moons

'The Father Above helps those who help themselves.' He would often remind you, yet ironically his words did not serve to push you closer to the Seven also. You only aimed to better yourself.

It was this very idea that the Septa's did not like, your 'feeble faith'. You would absent-mindedly mumble through your morning prayers, mind distant as you sat in assemblies that preached about the Faith of the Seven and doctrine that you did not truly believe in. And unfortunately, the Septas were proficient in recognising an idle mind.

Your father was often called in when the Septas became tired of your indifference. He would listen attentively to their concerns, of how they feared your soul was at risk, of how you had such great potential. And he would join them in their criticisms. Your father was a believer, and you would often wonder why you did not share his sentiments. You were raised with his ideologies weaved into your childhood, listening time and time again of how the Father had protected the veterinary practice, how the Smith had fixed the business each time it neared collapsed, how the Mother looked after you.

You did not perceive it the same way.

You could not attribute the success of the practice to the gods your father prayed to. You did not see them labouring night after night, sleep-deprived and mind addled with exhaustion — that was your father, not the one Above. It was your father who cared for his patients, it was your father that persevered over the mountain of records that he had collated over the years, it was your father who would pour his life savings in keeping it afloat. It was your father that rescued the business from teetering on the edge of collapse for years.

You could not credit the gods for that.

Even now when you were older, when your life was seasoned with experiences your child mind would not have been able to comprehend, you were still unsure of what you believed in. Perhaps the gods were real; dragons did once reign the skies, how could such great strength exist without being hailed as some great divinity. But the dragons died.

Perhaps your situation was a result of your disbelief. Perhaps this was all punishment for having an idle mind.

You were not shocked to discover that the Targaryens were believers.

Maybe your disbelief was rooted in the circumstances of your upbringing (Fleabottom often taxed a person for all they were worth), but it was clear their faith was founded in their fortune. After all, their blood was of the kings of old, they were the ones to control the dragons. If the dragons were seen as gods, what would that make their riders? Who could demand deities to yield to them?

Yet the Targaryens always had a manner of being able to surprise you. You truthfully did not expect them to be so…festive.

Summerhall had been transformed.

Preparations for Feast Day of Our Father Above were littered across the property, the children had spent days creating origami stars that were to hang from the chandeliers. They had been cut in such a manner that the light flashed through the small decorative holes that Daella had carved into the paper, acting like lanterns. Candles, fresh evergreens and celestial imagery could be found in every single room, not even your bedroom had been spared; the Targaryens were truly committed to the aesthetic.

Baelor had reportedly prepared everything weeks in advance, a fact you only became privy to once Aegon had dragged you to sit on the drawing room's floor, his fingers curling into your skirts as he excitedly chattered.

"Uncle says it's important to celebrate Feast Day, shows that we are grateful for the Father Above." Aegon rambled when you explained that you didn't really celebrate. You had never celebrated to such an extent, not even when your own father was still alive. You would simply visit the Sept in the morning, offering prayers that held no weight as you stared at the carved ornate statues of the Seven, and that would be the extent of your revelries — you would spend the rest of the day at the practice, sat at the desk of the reception while your father continued working. Now you don't even visit the Sept. You haven't stepped foot in the holy building ever since your father's funeral.

Aegon didn't look at you as he spoke, his attention dedicated to the pale oak figurine he was grasping between his hands, painting it in vivid vermilion and cerulean. Apparently Maekar had brought them for all his kids, yet two of the wooden figurines remain in their packaging, void of any paint or personalisation as his eldest two ignored it. Aegon was painting his in the image of his namesake, the paintbrush detailing the Conqueror's crown with impressive precision. However, you couldn't help but notice that he did not paint Aegon I's sword.

Rhae was sat beside him while he spoke, seemingly transfixed by her own figurine that she painted in gilded golden armour grasping a shield that was decorated with a blazing sun. She did not speak to you. In fact, she had avoided doing so ever since your interaction within the kitchen, regardless of how many times you had tried to speak to her.

"It is important." You replied, gaze fixed on the way Rhae painted dark long hair on her figurine, your fingers carding through Meraxes' fur, the small beast purring contentedly on your lap. You were sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, Aegon leaning against your side. "It's nice that you all celebrate together."

Aegon made a face at your words.

"That's just normal." He remarked, lips twisting slightly as he finally raised his gaze to look at you. The pale light of the sun spilled through the large windows, rays falling on his face, exposing the pure violet of his irises. You couldn't believe that you had ever believed they were blue.

You rolled your eyes playfully, smiling as you stroked Meraxes' belly, feeling the tufts of platinum fur.

"Normal for you." You emphasised, feeling Meraxes begin to gnaw at your fingers, her claws digging into your skin as she swatted at your hands. "Most people don't celebrate with their families."

Rhae looked up once you said that, sharing a look of suspicion with her brother for a moment, her gaze tracking your features as if searching for any hint of a lie. She could not find any.

"What do you mean?" She blurted out, sitting up properly as she couldn't suppress the urge to question you.

"Where I'm from, we just don't really celebrate much." You explained, pausing for a moment as you noticed their curious faces. How could you reveal that holidays hold no weight when more essential things take precedence? That you could pray, but it begins to feel futile if no one is listening? Why would you celebrate the gods that ignore you? You couldn't find it in you to sully their understanding, so you offered them a half-truth. "You don't really have the time to celebrate."

They just watched you for a moment, recognising that your candour was marred by information you were withholding. Aegon was the one to break the silence.

"But you're from King's Landing?" He pointed out, lips pressing into a slight frown as Aegon the Conqueror lay forgotten beside him.

"I am." You confirmed, an almost sad smile tugging at your lips. "Just not the same King's Landing as you."

Aegon had a thousand more things to question you on, yet knew better than to. He knew he would only be confused further.

It appeared Rhae shared the same sentiment, and that she had remembered that she was not meant to be speaking to you, a restriction she had imposed onto herself. And with that she remained silent, only addressing Aegon if she required something while she tried to complete, who you quickly realised resembled, Nymeria of Ny Sar.

You were content in remaining in the quietness, to simply listen to the sound of bristles brushing against wood, to the purrs of Meraxes; you had other issues that plagued your mind.

The main being how you had awoken that morning.

It was the scent of flowers that had roused you from your sleep.

It was strange. your mind pulling you out of the grasp of slumber as the unfamiliar scent twirled around you, perfuming the air. Summerhall did not smell of flowers.

It smelled of lingering smoke and chemical disinfectant. It smelled of a cleanliness that erased history, that erased familiarity. It certainly did not smell of blossoms.

It was no wonder your brain had detected the anomaly, that you had immediately noticed the strange outlier within your room. The halls of Summerhall did not carry such a gentle scent: you doubt they would have been able to survive here.

Such gentleness is to be nurtured, protected. Patience is required, and you had yet to witness such patience.

You could not deny that Summerhall had lush gardens, with rows of peonies and roses, and a small section that had been dedicated to gardening — within your first few days here, when you had finally gathered the courage to wander beyond your small corner of the manor, Aegon had forced you outside, excitedly showing you the gardens as he bribed you into playing with him and Rhae.

And now that morning, the eve of Feast Day, you had found a bouquet of those very same blooms enveloped by smooth white opaque wrapping paper, resting on the vanity table of your room, peonies mocking you as you stared at the soft pink petals. There was a small red index card that rested in the centre of the blossoms, supported by a thin plastic stick that was lost amongst the stems. Your eyes had immediately caught onto the card, such a harsh bloodied colour seemed unnatural among the soft hues of the flowers. The card had something written in inky black cursive which you quickly realised must've been High Valyrian. Your grasp on the language was extremely weak, and even with the words before you, you were unsure of their meaning.

'Vaoreznuni syt aōha loss.'

These words held no worth to you, and you suppressed the urge to throw the bouquet into a bin.

The very sight of the flowers irked you; you knew your position here, you were a hostage at the end of the day, you were not afforded the privilege of privacy. Yet the idea of someone entering your room while you were sleeping, while you were vulnerable and unaware of your surroundings, simply served to further your indignation. First it was the necklace, and now the flowers — these gifts, if they could be considered such a condescending thing, were unwanted.

Was Baelor truly trying to buy your compliance? Did he believe that enough pretty glimmering objects would be enough to distract you from the truth of the situation? It was utterly insulting; you refused to believe that anyone would be pathetic enough to fall for such cheap gimmicks.

You would hate to think anyone would perceive you as being so covetous.

This annoyance seemed to only stew throughout the day. And as much as you hated to admit it, it was noticeable. You could offer one hundred excuses pardoning your behaviour but it seemed to boil down to one single reason.

You hated that you were beginning to enjoy Summerhall.

You hated that you looked forward to your moonlit conversations with Daeron, that you liked listening to the ramblings of Aegon, that your heart broke at the fact that Rhae struggled to even look at you. You hated that this was now becoming your new normal.

Unfortunately, your irritation did not remain as veiled as you would have liked. Maekar seemed to have notice immediately.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He questioned, brows furrowing as he watched you washing the same plate for 3 minutes.

You flinched at his sudden voice, the ceramic almost slipping from your grasp, the soap suds blooming against your palms.

"What do you mean?" You argued defensively, scowling as the man prowled closer to you, almost cornering you against the kitchen sink. The Targaryen seemed to have no understanding of the concept of personal space, crowding you in as his gaze flickered to your hand and back to your face. You could just smell him. The scent of sandalwood and lingering soap that bit at the air around you, causing each breath you took to just be full of the essence of him. You hated the fact that your heart began to flitter at his proximity, that the damned organ began to betray you as your annoyance softened, beginning to bleed into an unforgivable emotion. Fondness, how pathetic.

He gestured aimlessly at you, as if that explained everything. "Your face—"

You interrupted him before he could continue, his words would probably become more insulting if given the opportunity. "Real nice, Maekar. You know exactly how to talk to a woman."

He scoffed at you, a disbelieving laugh escaping him as he watched you finally begin to rinse the plate, water cascading down the unblemished porcelain, licking at your hands softly. Your fingers had already began to prune, small wrinkles forming at your fingertips, evidence of your absent-mindedness.

"Don't be dense." Maekar complained, moving to lean against the cabinet beside the sink, his gaze fixed on your face as he watched the small shifts in your features — the minuscule pursing of your lips, the way your eyes narrowed. Something was clearly troubling you. "You know exactly what I mean. What are you thinking about?"

Silence settled for a beat as you thought about his question, the words turning over in your mind while you placed the plate onto the dish drainer, the ceramic clattering against the metal. You were tempted to answer truthfully, to rant to Maekar about every grievance that plagued your mind, yet that would be futile. After all, he was the cause of them.

Instead, you decided to mock him.

"I'm thinking about the gun I have in my drawer." You replied, head tilting up to meet his gaze, your finger grasping at the edge of the sink as you tried to steady yourself. "Some lunatic decided it would be a great idea to give his hostage a lethal weapon. I'm thinking about shooting the lunatic."

Maekar didn't respond immediately, just staring at you as you glared at him.

He began to list familiar names.

"Rowan Waters, Alys Hardyng, Margot Florent—" The list dragged on, every single name that had been documented within your personal files, in order of their proximity and relationship to you.

He simply had to say the names.

He didn't have to threaten, he didn't have to go into detail about how they would receive a bullet in the middle of their forehead, of how the steel would blossom in the soft flesh of their brain — the names were the reason why you never could use the gun against him. The names were leverage enough.

And they had their intended effect.

"You're a real piece of shit, I hope you know that." You rasped out, trying to stop your voice from wavering as you turned the tap off. Fuck, even just hearing the names threatened to break you, threatened to dismantle your defences and leave you a sobbing mess. Even in your annoyance, you were the one to suffer the consequences. A perpetual victim, how embarrassing.

Maekar clicked his tongue at you. "Not very festive of you."

You turned, the edge of the sink digging into the small of your back as you mirrored his stance, leaning against the cabinets, your arms crossing.

