do everything in my power to keep you safe, to give you the comforts and the freedom that you desire. I would see to it that no harm comes to you, and that your days are lighter for my presence. You would have my care, my word, and my strength, always.”

“I will show you my love and care,” he continued, his voice steady but warm, carrying a quiet sincerity. “I will not treat you as your father does. I will listen, I will protect, and I will do my best to make your days gentler. You will not walk alone, and you will not be weighed down by expectation when I am with you.”

The words hung in the chamber, measured yet tender, and even though you kept your eyes averted, your chest felt tighter, the weight of his promise settling in a place you hadn’t realized was aching for it.

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart hammering, voice breaking and rushing out in a tangle. “What- what makes you different? You are like them, all of them! I… I thought… I thought maybe you were different, I thought you saw me, but… but behind it… behind all of it… You’re the same… just the same!”

Your words spilled over themselves, jagged and frantic, tumbling out faster than you could catch them. The chamber felt smaller, the air heavier, as if your frustration, your hurt, your disbelief had twisted into the very walls around you.

Baelor stayed still for a moment, watching you, his hands relaxed at his sides. His voice was low and calm, but there was a hint of worry in it. “I do not want to force you. I only want you to know that I am not like them. I do not see you as a piece to command or a duty to fulfill.”

He stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd you. “I know you do not trust me. Perhaps you never will. But I would not hurt you, and I would not take from you what is yours to keep.”

He waited, watching your face, letting the words sink in without pushing further. “I cannot make you believe in me. I can only try to show it, in time.”

You scoffed, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Leave me alone,” you muttered, your voice sharp, but there was a tremor under it, betraying the storm of emotions you could not fully hide.

Baelor did not move back. He stayed where he was, his expression calm, but his eyes betrayed a quiet concern. “I will not force you,” he said softly, voice steady, careful, “but I will not walk away either. Not when you are like this.”

He waited, giving you space, yet remaining close enough that you could feel the weight of his presence, the steady assurance behind his worry.

“Just leave,” you said, your voice sharper this time, frustration spilling over. “You are not making things better.”

Baelor’s eyes softened, his jaw tightening just slightly, though he did not step back. “I do not wish to make them worse,” he said quietly, calm but with a trace of worry. “I only want to help, if you would let me. But if you need space, I will give it… for now.”

He lingered a moment longer, silent, his steady presence filling the room without pressing, waiting for you to speak again.

Once he finally left, the door closing softly behind him, you let out a frustrated grunt and sank onto your bed. You hated this, hated the heaviness that lingered in your chest, hated the mix of anger and guilt twisting together inside you.

The room felt smaller somehow, the quiet pressing in on all sides, and you buried your face in your hands, wishing for a reprieve, for some way to make sense of the chaos in your mind. You hated this more than anything, the feeling of being trapped between your own stubbornness and the expectations of the world.

You sank into sleep, your body finally surrendering to exhaustion, but your mind did not rest. The dream came like a storm, sudden and unrelenting.

You were in a hall drenched in shadows. The floor was slick and dark, as if it had been painted in thick, crimson liquid. Shapes writhed across the walls, twisting and jerking, faces frozen in silent screams, eyes wide with terror. Every step you took felt heavy, sticky, as if the ground itself tried to pull you under.

The air was thick with the smell of iron, sharp and metallic, and distant cries echoed endlessly, high and desperate, merging into a single, unbroken wail. Flames burst along the edges of the hall, casting flickering light that made the shadows dance and stretch, forming monstrous shapes that lunged at the edges of your vision.

You tried to run, but the hall twisted impossibly, corridors bending and stretching into new paths that led nowhere. Pools of dark liquid spread beneath your feet, and every movement left a red trail behind you, smearing as if the hall itself were alive and watching. Shapes surged from the shadows, towering and incomprehensible, their mouths opening in silent screams that shook the air.

The heat of the fire pressed against you, smoke stinging your eyes, and the cries grew louder, echoing in your chest until it felt as if the hall itself would tear you apart. You tried to wake, tried to scream, but your voice was trapped, swallowed by the oppressive, burning darkness.

A voice called your name, twisted and distant, like it was coming from underwater, distorted and choking. You ran, faster than you had ever run, heart hammering, lungs burning, desperate to reach it.

