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my lady | d.t

Pairings: Daeron Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Daeron is the sweetest boy you ever met.

WARNINGS: teeth rotting fluff, fluff, fluff

A/n: my boy deserves the world. The new episode made me so emotional about him

masterlist | wc: 2.8k

WHEN YOU first met Daeron, you did not recognize him. How could you have? Though his name was among the most illustrious in the Seven Kingdoms, no one had ever told you that not all Targaryens were the same. In your mind, they all had long silver hair, violet eyes so intense they seemed unnatural, and that distant air belonging only to those born too high to lower their gaze toward common folk. The young man who had stopped in front of your father's shop did not match that image. He wore thick mahogany-colored hair that the sun turned copper, loosely tied at the nape of his neck but long enough to brush against it, and he was dressed in a simple emerald-green robe, devoid of any ostentation. If not for that faint violet tint coloring his irises, almost imperceptible when the light did not strike them directly, and for the young dragon with cobalt-blue scales that sometimes soared over the rooftops of Oldtown without ever straying too far from him, you would never have imagined you were standing before a prince of the blood.

But truth be told, you had not even noticed. What had struck you was not the color of his eyes or the blood running through his veins. It was his kindness. The way he spoke was different from that of the wealthy men who entered your family's shop every day, convinced that a handful of coins entitled them to bows and smiles. His voice was calm, soft, and every word seemed carefully chosen. He had large, delicately shaped eyes, like those of a fawn, so sincere they seemed incapable of lying. When he smiled, he did so faintly, without display, as though that smile belonged only to those fortunate enough to deserve it. And you, who until then had known only hurried customers, profit-driven merchants, and nobles too proud to truly look at you, had been almost dazzled by that simplicity. He had called you my lady with such natural ease that you had turned around to see who stood behind you. You had even laughed, convinced he had made a mistake.

Because you were no lady. You were only the daughter of a merchant wealthy enough to grant his family a decent life within the walls of Oldtown. You had a comfortable home above the shop, well-crafted furniture, and clothes made from better fabrics than most people in the city could afford, but nothing that could even begin to approach the luxury of nobility. Your mother sewed your dresses herself, patiently embroidering small floral patterns along the hems because she wanted to see you elegant even without fine silks, while your father often said that the greatest wealth was the honesty with which one earned coin. And you had always believed him. You had never longed for castles or crowns; it was enough for you to wander the streets of Oldtown, lose yourself among the market stalls, or leaf through the books you managed to obtain thanks to the maesters of the Citadel. Your life was simple, and until that day, you had thought it would remain so.

You met him on an afternoon that, until moments before, had seemed identical to all the others. Sunlight filtered through the shop's open windows, illuminating the shelves displaying decorated vases, hand-painted tableware, and small objects from every corner of the Westerlands. The air smelled of polished wood, beeswax, and spices brought from the harbor by merchant ships. You were carefully arranging newly arrived goods when two men, already visibly drunk, entered arguing loudly. At first, it seemed like one of the many quarrels destined to fade into a few insults. Then the shouting grew louder, one seized the other by the collar, and in an instant the shop became the stage for their anger.

A shelf was struck violently. A vase fell, shattering into dozens of gleaming fragments on the floor. Then another, and another. Plates, bowls, and ceramics broke one after the other, while your father tried in vain to make them stop. You, barely thirteen at the time, rushed between them with the sole intent of separating them. You believed raising your voice would be enough to bring two grown men to their senses. One of them, without even noticing you, shoved you aside with his arm. You fell backward, your side striking the floor. The pain came a moment later, along with the deafening sound of yet another vase breaking.

That was when the shop door burst open and a young man with mahogany-colored hair stepped inside, accompanied by an armed guard. He did not raise his voice, nor did he draw a sword. He simply observed the scene with a steady gaze so authoritative that even the two drunkards stopped fighting. He spoke only a few words, uttered with that calm that seemed natural to him, and the guard intervened without hesitation. The men were restrained and dragged outside amid increasingly weak protests, destined to receive a punishment you did not yet know but would later learn was more than deserved.

Only when all noise had ceased did the young man turn toward you. He found you still sitting on the floor, surrounded by shards of broken ceramics. A faint grimace of pain had appeared on your face, one you stubbornly tried to hide. He crouched in front of you without the slightest hesitation, unconcerned by the dust or fragments scattered everywhere. His gaze settled carefully on your face, as if searching for the smallest scratch. He seemed genuinely worried, and that confused you more than anything else.