"I'm not exactly a festive person."

"Aegon said you don't celebrate." They were talking about you?

You tried to ignore that thought, yet it spiralled in your mind, pirouetting as you found it difficult to discern what the father and son would talk about regarding you. Did Aegon have questions about why you weren't leaving? About how Aerion's condition was improving, and you no longer had a purpose to linger in Summerhall?

"Gossiping, are we?" You chastised mockingly. He stated your name in a warning tone, not patient enough to endure your mocking. You decided to provide him with some honesty, despite the fact that he was wholly undeserving. "Why would I celebrate something I don't believe in?"

He remained silent for a moment, brows furrowing as if noticing an inaccuracy. "I've heard you pray before."

"You have?" You questioned, shocked that he had even remembered such a small detail.

He continued, his head nodding slightly. "With Aerion, you were whispering prayers, but I still heard them. That's not the actions of a disbeliever."

"I suppose I believe when I'm desperate."

He watched you for a moment, and you were unable to decipher the emotion that flashed across his violet eyes. Yet regardless you knew the source of that emotion. He was not expecting you to answer with such genuine sincerity.

"You still think of yourself as a hostage." He commented, changing the topic. It wasn't a question.

"Aren't I?"

He offered you an almost smile, his features surrendering to an expression other than a scowl as amusement flickered in his eyes, leaving you with silence as your answer.

And you found yourself unable to remain in it for long, wandering out of the kitchen as your mind began to spiral once more, ghosting the halls as you tried to find something to distract you.

Instead you found Rhae in Aerion's bedroom.

The older Targaryen was asleep, he seemed to be sleeping more these days, the pain no longer festering within him. You enjoyed it when he was asleep, when his mind was blurred with exhaustion and he no longer had the energy to be cruel or vitriolic. He was kinder then, softer.

And it was a good sign he was able to sleep, the first few days after his incident, he struggled to find unconsciousness no matter how much he craved it. He would snap at anyone near him, and you were often the one to receive the majority of his brutish nature due to your unfortunate proximity. But you knew why he was being so uncooperative — he was in pain. His muscles feeling as if they were continuously being sliced open, as if daggers had carved their place into his abdomen.

He didn't tell you this, unwilling to admit to such 'weakness', but you could just tell; the way he carried himself, clutching the rippled skin that had been forcefully torn open and stitched closed, the way he looked at you silently for help, unable to voice his pleas. You would always help, unable to find it in you to be malevolent when he was in such pain.

You just hoped that you would never have to see Aerion after this was all over.

After. Was it stupid for you to believe that there would be an after? You were not completely sure, you could only hope that this was not your new normal. And although you would never admit it, you would whisper prayers to the Smith each night, hoping that he would mend what was broken, to help return you to your home. You truly had become desperate.

Rhae appeared to just be staring at her brother, her gaze tracing over his sleeping form as if to confirm something she had concocted within her mind. You often found her in Aerion's bedroom as of late, and he would always bark at her to leave, only for her to scream back at him. Yet despite the brutality of their interactions, you would catch a fleeting look of relief as she left, as if she was glad to find him awake.

She swivelled at the sound of the door opening, the hinges creaking lowly as they yielded to your touch, the sound of your slippers scuffing against the dark oak herringbone flooring.

Your heart clenched at the sight of her small frown, the immediate displeasure that tugged at her features. She looked more like Maekar like this.

She made a move to leave, to scutter past you and disappear into the winding halls of Summerhall like she had done any other time you were alone with her.

"Rhae—" You called out quickly, trying to stop her from escaping. She halted when she heard the desperation in your voice. You could feel your heart break the longer she was angry at you, and the sensation only worsened when you realised that anger was not the only emotion she directed towards you. She was disappointed. "Rhae, I am so sorry, I promise that—"

"You shouldn't do that." She mumbled, her hands twisting each other as she turned to face you, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep."

"But I will keep them." You vowed, keeping your voice even. You didn't want to scare her off, you were unsure of what exactly about you had caused such sudden fear and derision. "I just need to know what I'm promising."

She stayed silent for a moment, her gaze fluttering up as she searched your face. You were unsure of what she was looking for, but she seemed to have found as she inched closer to you, her hand hesitant as it found yours.

"Promise you won't hurt us?"

You crumbled at her small voice, the sheer veracity of her words paining you as you returned her grip, your thumb brushing against the back of her hand.

"Rhae, I promise I would never do that."

"Not even— Not even if someone tells you to?" She continued, the words spilling out of her. You couldn't help but notice the way her hands had began to tremble, even while you were holding them.

"Not then, not ever. I would never do such a thing. I promise." You stated firmly, ensuring that there was no way for her to mistake your words for anything other than honesty.

"And you won't leave us?"

The question caused your mind to stall. Could you promise that? "Rhae…"

She mumbled your name, her voice wavering slightly, her eyes turning glassy as her grip on your hand tightened. "Please, just promise me."

Her lips began to wobble at your lack of answer, the tears beading along her waterline threatening to spill. You could see a tear begin to catch onto her pale lashes.

"Of course—" You quickly interjected, kneeling as you pulled her closer to you, hugging the poor girl. Her arms immediately wrapped around your neck, her head tucked into the slope of your neck as she hid her face in your hair. You could hear her sniffle slightly. "I promise, sweet girl, I won't leave you."

Her grip tightened as you heard a soft wailing cry escape her, tears dripping onto the exposed skin of your neck as she settled onto your lap. Her chest tremored with the pain that had festered within her, and you could only regret not being able to treat such a wound. You caressed her hair gently, finger brushing against the silver-gold locks as you tried to soothe her, whispering soft words of comfort.

Her cries slowly began to settle, and eventually so did her trembling. Her breathing began to even out, and soon you felt her body go limp against you. She had cried herself to sleep; she had been carrying all that devastated energy within her that it had utterly exhausted her.

You began to adjust her body, wrapping your hands around her tightly as you began to shift your own body so that you would be able to stand while carrying her. You should drop her off to her bed. At least she would be able to rest there comfortably.

You heard a low whistle.

"Don't you think it's cruel to lie to her like that?"

Aerion.

His voice was laced with mockery. He didn't even have the decency to act as if he had not witnessed the scene. Yet despite his callous taunts, there was something softer in his gaze that caught you off-guard. His gaze kept dipping, from your face to Rhae sleeping within your grasp. For a moment he didn't think you were holding his sister, for a moment his mind maliciously wandered to the thought that you were holding his child.

You would suit being a mother.

"What?" You murmured, keeping your voice low as to not disturb the sleeping Targaryen. You adjusted her slightly so that the majority of her weight rested upon your hip.

"To make a promise that you will definitely break. You would run at the first opportunity, and if my uncle allows you to leave, I'm certain you would be halfway to Pentos."

"If?" You repeated, your brows furrowing slightly, lips curling into a frown as you narrowed your gaze at the bemused Aerion who began to peel back the covers, grabbing at the clutches beside his bed as he tried to stand.

"You didn't deny that you would leave." He pointed out, ignoring your questioning tone, his grin widening as if he had caught you out on something. As if your lack of denial simply validated his sentiments. The bottom of his clutches clicked against the hardwood flooring as he tried to get closer to you

"You're such a cunt." You hissed, not bothering to entertain him further, turning your back to Aerion as you stormed out of the room. He had such a talent of infuriating you. Yet even now you couldn't decide whether or not he was wrong. You should run if ever given the opportunity; this could not become your life.

To care for mysterious stab wounds and digging out bullets from torn flesh. This was not your purpose in life.

You had already found your purpose — you were content in the little life you had curated, the practice and your friends, you were satisfied with what you had. You did not want what the Targaryen's offered you. You did not want them.

His voice called out after you.

"I thought you didn't give a shit about us!"

You could hear his laughter behind you, slowly fading as you quickened your pace away from his room.

You tried to ignore his words, but they haunted you as you began to pull back Rhae's bed sheets, fingers curling into the soft pink cotton printed small prancing unicorns as you ensured you kept her balanced. And, slowly, you began to rest her body onto the mattress. She rested limply, the skin of her eyelids shifting slightly as if her mind had detected that something had occurred. But she did not rouse from her sleep.

I thought you didn't give a shit about us.

As mocking and cruel as his words were, you hated to admit that they might have carried some truth. You were beginning to care — you could blame it on your circumstances, that the constant proximity had caused some level of Stockholm Syndrome within you (because you were constantly surrounded by dragons, how could emotions not begin to stir, whether those emotions were negative or positive), but you should know better. You shouldn't be making futile promises to soothe the Blood of the Dragon.

Yet even while these very concepts were whizzing through your mind, you found your heart split in two. How could you categorise this child as being the same as your captors — she had no hand in your situation. It was not her fault that the blood of Old Valyria ran through her veins, that she shared their twinkling amethyst irises and silver-gold hair.

You could argue that it was not your duty to comfort Rhae, that you had done nothing wrong. That you had never once acted out of hand, that you did not deserve what was happening to you. But even that was a foolish thought.

Perhaps you did not deserve this injustice, perhaps you had done nothing for the gods to punish you like this — but you were an adult. Rhae was just a child, and her emotions, as tumultuous as they were, were only natural. It was only right for her to be sad, for her to be scared, for her to be angry. You had cycled through these emotions multiple times a day, addicted to the way they would cause you to spiral in your self-pity.

You knew more than anyone how those emotions corroded an individual. And you knew that she did not deserve to experience such cruelty.

Regardless of how you felt, regardless of how you tried to distance yourself from the Targaryens, you knew it was always inevitable. You would have always been cursed to care.

And this would be how Baelor would find you, wallowing in your own thoughts as you laid on the floor of the library, the lights flickering low as only the fairy lights that had been draped across the ceiling illuminated the room. You were staring aimlessly at the ceiling, gaze tracing the crystals that dangled from the ceiling, following the small rainbows that formed when the light hit the facets. You had helped Daella put them up last night, gossiping aimlessly about your university life as you threaded fish wire into the holes that had already been chiselled into the crystals, securing them with tight knots.

You didn't hear him at first. You didn't notice him at all until he joined you on the floor, the fabric of his blazer rustling as he laid beside you.

Your head turned slightly, gaze meeting tender violet and brown, before returning to the wooden ceiling. You hadn't expected him to find you here, you didn't even know that he had returned from King's Landing.

You almost were unsure of where to begin — you rarely spoke to him during the day, the majority of your conversations occurring when the moon brightened the night sky, the stars dotted along the inky canvas, when your inhibitions softened, when your mind was more vulnerable.

But now the sun was still dangling in the pale blue heavens, and you found that your heart had endured enough taxing emotions for the day, your barriers worn down.

"Hello." He murmured, his arms folding over his torso. From your peripheral, you could see he was still staring at you, his head tilted in your direction as he fidgeted with the rings that decorated his fingers.

"Hi." You rasped out, voice low and unsure as you kept your gaze forward, unable to direct your complete attention to him. You cleared your throat slightly before continuing. "I spoke to Rhae today."

"Yeah?" He asked, his voice deeper than you were used to. You hated that your heart began to flutter at just one syllable.

You hummed softly. "She was quite sad, but I hope we solved whatever had been bothering her."

"That's good."

You were unable to control yourself, the words spilling out of you as you felt your eyes sting at the thought of the conversation you had had.

"She made me promise that I wouldn't hurt her." You exposed, your voice trembling slightly as you felt tears begin to form. Fuck, you couldn't believe that you were about to cry. He was unable to respond to your revelation. "Do you know how much that broke my heart, Baelor? To know that she thinks I'm even capable of doing such a thing?"

"She has her reasons." He comforted, his hand finding yours as he brushed his thumb against the rivets of your knuckles, tracing the bones gently. You allowed him to.

"Will you ever tell me what happened?" You questioned, your head turning to finally meet his gaze once more. His brows were furrowed in a soft pity that almost felt mocking to see. You hated that he seemed to want to console you, that his eyes seemed to glimmer in the pain you felt. "I'm not stupid, it's clear that something has happened here."