When you arrived, the world had turned into a nightmare. The ground was slick, red and dark, pooling in thick rivers that seemed to move of their own accord. The air reeked of iron and smoke, thick and suffocating, and every wall dripped as though the building itself were bleeding. Shapes writhed in the corners of your vision, twisted and monstrous, screaming silently, their faces frozen in terror.

Your eyes widened as you saw what was scattered across the floor. Dark, sticky streaks ran in every direction, some thick and clotted, some flowing like water. The smell was sharp and metallic, clawing at your throat, making it hard to breathe. Flames licked at the edges of the hall, burning bright and hot, casting long, writhing shadows that twisted into monstrous shapes with gaping, hungry mouths.

Then something cold and heavy seized you, gripping your arms and yanking you down. You hit the ground hard, the dark, sticky floor coating your hands and knees. The screams around you became deafening, a chorus of terror and pain that shook your very bones. Panic ripped through you, choking and blinding, and everything spun as the fire and shadow surged forward.

You bolted upright in bed, gasping for air as if you had been drowning, sheets twisted around your body. Your chest felt tight, every breath a sharp stab, and your heart was hammering so violently it was almost unbearable. Sweat drenched your skin, clinging to your hair and arms, cold and clammy despite the imagined heat still crawling over you.

Your hands shook uncontrollably as you pressed them to your chest, desperate to slow the racing, pounding heartbeat that seemed deafening in the silence of your chamber. The walls felt like they were closing in, shadows stretching unnaturally, twisting into shapes from your vision. You felt trapped, suffocating, your mind spinning with the echo of screams, fire, and blood.

You felt like you were burning; it hurts, it hurts badly. You tried to rub your hands, trying to make the burning stop, only for it to continue. You shrieked in pain, scratching your hands to make it stop, your nails scratching your skin raw, blood coming out.

“Gods, stop… make it stop…” you whispered, nails digging into your arms as you tried to chase away the burning. Small lines of blood appeared under your fingers, but the fire inside would not fade.

Your breath came fast and uneven, chest tightening, and a shiver ran through you. The shadows in the room seemed darker, closer, pressing in, and you could only clutch at your arms, trembling, wishing the heat would finally leave you.

The burning flared hotter, sharper, and you screamed, clutching your arms as if the fire would devour you whole.

Your chamber door burst open and your mother appeared, eyes wide with fear. “What happened?” she demanded, rushing forward.

“It burns!” you cried, voice raw, tears streaming down your face, nails still digging at your arms.

She grabbed a nearby servant to call the maester, who arrived quickly, moving with calm efficiency. He checked your arms carefully, pressing, inspecting, and then looked up at your mother. “There are no signs of burning,” he said, voice steady, “only the scratches.”

You shuddered, chest heaving, staring down at the red lines on your arms, the fire in your mind still scorching, knowing that even though your body was unmarked, the pain had been all too real.

More people hurried into your chambers, filling the space with worried faces—your cousins, your uncles, your father, even Egg and your little brother, Vaeloris. Their eyes widened as they saw you trembling, nails digging into your arms, tears streaming down your cheeks.

You couldn’t stop the sobs that tore from your throat, each one wracked with pain and panic. The fire inside you raged, unyielding, and you screamed, curling into yourself as if that could shield you from it.

Egg and Vaeloris stayed close to the doorway, eyes wide and frightened, unsure of what to do. Your father’s jaw was tight, your uncles’ expressions tense, and even your cousins hesitated, frozen by the intensity of your terror.

Through it all, you cried, shaking, scratching, burning, consumed by the panic that had claimed every part of you, unable to find relief, unable to make it stop.

Maekar stepped forward, concern etched across his face, his voice calm but firm as he asked, “What the fuck happened?”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks, voice barely more than a whisper. “It… it burns,” you gasped, clutching your arms, nails still leaving shallow, red lines. “It won’t stop…”

He moved closer, kneeling slightly to meet your eyes, his presence steady and grounding, trying to pierce through the panic clouding your mind. “Who did this? What is happening?” he asked, his tone sharp with worry but gentle enough not to frighten you further.