"Have you been hurt, my lady?"

Ah, such sweet words those were, especially for a young girl whose mind was filled with the romantic stories she devoured in her beloved books.

Only after making sure you were unharmed did he extend his hand. When he helped you to your feet, he used no excessive force, as though afraid of hurting you. You lowered your gaze to your joined hands, unable to understand why a stranger was treating you with such care.

In the days that followed, he returned. At first, you thought it was only to make amends for the damage caused by those two men. He provided the money needed to replace every broken item, personally ensured that those responsible would never set foot in the shop again, and spoke several times with your father, who kept thanking him without knowing how to repay such generosity. But when every debt had been settled and no practical reason remained for him to come, Daeron continued to visit anyway. Sometimes he bought a book, other times a simple cup he likely did not need at all. Often, however, he simply stayed a few minutes to talk with you. And slowly, those minutes turned into hours.

The years passed almost without you noticing. The friendship born in such an unlikely way grew along with you. Daeron listened to every story you told with an attentiveness that made you feel important, even when you spoke only of a new manuscript found at the public library or some particularly demanding elderly customer. He asked which books were your favorites, remembered the names of the flowers you loved, and laughed at your jokes with genuine ease.

The sound of footsteps pulled you from the thread of thoughts that had surfaced in your mind. The image of the thirteen-year-old girl sitting on the shop floor slowly faded, giving way to the present. Now you were fifteen and seated in the shade of a great tree just outside the walls of Oldtown, in the place where you now met whenever Daeron managed to slip away from his duties. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, scattering small sparks of light across the grass, while the summer breeze gently swayed the tall blades and carried the scent of wildflowers blooming nearby. The book you had with you lay forgotten on your lap, open halfway, while your pale pink dress, embroidered with fine golden threads along the bodice and sleeves, moved softly with the wind.

You lifted your gaze, and your face lit up the moment you saw him. Daeron was standing before you. He wore his usual emerald-green tunic, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt, and his hair, only half gathered at the nape, framed his face with a gentle softness. For an instant, he looked like the boy he had always been, and a spontaneous smile appeared on your lips. "Daeron! I thought you would be flying with Tessarion at this hour."

He lowered his gaze slightly before walking toward you. He sat beside you, resting his back against the tree trunk, but did not answer right away. His hands remained clasped on his knees, his shoulders slightly slumped, and the expression shadowing his face was one you had learned to recognize over the years, the one that appeared whenever something within the walls of the Hightower, or among the tangled affairs of his family, deeply troubled him. You frowned faintly, watching him in silence. The joy with which you had greeted him gave way to a subtle concern, for you knew Daeron well enough to understand that if he had given up a flight with Tessarion, then something truly important must have happened.

You reached for his hand gently, slowly intertwining your fingers with his as though you feared he might vanish at any moment. His skin was warm, rough in places where calluses, born from endless hours with a sword in hand, had replaced the softness of childhood. With your thumb, you absently traced the back of his hand, watching how the sunlight filtered through the branches above, weaving golden shadows across his features. There was something different in his eyes that day. You looked at him with quiet tenderness, tilting your head slightly as a soft smile tried to reassure him even before your words did. "What is it? You look worried."

The prince, your prince, slowly raised his gaze to meet yours. For a few moments, he remained silent, as if searching for the right words, or perhaps the courage to speak them. Daeron had never been good at hiding what he felt; his face was far too honest a mirror of his heart. He drew a slow breath, lowering his eyes to your joined hands before speaking in a quiet voice. "Lord Ormund has forbidden me from flying with Tessarion. He says I must train more with the sword." He paused, biting lightly at the inside of his cheek. "He claims it is a skill no prince should lack."