You felt tempted to list every piece of circumstantial evidence that you had noticed. The lack of household staff, your very presence, Rhae's sudden coldness, for Seven's sake, even the gun that Maekar had given you had very heavy implications. Why would you ever have need for a weapon, unless Summerhall itself could not promise safety?

It was only a matter of time that you would notice the flaws within the manor.

"You're not stupid." He repeated earnestly, his grip tightening a fraction when he noticed that you were finally offering him your attention. He sighed deeply, his lips pressed in a deep line as he tried to think of how to approach the topic. "It's just not easy to explain."

"You just have to begin." You encouraged, manipulating the position of your hands so that the inside of your fingers were flush against his palm, before slowly travelling up to lace with his fingers. His fingers quickly curled against yours, forming a slight lattice as he mirrored your grip. From this distance, you could see the threads of silver in his hair, the flecks of amber that lightened his brown iris. You could feel your breathing stutter for a moment, unable to become accustomed to seeing him in such a soft light.

He was silent for a moment, the only sound was your soft joint breathing. He dragged your hand to his face, his lips pressing against your knuckles in a feather-light kiss, an action that caused your pulse to flutter, your face flushing as you tried to ignore the implications of his gentleness.

"Forgive me, but I cannot."

"Baelor—" You interrupted, aghast at his insistence of keeping you in the dark

"Just know that I'm not just keeping you here for the sake of cruelty." He quickly continued, interrupting you before you could begin to cuss him out. " It's also vital for your welfare for you to remain at Summerhall."

"That's so fucking stupid, my safety was never at risk before you brought me here." You argued, tone laced with incredulity, sitting up as you glared down at him. You tried to pull your hand out of his, but his grip only tightened, as if he were afraid that the moment he let you go, you would run.

He joined you, his arm pushing at the plush carpet as he sat up straight, your joined hands falling onto his thigh.

"Your safety was at risk from the first night you met me." He hissed back, his tone becoming biting as if he couldn't understand why you were becoming so difficult, as if he truly expected you to take his lack of answers dutifully. He did not deserve such understanding. "I came to you with a stab wound. Did you not think the very people who inflicted such an injury would not be able to find who fixed it from becoming fatal?"

Your heart dropped at his questions. You wrenched your hand from his grasp, standing up as you backed away from him.

"So it's my fault for helping you?" You questioned, your voice raising as it bordered on a shout. You couldn't believe the audacity he was emitting.

Baelor mirrored your actions once more, "That's not what I mean—"

"No, that's exactly what you mean." You harshly interrupted, snarling at him. You couldn't even look at him, feeling disgusted by what he suggested. You began to pace, your hand pressing against your brow as you felt a headache begin to brew. "If I had never helped you, you wouldn't have returned when Aerion got shot, and I wouldn't be in this situation!"

"If you didn't help me, I would be dead. Aerion would be dead." He interjected, his head tilting slightly. "Is that what you truly want?"

You stilled, your gaze darting to him and instantly you wanted to apologise, mouth falling open in horror. No, of course you didn't want them dead, how could he say such a thing— wait.

Your brows furrowed as you noticed the evident manipulation of his words. Seven Above, the audacity of this man, how dare he try to manipulate you?

You buried those futile apologies deep within you — with Rhae you had offered them because she was a child, she was not intentionally trying to mislead you and her emotions were rooting in true pain. You could not offer Baelor these same excuses. He was a grown man, father of two; how dare he think you would be stupid to fall for such blatant cons?

"Oh, you're a right piece of work." You laughed, the mirthless giggles escaping your lips. Your hand clasped over your lips as your eyes stung with frustrated tears, spilling as you found yourself unable to stop laughing. "You, Baelor Targaryen, are disgusting. How fucking dare you say that to me?"

He murmured your name, his hand passing over his face in immediate regret. "Please, I didn't—"

"I honestly don't care. All I ask is for some honesty and you can't even offer that."

"I would tell you, believe me I would. It's just better if you don't have all the details."

"Better for who exactly?" You snapped, wiping at the tears that began to bead down your cheeks, the wetness smudging messily as you pointed at him. "Because all I've seen is that you act for yourself. Even your gifts are rooted in selfishness. Do you honestly think you can bribe me with necklaces and flowers?"

"Flowers?" He questioned.

"Yes, flowers." You parroted, your voice dropping in a deeper octave, mocking his voice. "Speaking of which, I don't want them, you can just take them and shove them up your—"

He interrupted your sentence with your name, his irises swirling with confusion. "I never gave you flowers."

"What?"

"I gave you a necklace, yes, but I never gave you flowers. I only just returned an hour ago."

Your brain stalled for a moment. In the morning you had been so caught up in your own anger, at the idea of your privacy being violated, that you had not considered that glaring fact. Baelor had been in King's Landing, it would have been impossible for him to put the flowers in your room.

You shook your head slightly.

"No, Baelor, that doesn't make any sense, who else would've…" You tried but the words died on your tongue as your denial began to ring false. Instead you turned on your heel, swiftly darting out of the room as you practically sprinted up the stairs. You could hear a patter of footsteps behind you, Baelor calling out your name as he chased after you.

You didn't stop at the sound of his voice, instead racing towards the direction of your room, almost crashing into a confused Maekar.

"What the fuck?" You heard him hiss bewilderedly, his gaze frantically flickering between you and his brother that followed you.

You didn't bother apologising to him, instead ripping open the door of your room, the metal handle rattling against the wall as the wood of the door trembled at the sudden force. The flowers were right where you had found them in the morning.

The petals were more wilted now, dehydrated and dry, drained of their vividness as the passing hours of the day aged them. Your heart raced unsteadily within its cage, clamoring against your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath, inhaling short gasps as you found yourself just staring at the flowers.

Baelor quickly entered the room soon after, accompanied by his brother shadowing him. Their presence reminded you of exactly why you had entered the room. You beelined towards the vanity, hands shakily wrapping against the bouquet as you thrust towards Baelor's direction.

"You're saying you didn't put it there, right? Then who did, and why do you all just enter my room when I'm sleeping? Do you not think that's weird?" You hissed at him, hitting the bouquet at his chest, the peonies colliding against his pristine white button-up, erupting into a pile of fallen petals. Your words were punctuated with the blossoms crashing against his front. "Fucking!" Hit. "Weirdo!" Hit. "Behaviour!". Hit.

But Baelor did not offer any rebuttal, instead his gaze was transfixed upon the startling red card that rested in the centre of the blooms. His hand wrapped around yours firmly, preventing you from hitting him once more with the petals as his free hand deftly picked at the card, drawing the plastic stick from out of the blossoms.

He stared at the card, his face setting into a stern look, brows knitting together in displeasure as he flipped the card in his hands.

"You found this in the morning?" He questioned, his gaze roaming over the perimeter of the room as he walked towards Maekar, showing him the card. His next words were directed towards Maekar. "Call Donnel. Now."

It only took Maekar one look at the card for his face to mirror his brother's, a solemn expression carving its way into his features as he didn't spare you another glance, instead immediately abiding by Baelor's orders, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he began to dial a number.

Your heart dropped at their reaction. Baelor's frowns, Maekar's scowls — Maekar often scowled, it often was the only expression that graced his face, yet this was far different to his usual scowl. This was concern, unadulterated peturb.

You hadn't expected this. You were prepared for defensiveness, for them to accuse you of overreacting over such a meaningless issue — not suffocating graveness. They were reacting as if you had just announced someone's funeral.

Baelor called out your name once more, repeating the question. "Are you sure this was here in the morning?"

"Yes — yeah, it was—" You stammered slightly, your face falling as the gravity of the situation began to dawn on you. "Baelor, what's going on? What does it say?"

Maekar's voice cut in, greeting the other person on the line with swift words, his words blurring together as he walked out of the room. "Donnel, you need to…"

Baelor watched his brother leave, gaze trailing after him as he rubbed at his cheeks, fingers brushing against the salt and pepper hairs of his beard.

"Vaoreznuni syt aōha loss." He recited, his gaze dipping to the card within his hand, following the loops of ink that mocked him. The syllables flowed off his tongue naturally, rolling in a way that suited his voice. "It means 'Sorry for your loss'."

Your brows furrowed slightly as you slowly shook your head, your arms crossing as you index finger drummed against your bicep.

"Then clearly that's not meant for me, that makes no sense." You tried, although even as the words exited your mouth, you found yourself unconvinced. And it was clear that Baelor wasn't either.

"It does if it's a threat."

He held the card up, flipping it so that you could clearly see the back, a symbol that had been monogrammed against the continuous crimson, one that you had not noticed previously.

A black three-headed dragon.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist

Baelor

holy waters - @the-darklings

something about getting manhandled by Baelor… - @dearlizzies

A patient man and his sweet wife - @lostrealityr

the spare bride - @withpearlsandpetals

In the Shadows of the Red Keep - @sem-ra

sugardaddy!baelor targaryen - @boyloveisnteasy

The Portents Had It Wrong - @omyhoney

hopelessly devoted to you- @erwinsvow

Maekar

His Princess - @erebusbabylon

soothe the wrath and tame the fury - @/erwinsvow

HOW DID YOU GET SO MANY? - @ghostlybfgf

The Flirting Game - @/lostrealityr

MY HOT HUSBAND - @targlocket

recluse neighbour (series) - @cintoasted

incarnadine - @winterstellars

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON - @julez-5

Baelor & Maekar

HATE OR LOVE - @/julez-5 (and honestly all of their Baelor & Maekar x Reader work)

Of tainted beards and wet lips - @sweetwhisperingangel

love is (the death of duty) - @eowyns-fantasy [on AO3]

Aerion

forget me nots (series) - @blackfyrebitch

Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts - @celestialwyvern

SOFT SPOT - @/celestialwyvern

it will come back - @cherrysweets-world

THE CRUEL SAVIOR - @kittyminion

aerion targaryen returns defeated after the trial of the seven - @pinkdoeweirdo

things you do for love - @louloucake

testing your devotion - @/ghostlybfgf

Valarr

STEEL AND SILK - @lilyswritings

Modern Valarr Targaryen as your boyfriend headcanons !! - @daeronsmissingear

THE JEWEL OF THE REALM - @/dearlizzies

a line never crossed - @daiscript

untouched - @westerosey

To Have and To Hold - @sadesluvr

Charmed - @ofcrowsandravens

septa-in-training - @cloak-of-righteousness

Daeron

Cannibal (series) - @saeransangel

dream a little dream - @cherrysweets-world

drunken husband - @eu-nicola

blood bank - @halfformedthing

THREE IN THE MORNIN' - @redwinelewis

AN UNEXPECTED BRIDE - @sansaorgana

bathing with husband!daeron - @r0ttn

(drabble) - @oakleafing

Duncan

of!dunk - @spicyrose

touchstarved!dunk - @knightofcassiopeia

meet me in the woods - @cosmictheo

inner desires - @/louloucake

no use crying over spilled tea - @goldenhoneyedwine

She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily - @dustofstarss

M'LADY - @/targlocket

if yer done with it - @bunnyishh

Lyonel

What is it if not craving? - @/lostrealityr

The storm that bites (and everything to do with Lyonel x Lady Dondarrion) - @punk-in-docs

Storm kissed - lightning stung - @/punk-in-docs

STORMS AND DRAGONS - @iydiamartinx

Love me - @feral4youu

the stupid, the proud - @marsrambles

Delicate Indulgence - @pearlessance

Mediations - @escapic-mezzanine

So, naturally, you took refuge in the nights. Once the clock ticked 12:00, and every Targaryen resident of the manor finally retired to their own quarters, you would finally be able to slip out of your room and just exist in the silence that coated over Summerhall.