You could only shake your head again, the fire inside you refusing to relent, your sobs echoing through the chamber, and your voice lost somewhere between fear and pain.

The maester carefully opened a small jar of ointment, holding it out to you. “This will help,” he said softly, voice steady, trying to calm you.

But the moment the cool balm touched your scratched arms, a sharp, searing pain shot through you. You flinched violently, yanking your arms back, a strangled scream ripping from your throat. The ointment burned against your raw skin, making the fire you already felt inside flare even hotter.

The maester froze for a heartbeat, then spoke gently, hands raised in surrender. “Stay still, my lady. It will ease soon, I promise…”

But for now, all you could feel was the pain, the heat, the panic, and the helplessness as tears streamed down your face, soaking the sheets, while those around you watched in tense silence.

The pain consumed you completely, relentless and sharp, twisting through your chest and limbs like it had a life of its own. You clutched your arms, nails digging deeper into the raw scratches, but it did nothing to dull the agony.

You felt like you were unraveling, like your mind was fraying at the edges. “What is happening to me?” you whispered, voice trembling, almost pleading, as if asking might make it stop. There was no fire, no visible burns, yet every nerve in your body screamed as if it were aflame.

The room around you felt unreal, distant, the faces of your family blurred by your panic and pain. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps, and you felt the creeping certainty that something inside you had broken, something no one, not even yourself, could stop.

Nialla was the first to reach you, wrapping her determined arms around yours, pressing herself against you to keep you from thrashing. Beside her, the head maid stepped forward, voice calm but firm, murmuring soothing words as she helped hold you down.

You struggled violently, nails scraping at your arms, tears streaking your face, every breath coming in jagged, desperate gasps. The fire inside you roared, unyielding, and the panic clawed higher with every second.

“It’s alright, my lady,” the head maid murmured again, her hands steady on your shoulders, trying to anchor you. Nialla squeezed tighter, eyes wide with worry, her own small frame straining to hold you still. But nothing seemed to touch the burning inside, nothing could reach the fire that twisted through your mind and body, leaving only chaos and terror in its wake.

An hour passed. The thrashing, the screams, the burning, all slowly ebbed, leaving only trembling and exhaustion in their wake. Your chest heaved, breaths coming ragged and uneven, and your arms ached from where you had clawed and scratched at yourself.

The maester carefully wrapped your arms in clean cloth, pressing gently where the scratches had opened. You stared down at the bandages, blood-streaked and heavy, your mind still reeling from the intensity of the panic. Every movement, every touch, reminded you of the fire that had consumed you, though it had faded for now.

“The wounds should heal over time, princess,” the maester said, finishing his work. He stood, bowed politely, and left. Your mother murmured a quiet thanks, and then the chamber fell silent.

All eyes turned to you, your cousins, uncles, your parents. They stared, a mixture of confusion, worry, and disbelief in their faces.

“What was wrong with you?” your father asked, voice sharp and heavy. “You said it burned, and yet there are no burn marks, no fire, no heat. Do you think this is some jest?”

You flinched under his gaze, your chest tightening, the echoes of the panic still clinging to you. Your hands, wrapped in the maester’s bandages, felt heavy and foreign, and for a moment, you could not speak, could not explain what had just happened, because even you did not fully understand it.

“I… I don’t know,” you stammered, voice trembling as your hands clutched the bandages. “The dream… there was blood, and then I felt the fire. It burned me.”

Your words hung in the chamber, fragile and uncertain, as if speaking them aloud made them even more unreal. Your father’s eyes narrowed while your mother’s lips pressed together.

Your father sighed, rubbing his temples, eyes closing for a moment as if trying to steady himself. “You have scarred your body,” he said, voice heavy with both frustration and worry.

The words struck you harder than anything else, sharper than the panic or the pain had. You lowered your gaze to the bandaged arms, the marks still raw beneath the cloth, and felt a mix of shame and confusion twist in your chest.

You wanted to explain, to tell him it had not been intentional, that it had not been under your control, but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the weight of his disappointment and the echo of the fire that still lingered in your mind.

Your father’s eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened as he spoke again, voice low but edged with anger. “A woman’s body is meant to be kept whole, clean, unmarred. And yet you have scarred yourself.”