Your brows curved into a faint expression of displeasure as the name of Lord Ormund Hightower crossed your thoughts like a storm-laden cloud. You wanted to tell him exactly what you thought of that man. You wanted to call him narrow-minded, arrogant, someone who committed unspeakable acts in the name of the gods. But every insult remained trapped behind your closed lips. The urge to curse that man was strong, yes, but your patience, and your love for the boy before you, were stronger. That was not what Daeron needed. You took a slow breath, letting the breeze stir a loose strand of your hair. "Lord Hightower is... a mystery." The words came out slowly, measured, as if chosen one by one. If such a term could even define him. "I admit it is difficult to understand his intentions. He is not a man who easily reveals what he truly thinks, and when he makes a decision, it is rarely out of simple whim." You paused for a moment, watching the shadow that still lingered on his face. "I am sure everything will be alright."

The moment the words left your lips, you realized they had done nothing to ease the weight pressing on his heart. His eyes remained clouded with the same melancholy, and his shoulders still bore the invisible burden of an entire kingdom. You silently reproached yourself. You had tried to be rational when all he truly needed was comfort. So, without thinking further, you took his other hand as well, enclosing both of them within yours as if you could shield him from the entire world with that simple gesture. The warmth of your intertwined fingers spread through your chest. At last, Daeron looked back at you, and in his eyes you found that unwavering trust he had always reserved only for you.

You drew a slow breath, searching for better words. "Daeron, you are the kindest, gentlest boy I know." Your smile grew just a little as you spoke. "You are intelligent. You think before you act, you listen to others when no one else would, and you have such a great heart that you even worry for those who do not return your kindness." You squeezed his hands lightly. "And do not believe, not even for a moment, that you lack strength. You have it, truly. You are the strongest boy I know." You shook your head slightly, a playful smile touching your lips. "Lord Ormund is a fool if he cannot see all of this."

The sound of his name on your lips tasted like wine, salt, and longing. A shiver ran down his spine, and before he could stop himself, a shy smile appeared on his lips. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to melt the tension that had stiffened every muscle in his body just moments before.

Then one of the hands you held slipped gently free. You watched as it rose to your face, his fingers brushing a stray lock that had escaped the careful arrangement you had made that morning. He tucked it behind your ear with such tenderness that it made you hold your breath. Then his palm found your cheek, warm against your skin, while his thumb absentmindedly traced the small beauty mark that adorned your cheekbone like a tiny constellation. His touch was both hesitant and certain, as though he feared to offend you, yet could no longer resist reaching for you.

Daeron remained still, utterly captivated by you. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, casting golden light upon your hair and rendering your face almost unreal. Everything else seemed to fade away. He no longer heard the birdsong nor the whisper of the wind through the leaves. There was only you. So ethereal, so radiant, that for a fleeting moment he thought he was gazing upon the Maiden herself, descended from the heavens to grant him a single, precious blessing. He wondered absently whether the gods were jealous of your beauty. Perhaps they were. For no mortal should possess such pure light.

It was his heart that decided for him before his mind ever could. His body moved almost on its own, guided by an impulse he had tried to suppress for months, perhaps years. He leaned toward you, slowly enough to give you time to stop him, but you did not. Your foreheads nearly brushed, his breath mingling with yours. And then, in an instant, his lips finally met yours. It was a gentle, shy, clumsy kiss, the first of two young souls who had loved each other long before finding the courage to confess it. The world could have crumbled around them in that moment; dragons might have torn across the sky in war, castles might have fallen, kingdoms might have shattered. As long as your lips continued to seek his, nothing else mattered to him.

When the kiss broke, Daeron remained only inches from your face, unable to pull away. His heart seemed to have forgotten how to beat, only to make up for lost time with such force that he feared you might hear it. His cheeks had flushed a deep red, like the ripe cherries that grew in your garden during summer, and even his ears had taken on such a vivid hue that it drew an amused smile from you. He was adorable in his awkwardness, so unlike the proud, arrogant princes sung of by minstrels. Your Daeron was simply a lovable boy.

"I swear by the Old Gods and the New..." he whispered, his voice trembling, never once looking away from your eyes, as though he feared that even the slightest glance aside might cause everything to vanish like a dream. "One day, I will make you my wife." The words came softly, almost like a prayer offered to the gods themselves, and yet he spoke them to you.

His words filled your stomach with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A gentle warmth spread across your face, coloring your cheeks, while your heart beat with a lightness you had never known before. You lifted a hand to touch his, still resting against your cheek, intertwining your fingers with his once more with infinite tenderness. You looked at him, smiling, your eyes bright with happiness. "Then I shall await that moment with great impatience, my prince."