Well, to be accurate, it wasn't truly your room nor would it ever feel as if it were. It was just another guest room. It didn't matter if the wardrobes were filled with clothing that was eerily your perfect size, or if the connecting bathroom had been decked out with the exact brands of toiletry products that you used. If anything, all those small facts just disgusted you slightly; clearly someone had returned to your home, rifled through your belongings to collect this information, cataloguing them for it to be passed on.

You hated the room.

Hate may be a strong word, but it was the only one appropriate for these circumstances. It wasn't that you were against the decor (you were thankful that this room was untouched by crimson and onyx, instead being painted in a gentle pearlescent shade), but there was something inherently strange about the room. You felt as if you were being watched.

It was a sensation that you had swiftly became accustomed to in Summerhall as during the lighter hours of the day, regardless of where you were in the manor, there was a high chance that you were being accompanied by someone. Whether that someone was a Targaryen or a Kingsguard, that distinction did not really matter — you had just gotten used to not being alone.

But there was something disturbing about still feeling that way when you knew you were alone; the inability to stop performing despite knowing that no one was there to witness your actions. But you found it difficult to become comfortable within the room, the first few days you found yourself compelled to search every corner, investigating every decoration as that feeling of being watched refused to abandon you.

But you found nothing. Nothing to confirm your suspicions, nothing to assure you that you weren't going insane — there was not a single trace of evidence to suggest that you were being watched. No discrete cameras, no concealed microphones. Nothing.

Yet despite that, you didn't dare shower within the connecting bathroom. Instead, you would gather your bathing products, and use Daella's shower (who was confused when you first asked her, but did not ask any further questions once she noticed your discomfort).

The only time this sensation was weakest was at night. You were unsure if this was caused by your own exhaustion, if your sleep-addled mind had finally relaxed enough to release its grips from the delusions that haunted you during the day, but you couldn't find it in you to care. You were just thankful that the heavy weight of discomfort finally left you.

Yet solace could not be promised during the witching hour.

The halls of Summerhall were haunted by your fellow noturnal creatures, the most common being Daeron. He would often find you on the terrace, your gaze fixed on the unmoving stars as he joined you, offering you a cigarette. Most nights were filled with mindless discourse, of the high society gossip that you had no context for and his random philosophical ponderings that made little to no sense. Other nights were filled with silence, only the crackle of the lighter and the scent of acrid smoke — he would be quieter those nights, more reluctant to engage in conversation, only telling you that he wouldn't sleep.

Wouldn't.

You would question further, asking if he had insomnia, and he would only shrug half-heartedly, refusing to meet your eyes.

The next individual you would most often see at odd hours of the night was Dunk. Unlike Daeron, you were certain Dunk's appearances were not motivated by insomnia, but rather obligation. The Kingsguard would often join you in the kitchen once his patrol of the manor was completed, brewing some tea that would be shared over idle conversation. You would never ask about the numerous men you had seen enter and leave the grounds of Summerhall through the morning hours, nor would he ever willingly sacrifice that information. You would both simply ignore that lingering fact, playing the fools part.

The worst of your midnight companions would be Baelor.

With Baelor you would force yourself to not interact, to retreat to your godforsaken room, to not linger. Unfortunately, you found yourself unable to control your tongue around him. Intentional or not, you often found yourself provoking the brunet Targaryen, which would result in his mild amusement and your remembrance that he was a Dragon. You could not forget yourself around him, not when your presence in this very manor was only maintained through the active blackmail that he was conducting.

It did not matter how your heart seemed to waver for a moment, that your interactions during the later hours often included in him being dressed more simply. no longer donning his armour of impeccable Crownlander tailoring.

The most recent time you interacted with him under such circumstances, you found it difficult to draw your eyes away from him. He was dressed in soft cotton, his silhouette gentler in the black t-shirt and jogger bottoms, no longer dressed in harsh lines and sharp edges.

Aerion had been steadily improving day by day, yet he was still in a fragile state, needing help to do small tasks such as eating when the pain began to flare up again. This had been one of his better days, where he quickly fell asleep instead of using his free time to terrorise you. However, unfortunately for you, you could not find sleep as easily. You had tossed and turned in your bed, that uncomfortable feeling settling within you once more, and you quickly found yourself exiting your room, wandering the halls of Summerhall like a spectre.

And that was how Baelor found you. Laying on the floor of the library, surrounded by random books you had pulled out of their respectable places upon the towering bookshelves that crowded the perimeters of the room. You hadn't noticed him at first, your mind partially occupied with rereading the same paragraph over and over from a book you found dreadfully boring with the sole purpose of trying to bore yourself into exhaustion (which was beginning to work, so thank you Archmaester Thurgood for writing Inventories and somehow managing to make Valyrian steel swords sound so bland).

Valyrian steel is considered one of the most sought after commodities within this post-Doom world. It is no wonder our ancestors seemed to revere it, making it the most desired material for their weapons. No other metals could compare to its properties; a sharpness that seems to never dull, the blade lighter allowing its wielder to be swifter. It can be easily distinguished compared to other metals through one key distinction — the ripple-like effect that spans across the steel, a result of the way Valyrian steel is forged. It is unfortunate that this method has been lost through the Doom of Valyria, and despite numerous efforts, it appears almost impossible to replicate.

But then you heard it.

A soft huff of laughter.

Your eyes darted to the source of the sound, half-convinced (and half-hoping) that it was just a figment of your imagination, only to find him ghosting the entrance of the library, his lips curled with slight amusement as he watched you silently.

You didn't acknowledge his presence, instead forcing your gaze to drag back to the pale pages of the book, rereading the sentence about Lady Forlorn, even though you were certain you knew it by heart. You had spent the past few days ignoring his very existence, replying to his questions with concise answers, gaze drifting over him as if through the very act of avoiding him you could convince yourself that he was not truly there. And even now you didn't want to speak to him, to even look at him, yet you found your face gradually becoming warmer as you could see him from your peripheral, drifting further into the room.

Baelor's footsteps stopped right next to you.

You didn't dare look at him, not when he crouched down beside you, not when you could feel the heat of his person radiate into your skin — you couldn't look. You almost felt petrified.

Not in the way rooted in fear, but rather as if you couldn't will yourself to move away, to create some distance between the two of you.

"Lady Forlorn referred to two blades; the original that carried myth and legend, and its Valyrian replacement…" His voice trailed off, huskier than what you expected. You could feel your flush deepen as his hand came to ghost over yours, fingers tracing over the edge of the pages as he flipped to the next one. "I didn't know you were interested in Valyrian steel."

His voice was quiet, an almost whisper that threatened to disturb the solace you had crafted. The unsteady hammering of your heart suggested that he had succeeded.

"I'm not." You replied after a moment, words coming out in a slight mumble, harshly swallowing as you sat up, your loose hair falling around your shoulders. Your gaze met his, colliding with violet and brown. You were unsure if it was because of the poor lighting of the library, only the large vintage floor lamp illuminating the room in a wash of soft amber, but his irises seemed darker, the abyss of his pupils almost swallowing the vivid hues. "Just bored."

Yet your half-hearted answers did not dissuade him, instead he seated himself beside you, infinitesimally leaning closer. You hated the fact that you didn't pull back, that you didn't retreat. Instead you found yourself reciprocating his attention, gaze tracing his features; he looked unfortunately handsome, even in the low lighting of the library.

"And the words of Thurgood satiate your ennui?" He teased, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of your face and you tried to suppress the urge to shiver when you felt his fingers brush your skin slightly, his touch lingering for a moment. "I find his work leaves much to be desired."

Your brows furrowed slightly — there was something strange about his words, yet you couldn't quite figure out what, so you chose the safer option. You chose to ignore them.

"Do you seriously want me to talk to you about 'Inventories'?" You questioned incredulously, watching him with a deadpan stare.

"If it means that you'll finally speak to me, then of course." He answered, a certain glee flickering in his eyes when he noticed that you were finally entertaining a conversation with him. "Thrill me with what you've read, darling."

Your gaze dipped, tracing his lips as they stretched into an amused smile, before you caught yourself, forcing them to return to his eyes, hoping that he didn't notice. Instead, you found something you decided was much worse — he was doing the exact same, gaze flickering between your eyes, and then to your lips, before returning to your eyes once more as if he was unsure on what he should focus on.

What the fuck?

You pushed yourself back, drawing your knees up as a sort of shield from him. No, he was not looking at your lips, he couldn't have been — you must've seen incorrectly. Yet you were unable to convince yourself of this when the evidence was right before you, his gaze dipping once more.

Either you were delusional, or he was.

This was not real.

He was still staring at you, awaiting for a reply that you struggled to form. You had to think quickly, to not let him believe that you had been so easily affected by receiving some of his attention, yet you found it difficult when he was looking at you like that.

"I'd rather have this conversation from the comfort of my own home." You responded drily, speaking the first words that had come to your mind. And they had their intended effect.

He faltered for a moment, lips parting before pressing into a tight line, caught off-guard by your confession. Not that this should have been news to him, you had shared this fact numerous times before, yet he couldn't ignore the churning feeling it caused. Baelor would never admit it aloud, but he was beginning to hate the idea. There was no reason for you to leave, so why were you so insistent to abandon them? To leave the children, to leave him?

"I'd rather you stay in the comfort of mine." He murmured, his hand finding the soft skin of your ankle, fingers trailing up the bone before wrapping around the appendage.

His hand gently cradled your ankle, thumb softly drawing circles on the skin — his touch was so light that you didn't register it immediately, just feeling the phantom of warmth before you finally noticed. And once you did, your pulse was cruel to you, reacting so violently to the softest of touches.

"I'm sure you would." You mocked, gaze chasing his as you noticed his attention wavering. "I know you're reasonable, Baelor. And I know that you know that this full situation is insane. So let's all just forget it and move past it."

He muttered your name, the syllables leaving his lips in a soft sigh as he rubbed his hand over his face, trying to soothe the headache he knew would inevitably come.

"Let's not do this now, it's late." Baelor deflected, tone gentle. Yet no matter how good-natured he tried to depict himself as, you could hear the slight irritation that laced his tone, as if he was exhausted by the mere concept. "We should go to bed and revisit this in the morning."

You could only frown at his response, more disappointed than annoyed. Disappointed by his redirection, disappointed by how you reacted.

He sighed once more, releasing your ankle as he stood up. And he left you there, his shadows spilling along the bookshelves as he exited, stealing one last glance at you.

You laid back down, unable to find the energy to chase after him, to demand answers. You were just exhausted.

Yet despite your tiredness, your mind seemed determined to torture you, distracting you from the next passage of Inventories as you found it wandering over what could motivate his actions.

There must be a reason to this insanity, one that you couldn't see. Yet it seemed as if everyone could.

Which led you to one conclusion.

There was something brewing beneath the surface.

Despite the fact that everyone seemed content in maintaining their deceptive ignorance, you could tell there was an issue that simmered within the walls of Summerhall, something that predated your arrival. And despite the fact that you had decided that the philosophers were wisest, that ignorance truly was bliss, the silence of midnight would cause your mind to theorise about what was plaguing Summerhall.

You simply could not ignore the lack of staff.

For a man as domineering as Maekar, it baffled you to believe that the very house he was raising his children within was not brimming with individuals he had employed to cater to their every need. To make them breakfast, to clean after them, to aid in their enrichment — for Seven's sake, to care for them when they had sustained life-threatening injuries!

Yet the manor was vacant.

The only employed staff were the overwhelming amount of Kingsguard that patrolled the grounds, armed with lethal weapons that should certainly not be carried around young children. You would argue that you could not be classified as an employee either, regardless of how much disdain Maekar treated you with, regardless of how much Aerion would remind you that your sole purpose was to care for him.

And unfortunately, it seemed as if the very residents of the manor were not exactly as independent as these circumstances would require. The children struggled to do basic chores for themselves, and they would often be completed by (or under the guidance of) Daeron, yet even then they would be completed by a subpar level. Breakfast often burnt, dishes shattering in the effort of cleansing them, the washing machine often brimming with clothes leading to them being washed inadequately.