You shrank under his gaze, chest tightening, shame twisting deep in your stomach. It wasn’t that you wanted this, that you had chosen it, yet his words made it feel like a crime, as if the fire inside you, the panic, had somehow betrayed not only yourself but the expectations pressed upon you.

You could barely meet his eyes, trembling, clutching the bandages over your arms as the memory of the burning and the clawing still lingered, raw and unrelenting.

Baelor stepped forward, voice calm but firm, carrying that quiet authority that made everyone pause. “Brother, that is enough,” he said, eyes steady on your father, unwavering.

Your father scoffed, a sharp, frustrated sound that echoed in the chamber. “She is making my life harder every day,” he muttered, eyes narrowing, voice heavy with irritation.

Baelor’s jaw tightened, but he did not reply immediately. Instead, he looked at you, his expression softening, steadying. “Brother,” he said carefully, voice calm but firm, “this is not her fault. She did not choose this, and she is not acting against you.”

Your father’s glare lingered, but the tension between the brothers hung in the air, heavy and silent, while you stayed huddled, trembling, wishing the fire and shame and panic would leave you completely.

“I… I think wounds show bravery,” Egg said timidly, voice small but hopeful, trying to ease the tension in the room.

Your father’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and disapproving. “Silence, boy,” he barked, voice cold, and Egg shrank back, cheeks flushing red as he quickly ducked his head, realizing his words had only drawn more anger.

You glanced at Egg, heart aching a little at his attempt, and then back at your father and the others, the weight of the room pressing down on you again, heavy and unrelenting.

Your father let out a long, heavy sigh, the anger in his shoulders easing as he turned and walked away, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

Your uncles moved quickly, gathering Aerion, Daeron, and Egg, pulling them gently but firmly away from the chamber, while your mother called for Vaeloris, guiding your little brother out with a soft, reassuring voice.

Only Valarr remained, standing rigid in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes still fixed on you. The tension between you lingered, heavier now with everyone else gone, and the room felt quieter yet somehow more suffocating, the weight of his stare pressing down as you tried to steady your racing heart.

“I would not have let that happen to you if I had been there,” Valarr said, voice low but firm, eyes locked on yours, his concern and frustration barely contained.

“You can’t stop the burning,” you replied, voice trembling, still raw from the panic and the fire that had consumed you. Your hands instinctively flexed against the bandages, the memory of the pain lingering, sharp and alive.

“I would have stopped it. I would have protected you,” Valarr said, stepping closer, voice firm but soft, as if trying to bridge the distance between his worry and your fear.

“What could you have done?” you replied, voice low, almost bitter, eyes fixed on the bandaged arms. “The maester could not help. No one could.”

Valarr’s expression darkened, a mix of frustration and helplessness crossing his face. “Then I would have done what no one else could,” he said, voice tight, a quiet intensity in his tone. “I would not have let you suffer like that. Not you."

You looked at him, chest still heavy, heart pounding, unsure whether his words were comfort or just another weight pressing down on you. The memory of the fire and the panic lingered, stubborn and raw, refusing to be soothed by anyone, no matter how well-meaning.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The tension, the fear, and the echoes of the fire still lingered between you, heavy and unspoken. Your eyes met Valarr’s, searching, questioning, raw with everything left unsaid, while his gaze held a quiet intensity, a mix of worry, frustration, and something softer underneath it all.

Time stretched, the room filled only with the soft sound of your breathing, hearts still hammering from the storm that had passed. Slowly, Valarr stepped back, his expression softening just enough.

“Goodnight, Reader,” he said quietly, voice calm, carrying that gentle steadiness he always seemed to have.

With that, he turned and left your chambers, the door closing softly behind him. You sat there for a long moment, still trembling, still raw, staring at the door, feeling the weight of the night settle around you, quiet now but far from over in your mind.

Sigh, I'm tired now. This chapter is not that good because like...I ran out of ideas, anyways, the next chapter will be better (I hope, only if I portray it well). So yah, you can share your thoughts, and if you see any mistakes, please tell me because I do not proofread my works.

Taglist: @moontides19 @softycheol @readersassemble5 @noone1233nobody @shiraa32 @qardasngan @memeorydotcom (If I forgot to add you, please tell me.)

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