𝑵𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑮𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵

BLOOMING AGAIN — Maekar Targaryen x Baelor'sWidow!Tyrell!reader

╰┈➤ PART I, PART II, PART III, PART IV

SOBER IDEAS — modern!daeron x social worker!reader

╰┈➤ PART I, PART II, PART III, PART IV, PART V, to be continued…

2:17 a.m.

The sudden ringing of your phone shook you out of your slumber. The TV still illuminated the room, a sad reminder of your Saturday-night binge-watching.

You didn’t think much of it at first. It was most likely Kiera trying to get you to pick her up from a pub, or calling to tell you once again how much fun you were missing.

But it wasn’t her.

For a moment, you stared at the screen.

Unknown Number.

The ringing stopped before you could think any further about who would be calling at two in the morning.

Then it started again.

“Hello?” you rasped into the speaker, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“Am I speaking to Y/N L/N?” The voice was calm. Professional. Completely unfamiliar.

“Yes,” you answered.

“I’m calling from St. Baelor’s Hospital.”

Your stomach dropped.

“We’ve got a patient who listed you as his emergency contact.”

Emergency contact. The words echoed in your head. Had something happened to Kiera?

“Are you still there?”

You cleared your throat, “Yes, sorry.”

“We need you to pick him up as soon as possible.”

Him?

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Daeron Targaryen.”

Sleep still clouded your thoughts. Surely you had misheard her. That was the only explanation.

“Come again?”

“Daeron Targaryen.”

You swallowed hard.

“I think you have the wrong person.”

“Male. Twenty-nine. Blond hair. Tall.”

Your grip tightened around the phone.

You knew Daeron.

Daeron Waters. The idiot who willingly spent his time in Flea Bottom. The addict who got driven to every meeting. The photographer who strangely held his gallery in a Targaryen-owned building.

Oh.

“Hello?” the voice came through the speaker again.

“Yes,” you answered quickly, finally pulling yourself together. “I’ll be there shortly.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

The drive to St. Baelor’s was a blur.

Questions chased each other through your mind the entire way. What could have possibly brought him there? And why were you his emergency contact in the first place?

Bright fluorescent lights greeted you the moment you stepped into the hospital. The air smelled strongly of disinfectant and cleaning supplies. A few people glanced up as you wandered through the maze of hallways searching for the emergency reception desk.

“Are you looking for something, love?”

The older nurse barely looked up from her computer.

“Uh… yes.” You stepped closer to the desk. “I’m here to pick up a friend.”

“Name?”

“Daeron Targaryen.”

She hummed and reached for a stack of papers.

“You need to sign these first.”

You barely glanced at them before scribbling your name across every page.

“He’s in room seven.” She gathered the paperwork again before lowering her voice slightly. “We’ve tried to keep him hidden from unwanted attention.”

The nurse shook her head. “It’s always a lot of work when he’s here.” Then she looked up at you properly for the first time. “Though it’s nice seeing a new face picking him up.” She winked.

The gesture only confused you further. Strange. Maybe this was simply what happened when someone famous ended up in the hospital.

After thanking her, you made your way towards room seven. Your hand hovered over the door for a moment before you knocked softly and stepped inside. It was just Daeron.

The strong stench of alcohol hit you immediately. He lay sprawled across the hospital bed, snoring quietly. You closed your eyes for a second, you took a deep breath in trying to calm your nerves.

He relapsed.

The realization settled heavily in your chest.

Another sharp breath left your lungs before you finally spoke.

“Daeron.” Your voice sounded shaky. Pathetic, almost.

He groaned loudly before slowly opening his eyes.

“Hey.”

He smiled.

Only then did you notice the stitches. A long cut ran from his cheek toward his ear, fresh and angry against his skin.

“This is embarrassing,” he chuckled.

Yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to smile. Not even a little. Usually, you would have laughed. Usually, he could make you laugh through almost anything.

Tonight was different. For what felt like the first time since you’d met him, your face remained completely unreadable. No sadness. No anger. Nothing. And somehow, that seemed to scare him more than either emotion ever could.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

You helped him into the passenger seat and reached across him to buckle the seatbelt. It felt ridiculous, treating a grown man like a child, but at that moment you didn’t trust him not to accidentally hurt himself.

Without saying a word, you handed him your phone with the map app already opened. Daeron took it obediently, his fingers clumsy against the screen before he handed it back.

The drive was silent. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that sat heavy between two people, pressing against your ribs every time you tried to breathe.

“Say something.”

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel.

“Anything.”

Nothing.

“You can call me a sad, pathetic idiot.”

Oh, how you wanted to.

“Wouldn’t be inaccurate.”

Even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to say more. It wasn’t that you wanted the silence. Every thought in your head was screaming to get out. They simply got stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat.

The desperation in his expression was obvious. Half-lidded violet eyes followed you from the passenger seat, glassy from alcohol and exhaustion.

“You know,” he slurred, staring out the windshield, “this is usually the part where people tell me they’re done.”