So once again, you returned to your initial conclusion. There was something wrong.

You could not find it within you to interrogate further, to openly ask questions about what had exactly occurred for this to be the state of things. But you were not stupid.

You would pick up on comments referencing conversations that had clearly been cycled through multiple times, the young Targaryens issuing warnings to each other. That they should not do certain actions, that they should not forget. They would often reference memory, and it was evident that that would be context enough for the other Targaryens to understand exactly what they had been referencing.

There was enough information for you to notice that something was wrong, that every detail seemed slightly askew, but not enough to uncover the whole truth.

And it seemed that you would never get closer to discovering it either, never get any clarification as to why your presence in the manor was required as the very next morning, Baelor was nowhere to be found.

You had awoken early that morning after your little interaction in the library, the sky a pale blue that blinded your eyes as the sound of birds chirping disturbed the silence while you groggily got ready for the day. And despite the fact that you had risen before any other member of the Targaryens, Baelor was gone.

Coward. He had ran back to King's Landing before you could even continue your conversation, claiming that he had an important meeting in which his presence was vital. You knew it was a lie. Even while Dunk was revealing this news to you, the tip of his ears tinging a blushing pink revealing that even he couldn't believe the words he was reciting, you could only nod.

Truthfully, you weren't sure what you were expecting that morning. A part of you knew that the conversation would never be revisited, that it would hang in the air half-addressed — acknowledged but never discussed. You knew that Baelor would avoid it somehow, but you just didn't know how exactly.

However, despite these thoughts already racing through your mind while you were brushing your teeth that morning, there was something you were certain you could have never expected. An unpredictable variable.

Upon the nightstand beside your bed was a small box.

It was simple in the way that suggested elegance; the box was a matte blush and smooth to the touch, wrapped in an ivory silk bow that fell apart like the delicate petals of a rose when you pulled at it. And once you pried open the lid, the magnetic clasp snapping open, you found a delicate silver chain inside that had a small matching silver pendant that glinted at you.

The pendant was a small rectangular silver charm that had seven gems that twinkled; the centre stone was ruby, the bloodiness of the gem glinting wickedly at you. The other six stones circulated the ruby — diamond, amethyst, lapis, iolite, nacre, garnet, creating a symphony of rich hues that glimmered.

Under any other circumstances, you would have struggled to name these stones because truly what need did you have for such insignificant knowledge. Even now with the necklace before you, you could barely distinguish the differences between garnet and ruby (except perhaps some differentiation within the shades of the gems?). Yet it seemed that whoever had left the necklace there had prepared for this also, a small sheet of paper falling from the lid of the box, detailing each stone in neat inky cursive.

You were unsure of what emotion should have been elicited by the gift; were you meant to be thankful that your captors had thrown a pretty piece of jewellery at you? Was this also another bribe? Because currently you felt more offended than thankful.

Even the list of gemstones on parchment prompted indignation within you — clearly even the giver knew that you wouldn't be able to decipher the value of such a gift, why else did they feel the need to clearly clarify each and every stone?

However there was one piece of information missing from the piece of parchment. It did not state the metal of the pendant.

At first glance you had assumed silver, the way it had gleamed implied purity (it was nothing like the jewellery you would often buy for yourself, the metals mixed, the glimmering coating wearing off after a few uses) but it seemed too dark to be silver. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a glaring detail.

Waves.

The metal seemed to have ripples within it, the pattern consistent throughout the pendant. It was Valyrian steel.

That one singular fact revealed the gifter.

Yet it only served to further your confusion — what could possibly motivate Baelor to give you such an item? You had no answer.

Instead you placed it back into its original location, not sparing it another glance as you exited your room, determined to find the Targaryen and question him (only for you to fail as you would quickly find that he had left the premises).

You tried to think about the necklace throughout the day, yet you often found yourself thinking about the rippled steel, even while you were mixing together a simple pancake batter.

You had become bored of the breakfasts Summerhall had to offer. In nature, they were all the same — convenient, swift, simple. Toast, cereal, and more toast. So you had decided to solve the crises of your starved taste buds and began to make a breakfast you knew Maekar would scowl at, brimming with sugar and sweetness with no proteins or fibre in sight.

You found it therapeutic, and for a moment you could almost imagine that you were in your own kitchen as you sifted the dry ingredients, whisking the clumps of flour until you reached a smooth batter. You heated the pan, the gas stove clicking until it sparked into a consistent flame, watching as a knob of butter melted on the stainless steel. Ladling the batter onto the silvery surface, the melted butter pooling around the circumference of the pancake, you waited, watching as air bubbles dotted around the creamy ivory batter. You flipped it, the batter sizzling as the cooked side of the pancake was exposed, the edges slightly crispy as the centre was a golden-brown.

You continued this process, a stack of pancakes forming beside you until you heard a soft rustle behind you. Slippers dragging along the marble of the kitchen floor. You turned at the sound, smiling at the sight of a yawning Rhae who shuffled towards you.

"Good morning!" She chirped, her fingers curling into the cotton of the dress you were wearing, her head slightly pressing against your thigh.

"Good morning, Rhae." You mirrored, your hand coming to brush her messy silver-gold locks back. "Want some pancakes?"

She froze at your offer, her entire body stilling as she watched you for a moment, her gaze fixed on the pan before you. She slowly pried her fingers off your skirt, backing away from you as she watched you wearily.

"What?" Rhae mumbled, as if she wasn't entirely sure she had heard you correctly.

You didn't notice the sudden shift in her demeanour, instead focusing on flipping another pancake.

"I'm making some for me and Aerion." You continued, gently sliding the edge of the spatula beneath the pancake, lifting it swiftly as you let it fall on its uncooked side. "Do you want some? There's plenty of batter—"

She interrupted you, her tone icy as she glared at you. "Why would you do that?"

You paused for a moment, caught off-guard by the way she bit out the words, yet she didn't give you a moment to question her, the words falling from between her lips uncontrolled.

"I thought you were different." Her voice was gradually getting louder, her hand movements become frantic as she clenched her fists. "No, you weren't— you weren't meant to be like the others! Why would you—"

"Rhae…" You interrupted gently, putting down the spatula as you faced the young girl, frowning at her. You wanted to comfort her, to clarify any misunderstanding. But immediately she reminded you that she was not just some young girl — she was still a Targaryen.

"Don't!" She shouted, her lips curling in disdain as her eyes began to prick with glimmering tears. "I can't believe you would try to-to—"

She was unable to finish her sentence, instead turning on her heel as she bolted out of the kitchen, almost colliding with her older cousin. Valarr glared at you from his spot in the door way, his gaze darting between you and Rhae's disappearing figure.

"What the fuck did you do?" He questioned sharply, the way he was staring into the hallway revealing that he wanted to chase after his little cousin. There's a visible struggle occurring within him — to comfort poor Rhae, to scream at you for whatever you dared to do. He choose the latter.

You just stared at him, pancakes forgotten as they began to burn, mouth agape as you began to stutter over a reply. "I— I offered her pancakes?"

The words came out as a question, as if you were beginning to doubt yourself. Pancakes shouldn't have elicited such a violent derision. Don't kids like pancakes? If this was how she reacted to them, was offering them to Aerion a death wish?

Valarr visibly relaxed at your words, sighing softly as his lips pulled into a deep line, a sudden comprehension flashing across his features. No wonder you appeared so painfully confused; your offer was pure at face value.

His bi-coloured gaze returned to yours, brows furrowed as he warned you. "Just don't do that again. Ever."

He didn't bother offering you an explanation, immediately beelining after his poor cousin.

You threw away that last pancake, one side a charred mess as it laid forgotten upon the hot pan. Your heart hurt for Rhae, wishing to console her but you knew it was best to give her some distance. You weren't even sure what you had done exactly to cause her pain, and Valarr's parting words only served to further your confusion. If you only knew why you couldn't offer her breakfast (if your assumption was correct in believing that you couldn't offer her any food), you would have been able to handle the situation far more delicately.

Instead you were stood in the kitchen dumbfounded, staring at the stack of pancakes that were beginning to cool as you washed berries. What in the Seven Hells had occurred for Summerhall to be so strange?

You were still no closer to the truth.

You tried to not think about Rhae's reaction, you tried to not think about the necklace, you tried to not think about the fact that you were here against your will. Truthfully, it appeared that you were striving to avoid the very act of contemplation as a whole as it just caused your mind to spin and your heart to ache.

Yet even now when you were before Aerion, he eyed your offerings wearily.

"No." He declared, eyes narrowing at the tray of food clutched in your hands.

"Aerion—"

"Get rid of it all." He interrupted, trying to not wince as he felt the deep ache travel up his abdomen, feeling it piece through his muscles. Shit, fucking shit — everything just hurted so much. "I don't want food, just give me something for the pain."

"You need to eat." You insisted, placing the tray on his bedside table, ignoring his plea for medication. You wanted to remind him of the words he had announced days prior, something about how 'dragons didn't need meds', yet you decided to not be cruel. "Either you eat this, or I'll get you something else, or I'll ask Daeron. But no matter what, you're going to eat."

"You can't force me to eat." He hissed out, his hand coming to cover his side, where the pain was the harshest.

"Eat, or no pain meds."

He glared at you, a flicker of something resembling pride softening his scowl as he rolled his eyes.

"If you're so desperate, you can feed me." Aerion grumbled out, his head nodding towards the plate you had prepared.

You stared at him. He could not be serious. Yet the way he made no indication suggesting he was going to reach for the plate exposed that he was. Your gaze flickered between his amethyst irises, and the plate of golden-brown pancakes you had spent the better part of an hour preparing.

A part of you wanted to just throw them away, plate included and force Daeron to deal with his demon of a brother, yet you couldn't find it in you to throw the food away. Instead you pushed your pride the side, grabbing the plate as you sat on the edge of his bed, the cool ceramic settled on your lap as you began to slice into the soft pillows of pancakes.

Aerion didn't bother hiding his smirk as you fed him, each bite offered just inflating his ego as he came to his own conclusion. Despite how much you enjoyed grumbling about how you didn't want to be there, how they had taken you against your will, this small act of feeding him was done at your own accord (albeit some slight encouragement from him) — it simply meant one thing. You cared more than you would ever confess. You cared about him.

Or so he had convinced himself.

He didn't notice the dazed look in your eyes, mind distant as you couldn't help but replay the interaction you had with Rhae. The sudden shift, the harsh coldness, the swift disdain, all stemming from a mistake that you still could not identify. Perhaps you were at fault, perhaps there was something within the Summerhall etiquette rulebook that banished the offering of pancakes.

Yet Aerion seemed content in eating them, lips wrapping around the silver fork you offered, his tongue darting out to catch the syrup that had smeared onto the corner of his lips.

He finished the entire plate, picking at the berries as you administered the promised pain meds, ignoring the smug look in his eyes.

You quickly returned to the kitchen once he was done, feeling a strange unease wash over you as you placed the dishes within the sink, trying to distract your mind as you began to rinse them. But it appeared as if Summerhall was your own personal purgatory; you could do nothing without being interrupted.

"Leave them." Maekar demanded, entering the kitchen as his gaze immediately latched onto your figure. You closed your eyes, another thing they commanded you not to do. The list was beginning to become quite lengthy.

You turned to snap at him, your head aching as you glared at the older Targaryen. But the words immediately died once you noticed what was clutched between his hands.

A gun.

A fucking gun.

What the actual fuck.

"Follow me." He grumbled, walking through the french doors and into the patio, his boots crunching against gravel as you found yourself following him. Maybe you shouldn't be following him. Shit, was this about the pancakes? Were you about to get killed over pancakes?

Fuck your fucking life.

Maybe you should run? (But he has a gun). That sounded like a good idea. (Not really). If you ran now, you would probably catch him off-guard. (He'll probably just shoot you).Just run into the forest. (He has a fucking gun). You were dead. You were walking to your literal death and —

Maekar turned once you were a considerable distance away from the manor, now within one of the many gardens on the property. Blushing gardenias lined the edges of the sprawling grass carpet, accompanied with smaller pale blossoms.

He guided you to sit on the chairs beneath the pale beige parasol, pushing the gun towards you as he sat across you, the plastic scraping against the metal of the garden table. He stared at you silently, lazily observing you as he slouched in his seat, watching as your gaze flickered between the gun before you and him.

Did he honestly think you would take it?

You weren't that stupid. There were far too many variables that could turn the situation to the worst — the gun could be empty, there could be people watching you, Kingsguard hidden in the foliage with their own weapons aimed at you, waiting for you to reach for the stupid lump of metal before they decided to shoot you.

Everything about it screamed that it was a test.

You pushed it back.

He rolled his eyes at you as he picked the piece back up, facing the barrel away from you as his fingers began working on it, quickly disassembling the components as he spoke.

"This is a glock." He stated casually, pulling the magazine out as he laid it upon the table, moving onto the next component. The way he laid down each component reminded you of your own rituals before a surgery, rearranging each scalpel, each piece of equipment until you felt prepared. He was doing the very same, rotating the gun as he inspected it in a manner that implied that it was more instinctual than deliberate. "Polymer frame, lightweight, capacity of 15 rounds. This version is smaller, better to conceal." He pointed at each individual component. "Slide, recoil spring, barrel, magazine."

He began reassembling the gun, making sure you could see where each piece was inserted. You interrupted him when he began talking about how to insert rounds into the magazine.

"Why are you telling me this?"

You watched as a slight scowl began to pull at his features, his hands still playing with components of the lethal weapon.

"Because this is yours." Maekar simply uttered, watching as a thousand different emotions crossed your face, until you reached one decisive one. Utter resistance.

"No. No." You blurted out, head shaking slightly as you stared at him with a shocked expression. "That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard."

He tilted his head, quirking a brow as he watched your complete rejection at the idea.

"Stupid?" He echoed.

"So stupid! Why in Seven Hells would you even think to give me a gun?" You rambled, your pitch becoming higher as you tried not to look at the gun, your mind becoming dizzy at the very sight of it.

"Because I'd rather you have it."

"Maekar." You stated incredulously. "You cannot be serious."

He parroted your name in a mocking tone. "Does it look like I'm joking?"

"You look like you don't even know what humour is." You mumbled.

"Stop changing the subject and focus." He chided, reaching across the table to grab your hand. You tried to pull away, the skin of his fingers rougher than you expected, but he was stronger, practically dragging you out of your chair as he once again guided you.

He didn't care to be gentle with you, didn't care at the sudden yelp that escaped your lips as he dragged you along, instead he forced you further into the garden before stopping, pressing the gun into your hands, the cold plastic replacing the warmth of his touch.

Laying more than 20 metres before you was a paper silhouette, the printed black outline of a man with white ovals with small numbers that you couldn't read. Your heart raced at the sight of it, that familiar feeling of your chest closing in on itself occurring, feeling as if the sharp of your ribs are scraping against your lungs with every breath.

The gun was heavy in your hands. Heavier than you expected, and Maekar had described it as being lightweight. You would hate to know how a 'regular' one would feel in your hands, you prayed that you never would.

You didn't even want to touch this once, the sudden iciness of polymer searing into your palms, feeling your hands trembled as you tightened your grip.

Maekar stood right behind you, his boot kicking in between your feet as he forced them apart, aggressively widening your stance. You let out a soft noise at the sudden intrusion, feeling caught off-guard as you felt his heavy hands fall on to your hips, adjusting them slightly, the warmth of his hands radiating through the cotton of your dress. They lingered for a moment, grip tightening as he stepped closer, his chest right against your back as they slowly travelled up the curve of your waist, goosebumps flaring in their wake, until he reached your arms. He guided your arms into the right position.

Hands cradling yours as he murmured about the different safety features, and you tried not to shiver as you felt his breath hit the exposed skin of your neck.

Your hands had stopped trembling, yet it almost felt even more difficult to breath when all you could feel was him. His warmth, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, the feeling of him pressed right against you, the sound of his voice. You might have even found it comforting if it had been anyone else.

But it was Maekar.

You exhaled a shallow sigh, tightening your grip.

"Every shot has the potential to be fatal." He murmured, his voice husky. "If you ever need to use this, it's best to aim for centre mass." You wanted to interrupt him, to tell him you would never have to use it, but the words died on your tongue as he released your hands, stepping away from you, uttering one singular command. "Shoot."

And you did, your finger pressing against the trigger, the deafening sound of the bullet piercing through the air, the gun rattling at the sheer force of the action. You winced violently at the sound, eyes screwing shut as you suppressed the urge to flee, to hide from the wailing sound that seemed to impale your eardrums. Your ears physically ached from the sound, ringing as you heard Maekar speak to you, yet the words seemed to be lost, his lips moving as you struggled to understand them.

His hands fell to your shoulders, forcing you to turn towards the target once more, and it was only then did you notice the brilliant grin on his face. The paper silhouette boasted a clear puncture right in the centre of all the white ovals,

You had made the shot in your first try.

"Good girl." He praised, his grip on your shoulders tightening a fraction more, the sort of aggressiveness that implied approval from a man like Maekar. You should have shared his happiness, to feel a slight sense of pride in being able to make that shot with zero experience. Yet you found yourself unable to even focus on the bullet you had fired, or the gun that your fingers were curled around.

The ringing in your ears became mocking, parroting Maekar's gruff voice, those two words causing your heart to dip violently, pulse racing from something you was certain was not caused by the sound of the bullet.

Your mind went completely blank.

Oh no.

Your face flushed furiously, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks as a certain heat seemed to radiate throughout your entire body. And you thanked the Seven that Maekar seemed to not notice, trying to pay attention to his voice as he began guiding you to the next target.

You tried to distract your mind from your reaction, to solely listen to his words as he guided you through the next target, yet it was difficult with the way he grinned at you each time you made the shot, each time the bullet you fired pierced through the target in a perfect bullseye. He seemed genuinely elated at your success, as if your aim had effectively shifted his perception of you.

But this very experience was the reason for you to cement your perception of him. You could not afford to be stupid. To make stupid mistakes like believing that they were good people.

The gun would join the necklace, stuffed into the bottom compartment of your nightstand, hidden so that you wouldn't have to see it. Yet unfortunately, their presence haunted your mind at night.

You decided that there could only be one opinion to remain in your mind.

You had to hate the Targaryens.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist

Egg quickly announced that if Meraxes liked you, he did too, claiming that the kitten was a good judge of character. Rhae nodded along with his declaration, seeing the logic within such a statement. And you could only smile as they knelt beside you on the floor, their body weights leaning against you as they cooed at the kitten, both of the children petting her carefully with their index fingers only, as if fearing they might hurt her if they used any more force.

You had performed the nose-to-tail exam once more, more so for Egg's satisfaction rather than necessity, repeating the same results you had announced the day prior.

"I believe Meraxes is in perfect health, she just needs to be careful of her foot. You must be taking really good care of her." You said lowly to the children, trying to maintain a low volume as Aerion laid asleep just a few feet away from you.

You had returned to Aerion's room quickly after you had finished the sad breakfast offered by Daeron — two pieces of sourdough bread that he had attempted to toast. But you could not complain too much, it was almost sweet that he had at least offered (was it truly sweet, or had you just been so deprived of interacting with sane individuals within the last 24 hours that you simply deluded yourself into believing his actions were good-natured?). And as soon as you had entered, the two youngest Targaryens bursted in afterwards, bundles of energy and havoc as they spoke in loud voices of everything Meraxes had done since the last time you had seen her. What she had eaten, who she played with, how many times Daeron had to clean the litter tray. Everything.

And you played along, writing every detail on the back pages of your notebook, clearly writing the name MERAXES in all capital letters as you created a patient profile accompanied with tge messy doodles of a fluffy kitten. This simply encouraged the little Anvils further, their faces brightened with grins as they giggled through their excited speeches. You were unsure of exactly how long the young Targaryens had given you company, the only evidence of time passing was the sky beginning to darken, fading from soft blue to the shades of dusk; blushing pinks and bruised violets.

"And then Daeron bought her a bunch of kitty food, but then she wouldn't eat any of it—" Egg rambled, only to be interrupted by his sister.

Rhae leaned further into you, her elbows resting against your thighs. "— So Daeron went back to the store and bought her some wet kitty food instead, and he said it was really expensive, and she finally ate all of it—"

"—And she gobbled it all up, and she was making a sound while eating, like gobble gobble—"

"—No! It was more like—"

Their voices continued to layer on top of each other, creating a symphony of clashing chaos as they argued over the sound Meraxes steadily purring, the soft vibrations trembling through the clothes Daeron had lent you. The joggers, soft black cotton lined with fleece, had a purple falling star painted onto the outer leg. You could see the brushstrokes of lilac paint, where the fibre strands of the brush had strayed, and immediately could begin to imagine Daeron painting the star himself. You didn't allow yourself to continue thinking about the image; no, you didn't want to think about any of the Targaryens in such a light, perfectly human and domestic, which was unfortunately becoming harder when the youngest of the Targaryen's seemed to be insistent on keeping your attention captive.

Yet it did not take long for this image to dissipate, a gruff voice cutting through the younger Targaryen's rambling

"What the fuck are you two doing?" Aerion called out, struggling to sit up as he glared at his younger siblings, his eyes narrowing as he scowled at them. His voice was heavy with sleep, exhaustion weighing on each word, his lips curling into a harsh snarl. Aegon immediately quieted, yet his glare rivalled Aerion's, the very same disdain lacing his gaze. But Rhae did not rein in her annoyance.

"Go away, Aerion." She replied haughtily, pouting as she turned her back to her older brother.

"It's my room—"

"Go away." She repeated, not bothering to listen to his voice.

Aerion's scowl twitched, his irritation deepening as his gaze flickered between you and his siblings. He wanted to get up, to hit them across the heads and force them out of his room — how dare they just sit there, Aegon glaring at him, Rhae being an overall nuisance, both of them just stealing away your attention.

"Get out of my room." Aerion gritted out, pain prickling along the edges of his mind as he felt his vision begin to swim once more. Seven fucking hells, why was everything still so painful? What was the point of you if you couldn't even get rid of his pain? "Get out!"

The words came out as a bark as he threw a pillow at his younger siblings. He missed, yet it appeared his failure did not matter as he swiftly received the result he desired, the two little Anvils quickly scattered, stealing Meraxes out of your lap as they abandoned you, rushing out of the room.

The door slammed shut. The door swung against the doorframe, clattering shakily as the vibrations seemed to travel into the walls. The sound was deafening, and you instinctively flinched at it, your ears aching from the way it seemed to continue ringing in your mind.

"That was childish." You accused, raising from your seated position so that you could hover near his bed, staring down at him.

He adjusted the way he was sat, head tilting to meet your gaze, scowl fading. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze tracing your features once more as if wanting to remember you from this angle.

"They are children." He responded as if that had explained everything, voice lower — softer than it had been when he was addressing his own blood.

"Not them." You quickly corrected, your hands messing with the thermometer as you began to take his vitals once more. "You. You are acting childishly."

He opened his mouth, prepared to deliver a swift retort to your criticisms, only for the words to die on his tongue as you shoved the thermometer into his maw. Aerion could only roll his eyes at your actions, yet he did not fight them, instead allowing you to fuss about him, collecting vital after vital, scribbling each piece of information into that damned notebook of yours.

You finally removed the thermometer, cleaning it as you placed it upon the table.

"Of course you would take their side." He grumbled, refusing to meet your eyes as he looked away from you, resembling a petulant child rather than the Brightfire he had been monikered by the tabloids. Gods, he was even pouting. "Everyone always takes their side. Uncle, father—"

"Because you're an adult, Aerion." You interrupted, keeping your tone saccharine as you forced a smile. "You can't seriously believe that anyone would think you've been wronged in this situation, so suck it up."