The city lights reflected faintly across the window beside him.

“Honestly, saves everyone time.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Stop.”

The word came out sharper than intended.

Daeron let out a hollow laugh, “why?”

“Because you’re doing it again.”

His brow furrowed, “doing what?”

“Trying to make this easier and pushing me away..”

Silence filled the car. For a moment, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Maybe it was easier for him this way. If he turned himself into the villain first, nobody could surprise him by walking away later. The cocky smile disappeared from his face. Instead, he turned toward the window and focused on the apartment building ahead.

You swallowed hard. The sound seemed deafening inside the confined space.

“We should get you inside.”

He didn’t wait for your help. The moment the car stopped, Daeron pushed the door open and climbed out on unsteady legs.

You locked the car and followed.

The building was exactly what you expected from a Targaryen. Expensive. Quiet. Perfect. An elderly man slept behind the front desk, completely oblivious to your arrival. The uncomfortable tension followed both of you into the lift.

Daeron stood on one side. You stood on the other.

Every few seconds you caught him glancing at you before immediately looking away again. Neither of you spoke. The lift finally chimed. When the doors opened directly into his living room, you understood just how expensive the building really was.

The loft itself, however, was unexpectedly sad. It was large but empty. A couch. A coffee table. A few shelves. Nothing that made it feel lived in. Takeout containers were scattered around the place. Empty bottles stood forgotten on a counter. The entire place carried a faint stale smell.

“The cleaner didn’t come this week,” Daeron muttered after noticing where you were looking.

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. But compared to everything else, the mess barely mattered.

Slowly, you stepped farther inside.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

He pointed toward a half-open door.

Inside, dirty laundry was scattered across the floor. Ignoring it, you searched for a clean washcloth instead. After running it beneath warm water, you wrung it out and headed back.

You found Daeron sitting half naked on the edge of his bed. Half his shirt was tangled over his head. Apparently he’d been trying—and failing—to take it off himself. Without a word, you stepped closer and pulled the fabric the rest of the way over his head.

The sight that greeted you made your chest tighten. Dark bruises were already beginning to form along his torso. Most likely from whatever stupidity had landed him in the hospital.

Carefully, you pressed the damp cloth against his cheek. Removing dried blood. Cleaning away dirt, sweat and any remnants of a terrible night.

Daeron stayed surprisingly still throughout it. He closed his eyes at your gentle touch. Leaning slightly into your touch.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

The cloth landed on a nearby pile of laundry.

“I know.”

“You should hate me.”

For a second you simply stared at him. His gaze remained fixed on his lap. Restless fingers picked at his skin. There was no humour in his voice. No attempt at a joke. He meant it. And somehow that hurt more than anything else.

Because deep down you had known.

You had known something wasn’t right. You’ve known for weeks. Every cancelled plan. Every excuse. Every disappearance. You watched him drown while pretending he wasn’t.

Tears burned behind your eyes.

“Do you know what the worst part is?”

Slowly, Daeron looked up.

“I knew,“ your voice cracked, “I knew something was wrong.”

The words came easier once they started.

“And every time you cancelled, every time you disappeared, every time you told me you were fine…” a broken laugh escaped you, “…I let myself believe you.”

Confusion flashed across his face.

“Because I wanted to.”

Silence.

“I don’t hate you, Daeron.”

You drew in a shaky breath.

“That’s the problem.”

Something in his expression shattered.

“I couldn’t hate you.”

The first tears slipped down your cheeks.

“Because I’m really fucking falling for you, you idiot.”

For once, Daeron had nothing to say. No joke. No teasing comment. Nothing. He only watched you silently as you sobbed on your knees. It wasn’t exactly how you had imagined confessing your feelings. Certainly not between takeout boxes and dirty laundry.

You’d known him for three months. Dated him for one. By all logic, this should have been insane. Yet none of that changed how you felt.

Still, he remained silent. Maybe he was too drunk. Maybe too ashamed. Maybe both.

Eventually you wiped your face.

“You should sleep.” The words came out weak.

Daeron didn’t argue.

Quietly, you helped him lie down before pulling the blanket over him. Careful not to let him roll onto his injured side. It didn’t take long for exhaustion to win. Within minutes his breathing had evened out.

You stayed there for a while. Watching. Making sure he was actually asleep. Only then did you stand.

After searching through the apartment, you found a pen and a scrap of paper.

The note was short.

You need help.

I can’t be the one helping you.

Spearmen Rehab Centre — Dorne.

Do it or don’t but don’t waste someone’s time.

Gently, you placed it on the nightstand. For a moment you simply stood there. Looking at him one last time.

Then you turned away.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And you left him there.

A/N | The end. No, I’m just kidding, but I got a flight in a few days, so I need to finish ts before the fanfic curse gets me.

disclaimer | I do not own any 'A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms' characters. I do not claim to own any of the 'A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do l claim to do so.

dividers | @/uzmacchiato