"Suck it up?" He repeated incredulously, a sharp laugh exhaling from his lungs as his head snapped towards you, pale brows furrowing. "You know you're here to take care of me, right? So stop defending those demons."

You bit your tongue, trying to resist the urge to smother him with the very pillow he had thrown at the alleged demons. Don't correct him, don't correct—

"I'm not here willingly." You reminded him (against your better judgement, despite the more logical part of your brain pleading with you not to), watching as the frown deepened on his face as he noticed your sharp tone. Yet you didn't care, and as soon as you began, the words wouldn't stop. Any attempt to be civil and calm immediately failing as every grievance that had haunted you the past 24 hours began spilling out from between your lips. "I'm not a doctor. I'm not a nurse, I don't take human patients. I did nothing to deserve being here, yet you all are just so content being so dense. And truthfully Aerion, I don't give a singular shit about you."

Aerion just stared at you, watching as you glared back at him so prettily, your attention solely focused upon him. A shame, he quite liked seeing you in such a state, frustrated and bothered.

You waited for some sort of response, for him to remind you the difference between you both — that he was from the top of Aegon's hill and you were from the bottom, that his blood ran blue and had history, while yours carried nothing. That you were just a nobody from nowhere while he was a son of the Blood. Yet you received nothing. Just his quiet attention as he watched you, amused.

But then his gaze flickered. Lifting slightly, away from your face to something behind you.

"Bit fucking dramatic." A familiar voice remarked, and your whole body immediately stilled at the sound of Maekar's grumbling voice. You hated the fact that you could recognise it, that your brain immediately identified the source of the deep vocals. You should never be so accustomed to any of the Targaryens, but now you were able to distinguish them from voice alone.

Shit. Fucking shit — of course this was the moment they would walk in. You had been so good this entire time, you had controlled your emotions so well that it had actually begun to disturb you, yet the one moment you failed it just had to be witnessed by them.

It didn't matter if every word you uttered was the truth, if the words had been running rampant within your mind ever since they had taken you from your home — it simply didn't matter. They would see your words as a deliberate provocation, use them against you. You had already exposed your true thoughts, had exposed how genuinely felt. Any attempt to be civil would be seen as it unequivocally was. A lie.

"You think that's dramatic?" You questioned, not fully turning as the words gritted out from between your teeth. The words tasted bitter on your tongue as you tried to steady your breathing, becoming all too aware of how rapid your pulse was, how you could feel your heart clattering against your ribs.

You could hear shuffling behind you, the rustling of clothes slowly approaching — closer and closer until you could see the two figures beside you from your peripheral.

You bit the inside of your cheek, of course Baelor was here also. Of course he too had to witness your inability to control yourself. Recently it seemed as though each interaction involved you acting upon your emotions, being unrestrained due to the circumstances he had forced upon you.

You tried to ignore that fact, instead directing your attention to focus on your breathing. Inhale, hold, exhale. You focused on the feeling of your lungs filling, the contraction of your diaphragm, how your chest raised due to the movement of your ribcage. You steeled yourself. You couldn't them see the chinks in your armour.

Maekar huffed out a dry laugh at your response, rounding the bed so that he could lounge in the seat that you had previously spent the majority of your time curled up upon. He looked strange on the chair, his body seeming to cover the back of it entirely, legs spread leasuirely as he leant back, eyeing you lazily.

"Do not antagonise her, Maekar." Baelor reprimanded, his tone warning. Yet despite the fact that he was speaking up for you, that you could argue that he was defending you, he only served to further your anger. It felt condescending — for him, out of all people, to be the individual to validate your emotions, to give you permission to experience your annoyance, only angered you more. "She has taken good care of your son."

You nod your head slowly, your gaze darting between all three Targaryens, only to find them all already staring at you. Dragons watching their prey, a voice mocked within your mind, and you tried to ignore it as you began to force a soft smile on your face, praying that it didn't appear as strained as it felt.

And just as you had done with Dunk, you softened yourself once more.

Keeping your tone even, smoothing the harsh edges of your words as you restrained yourself, keeping the insults and jabs captive within your mind, ensuring that you would not slip up again. You even controlled your face, forcing yourself to not expose the disdain that festered within you, keeping your expression consistent — a gentle smile, watching Baelor through your lashes.

You could almost hear Rowan's voice within your mind egging you on. He's just a man. And all men were weak. Yet despite that, you felt like a complete fool right now.

"He had a bit of a fever during the morning." You began, keeping your eyes fixed on his, your gaze flickering between the two contrasting hues of his irises. Violet and brown. You suppressed the urge to fidget, to busy your hands with the notebook within your grasp, to flick through the pages under the guise of appearing busy — but no, you wouldn't lose the staring match that you had unknowingly began.

Gods, it really did feel as if he was trying to search your soul, as if his unwavering gaze would allow him access to each and every thought that drifted through your mind.

"Fever?" Maekar immediately interrupted, his voice harsh and interrogating and your head immediately turned at the sudden sound. Fuck. You lost.

Your smile was tighter, trying not to frown at the stupid disappointment you were feeling as you responded. "It's normal after surgery, and due to the nature of his, it should almost be expected. But he is entirely coherent, he's had a dose of antibiotics, should continue fluids, keep his wound clean and…" You made a vague gesture, your eyes betraying you once more as they dipped down to Aerion who was being strangely quiet. You had hoped he had drifted back into unconsciousness, that the conversation had begun to bore him and he had surrendered to the temptation of sleep once more, only to be disappointed to find the silver-haired Targaryen staring back appearing far too entertained witnessing you trying to be civil. "—And he'll be fine."

You forced your gaze away from Aerion, returning to Baelor. The brunet Targaryen did not respond to your words immediately, just watching you with an undecipherable emotion flashing across his face. Silence settled for a moment, and you couldn't ignore the awkwardness of the situation.

Just moments prior you were preaching about your unwillingness of being apart of this situation, that you were not qualified for these circumstances, and yet now here you were, providing a patient report to your captors. No wonder Aerion seemed so amused.

"Okay." Baelor finally replied, disrupting the quietness that had began to terrorise the room, his soft-spoken voice filling the air.

You blinked. Was that all he had to say?

"Okay?" You repeated, slightly incredulous by the lack of response. You had almost expected an interrogation, for them to deliver a barrage of questions of how Aerion could have gotten the fever, of what evidence you had to support such a claim, yet no — they did not even ask about the antibiotics you were giving him.

Your gaze darted to Maekar, expecting for the brooding blond to provide the resistance you were almost hoping for. And even then, he simply just stared back.

"If you are saying he will be fine, I believe you. I see no reason to doubt you." Baelor continued, noticing the confusion that began to seep onto your features, the way your smile had faltered for a moment, the way your brows had almost began to furrow before you began to control them again.

His response only confused you further. If anything, he had every reason to doubt you — but you didn't want to focus on that.

"Well, um." Your voice came out slow, forcing yourself to speak with the little courage you had left, trying to stall as you thought about your next words. "In these sort of situations, where there's concern about how the patient is faring, especially with such an injury, and especially due to the circumstances of—"

Maekar's voice cut through your rambling.

"Spit it out, Doc." His tone was mocking, and when your gaze returned to him, you caught the full force of the scowl he directed to your direction. He had already become bored. You had not even slept in 24 hours, spending that time caring over his cunt of a son, recording each one of his vitals over and over, yet he had the audacity to become bored while you were speaking.

"Ignore him." Baelor interrupted, directing a disappointed look towards his younger brother. "Continue."

Do not react. You forced yourself to ignore the anger that flared at Maekar's grating behaviour and Baelor's false generosity. Continue, as if he were granting you permission, how very gracious of him.

You bit your tongue, the pain that danced along the muscle grounding you as you refrained yourself from spiralling further.

"As I was saying." You continued, keeping your tone steady, yet you could hear it shake slightly. No matter how carefully chosen your words were, no matter how you deliberated over the very manner in which you voiced them, you knew that they could tell that you were furious. That your anger was evident regardless of how successfully you tried concealing it. It was impossible to censor such an emotion, to try to blur its fangs and claws while you tried kidding yourself in refusing its presence. "In situations like this, the first 24 hours are the most important as they are the most dangerous, meaning that they require the majority of the monitoring. And they've now passed, and his fever is subsiding so I believe Aerion will be fine onwards."

"That is good news."

Motherfucker, was Baelor purposefully being dense or could he truly not tell what you were hinting at.

"It is." You confirmed, repeating the same sentiment of your sentence prior. "So he doesn't need any further monitoring."

Yet once more your words did not receive the reaction you were hoping for, the brunet Targaryen simply nodding at you. But there was a flicker of emotion across Baelor's face, an annoyance that confirmed that no, he was not stupid, he knew exactly what you were suggesting yet he refused to acknowledge the concept.

So you would simply have to force his hand.

You continued, unrelenting. "Meaning that there is no reason for me to be here." No one spoke — there was no reaction to your words, it was as if you had stated something as mundane as the weather rather than suggesting that they release their captive. So you rephrased your words, ensuring that the intention behind them was glaringly evident. "I can leave now."

You received one syllable as a response.

"No." Baelor simply stated, not bothering to provide you with any explanation.

You stared at Baelor as if the refusal had been delivered in High Valyrian rather than the Common Tongue. No. How succinctly he denied you.

The word threatened to shatter any restraint you had, but no, you couldn't be weak — you couldn't just succumb to the fury that had been slowly building within you. You had to be reasonable, you had to think.

Your grip on the notebook tightened slightly, feeling the edge of the cover dig into the soft of your palm before you forced your hand to relax again.

"I understand that you might be nervous." You replied, your tone resembling the one you would use on the nervous pet owners that would visit your practice. Except with your clients it was genuine, it did not have to feign sympathy like it did now. "But I will just be one call away if you have any questions or need anything—"

Baelor uttered your name in the same disappointed tone he had directed toward his younger brother moments prior. "You're not leaving."

This was nonsensical. What exactly was their great plan? There was truly no logical reason for you to remain.

You forced your tone to be light, to be softer, to not allow him to twist the situation to make you into the hysterical one. "Baelor, come on. You know I can't just stay here. I have responsibilities, a life, I can't just leave everything to be here. I need to return to them."

"Doc, do you not understand?" Maekar finally snapped, becoming annoyed of how gently his brother was treating you. You were getting on his final nerves. "You're not fucking leaving, so drop it."

You found yourself unable to respond, tear pricking at your waterline as you just glared at the flying dragons carved into Aerion's bedpost. Fuck, you couldn't start crying. Not now, not when they were staring you.

You couldn't cry, you couldn't speak. you couldn't be angry, you couldn't leave.

You couldn't, you couldn't, you couldn't.

Yet despite the way you tried forcing yourself to rein in your emotions, it proved to be a difficult task as you felt your jaw begin to tremble, vision blurring.

You could hear their voice continue filling the air, speaking over you as if you were just another piece of furniture. You couldn't focus on the actual words being uttered, yet you still knew they weren't directed towards you.

You flinched as you felt Baelor's hand touch you, gently rubbing your arm in a soothing gesture that made you want to slam the notebook into his face, to cause his nose to become broken one more time.

You didn't look at him, not even when his words were now directed towards you.

"Come on." He muttered gently, his hand travelling to the small of your back as he tried to encourage you to move, to yield to his touch and allow him to manipulate your body so you would follow him. Yet it simply felt like the warmth of his hand was searing your flesh through the soft cotton, the skin sparking. "You should go eat, everyone is waiting."

You refused to move, firm in your stance, unwilling to be pushed about as if you were just another possession.

"No, I'm fine. I think I should keep watching Aerion."

"That wasn't a request." Maekar grumbled, dragging his body out of the seat. He didn't spare you another glance as he left, disappearing through the doorway.

You didn't want to follow, but you knew he was telling the truth.

Baelor's hand remained there and you could feel the weight of his gaze as he tilted his head down slightly, trying to catch your eyes.

"You did say he was fine." Baelor remarked, and your brows furrowed at his words — he was already using what you had said against you. But it was only when your gaze met his did you see the soft smile that played on his lips and crinkled the corner of his eyes, deepening the crows feet. He was teasing you.

You couldn't return his smile. Not when your eyes were still stinging with unshed tears, not when your mind was running rampant with thoughts of how they weren't letting you leave.

But regardless, you let him guide you out of Aerion's room, his hand staying on your back despite the fact that you both knew it didn't need to be there. It wasn't like you were going to run.

It only dropped once you entered the kitchen once more, the smell of onions and garlic frying immediately hitting you.

It appeared they did know how to use the sterile kitchen; Maekar was in the centre of everything, the pristine sleeves of his button up had been rolled up to the elbows exposing pale skin littered with fine silver hair and evident veins. He was cutting something, a large wooden chopping board before him. The rhythmic sound of metal crunching through the vegetables before him, scrapping against the grain of the board with a knife that appeared too large to be used to cut salad.

Valarr was just behind him, manning the stove as he flipped sirloins on a large cast-iron skillet causing the harsh sizzle of meat searing against hot steel, oil spitting. He, like his father and uncle, was dressed in a manner more appropriate for a high-end business deal rather than flipping steaks.

From this distance you could see the silver-gold streak of hair that strikingly clashed against the soft brown, appearing like lightning. If you didn't know his lineage, you might have assumed it was dyed, that it was the result of a cocktail of chemicals and bleach rather than the blood of Old Valyria. But unfortunately for you, it was the latter, the flash of violet from one of his eyes confirming the forlorn reality as he turned to look at his father, his gaze straying to you for a moment before drifting over as if you were simply another faceless irritant.

You were simply surrounded by dragons.

You found it slightly strange. For individuals as stupendously wealthy as the Targaryens, it was strange to see them performing such domestic menial chores. How could they not have employed staff? You hadn't really thought about it early, yet Daeron giving you breakfast should have been a slight hint that something strange was occurring. But now with the sight of Maekar and Valarr cooking dinner, it just confirmed that something was amiss.

Even new-money families like the Hardyngs had personal chefs and maids, so you found it impossible to believe that the Targaryens cooked their own meals.

Another unwanted hand grabbed for you. Rhae. She was tugging at your hand, dragging you deeper through the kitchen until you reached another doorframe, abandoning it for another room. She was excitedly chattering at you the entire time, not noticing that you were now quiet, that you were finding it difficult to reciprocate her energy.

The other room she had dragged you into, which you had quickly concluded was the dining room, was simply another quintessentially Targaryen thing. It boasted obscene wealth; the room was stupidly ostentatious, large to the point that it bordered on excess, with a chandelier that you unfortunately had to admit was gorgeous, with small rainbows reflecting off its pristine crystals. The patrons of the rooms were the youngest of the Targaryen children, Daella and Aemon were already seated, already deeply engrossed within a conversation that you could only pick up snippets from but immediately you already knew what they were talking about.

The way they whispered Blackfyre was all you needed to know, and it successfully dissuaded you from even wanting to listen in.

There was another boy within the room, one that you did not immediately recognise. He was setting the table alongside Aegon, with a stack of porcelain plates that made you feel nervous as you watched him carelessly place them onto the table. Aegon was making you equally apprehensive as you observed the way he slid glasses across the table as if he were playing a game. With fiery red hair that curled at the nape of his neck and features that were softer than anyone else within this room, you found yourself unable to assign him with a name. It was only because of his dark violet eyes were you able to discern the fact that he was in fact one of the Targaryens.

With the rest of the Targaryens, you had been able to piece their identities together through the wealth of knowledge that had been collated on the internet. From a glance you were able to discern who Valarr was, who Daeron was, and even who Aerion was despite the fact that your first encounter with the silver-haired Targaryen involved him appearing blood-streaked with a gaping abdominal injury — there was a vast collection of images of the adult Targaryens, varying from discrete paparazzi shots to professional red carpet advents.

Yet the younger Targaryens' identities proved difficult to distinguish. For the youngest of Maekar's children, they had to identify themselves to you (although admittedly you had to mainly connect the pieces through context clues and hints provided through conversation). And once more the boy in front of you, who you estimated to be older than Aemon, was unfortunately nameless.

Until you paid more attention, until you looked just a fraction closer to discover that no, not both of his irises were purple. You had only been able to notice when he finally looked in your direction, the light hitting his irises differently, exposing that one was dark violet, the other warm brown.

He must be Baelor's son.

Yet despite this hint, you still had no name for the teenager. The Targaryens were good at shielding their young ones, ensuring that they were not exposed to the public eye from a young age. And you suspected that even if any information about these children was ever revealed online, it would be swiftly dealt with. It was clear that they had the resources to collect information on whichever individual they wished to learn about, information that was difficult to access, what would stop them from erasing information as well?

It took a moment before the boy began grinning at you, already far more receptive to you than his brother (or perhaps you should say alleged brother, his relation to the Targaryens that had taken you was still a mystery).

"You must be the doctor taking care of Aerion." He commented, watching with keen eyes as you approached the table, seating yourself beside Rhae. There was no hint of question in his tone, he wasn't asking you, but rather just restating facts that he had heard. "Must be so fun."

His words were heavily laced with sarcasm, and he didn't hide the way his grin widened at your lack of response that simply confirmed the sentiment of what he said.

Aegon joined in, his nose scrunching up in disgust as he slid another cup, the glass clinking against the ceramic of the plate, making you cringe. "I wouldn't do it for any price, Matarys. I think I'd die first."

You frowned slightly at his words — that was a harsh sentence, especially for a nine year old to say. You had noticed some hostility before, the way Aegon glared at his brother, the fact that he did not seem to care about the fact that Aerion had been seriously injured. Yet to hear the young Targaryen exclaim it so openly despite the fact that it exposed his aversion to his older brother made you strangely pity the young boy.

Tabloid articles often recounted how vile Brightflame was in public, how he was cruel and an utter cunt, how he would resort to violence and how he would silence people with his daddy's money. If that was how he acted in public with all to see, you couldn't help but wonder how he would act in the privacy of his own home.

So you replied with your own snide remark, offering Egg a soft smile.

"I wouldn't do it for any price either." You teased, watching as the repulsion began to fade from his features. The words were horrifically true — you weren't doing this for any reward, you were quite literally being forced into it. Yet that little fact did not seem to register in Egg's mind (for the better perhaps), as he began to grin at you also.

"Not even for a million dragon notes?" The red-headed boy, who had been exposed as Matarys by his cousin, goaded, his gaze flickering between you and the bald headed boy. You hesitated for a moment (that was a lot of money), but before you could even begin to weigh your decision, Egg gave his answer swiftly.

"Not even if it brought the dragons back." He declared, watching in triumph at the way the young Targaryens gasped at his answer.

"Not even for the dragons, Egg?" Daella's tone was interrogative, holding a hint of disbelied at the way her brother at so quickly renounced bringing back the very creatures that had once brought them to greatness if it simply meant not having to care for Aerion.

Egg hastily nodded, ensuring that no one could mistake a delayed answer for hesitancy.

"I said what I said." He confirmed, sitting across from you once the last glass had been placed.

"What did you say?" Daeron's voice interrupted as he slunk into the room, somehow appearing far more dishevelled than he did in the morning. He really did look like shit (not that you could speak, you were still in the exact same shirt you had been taken in and at this point you were desperate for a shower), dressed in an oversized shirt with the words 'it's ok i'm batman' painted on in a scrawling script. The heavy scent of cigarette smoke seemed to envelop him, the smell almost suffocating.

Fuck. What you wouldn't do for a cigarette. You hadn't smoked since university, but gods, the way you immediately started craving that nicotine hit as soon as you smelt that stale scent of burned paper and something chemically unique to the way burned tobacco clinged to the fibres of your clothes.

Egg began to present Daeron with the same dilemma, only for him to be cut off by his older sister. Daella frowned at Daeron, the full force of the disappointment of a teenage girl hitting him as she interrupted Egg.

"You do know Dad hates it when you smoke, right?" She

"He hates it when I do anything, I'm pretty sure one cigarette won't kill him." He sarcastically replied, offering her a bright grin as he settled down beside her. She rolled her eyes at him.

"It'll kill you. Hope it does it fast." She grumbled, turning away from her older brother.

There was a certain awkwardness that fell over the room after that, the kind that didn't fade even when conversation began once more. Perhaps it was because Daella addressed something that everyone noticed, or maybe it was because she cared enough to comment on it. Yet she didn't push the issue. She left it there, half-addressed dangling in the air making it impossible to deny the fact that you had in fact seen it.

You quickly concluded that that was simply the Targaryen way of dealing with issues; acknowledge it to prove that you are not stupid, but to not truly handle it. It was evident in the way that they were discussing your kidnapping because they were willing to admit your circumstance that yes, you were kidnapped yet it appeared the conversation stalled there. Baelor appeared agitated that you even reminded him of the fact, Maekar seemed angered that you wasted his time by talking about something you had no control over — it was half-addressed.

Maybe you needed something stronger than a cigarette.

You were almost thankful for the reappearance of the three missing Targaryens, until you realised that their presence simply meant more stilted conversation. Marvellous.

You weren't one to complain about food, the Seven know that you are no chef by any means, normally living off discounted meal deals from whichever supermarket crossed your path (which tended to be The Crownland's Convenience), yet as you tried to chew through tough piece of steak you had struggled to slice your knife through, you quickly realised that neither were the Targaryens.

You stole a quick look at Daeron, relieved to find that he was struggling with the exact same dilemma. In fact, it appeared as if nearly everyone was, as throughout the enitre meal nobody dared speak (most likely trying to conserve energy towards the mountanous task that was simply chwing the overcooked steak).

It was dramatic to admit but you mourned the steak on your plate, the poor cow that had been slain only to end up on the hands of Valarr Targaryen who (allegedly) did not know how to use seasoning (he was more Dornish that Targaryen, for Seven Sake, he should have at least known how to appropriately add salt). You spent most of your time chewing the steak, you couldn't even call it well-done at this point, it was something beyond that, and the rest of your time picking at the salad that was provided.

You suppose the meal suited the kitchen it was made in afterall, such a clinical kitchen would yield such meals. The meal before you appeared like a nutrition diagram, as if a person had researched what the contents of a dinnerplate such include and had replicated to such accuracy that the meal had the taste of printer paper and black ink. It was mainly leafy greens accompanied with thinly sliced bell peppers and red onions, and next to that was what you suspected was the designated carbohydrate, a small pile of mashed potatoes. And then, of course, the pièce de résistance — the steak. You suppose your initial assumption of the kitchen being unused was true — no one in this family could cook.

From your peripheral, you could see Egg pushing the food around his plate, trying to make it appear as if he had eaten more than he had.

"Aegon." Maekar warningly called out. "Finish your food."

The boy immediately began to pout.

"But—" Egg began, prepared to counter his father's demand. But this attempt was quickly stopped, Maekar swiftly interrupting him.

"I don't care, you're going to eat everything on your plate."

You couldn't help but notice that despite the fact that Maekar demanded this of Egg, it appeared he was not taking his own advice. It seemed the older man was more content in drinking the Dornish Red in his wineglass than finishing his own meal.

"You should lead by example." You commented, and as soon as the words left your lips, you began to regret them. Maekar's head turned slowly, narrowed eyes finding yours as he glared at you. And despite the urge to look away beginning to intensify, you steeled yourself, matching his glare with your own as you gestured towards his plate.

The grip around the stem of his wineglass seemed to tighten, and you could see him begin to conjure up a retort which you were sure would have insulted your ego if he had been successful in executing the act of saying it aloud, but unfortunately for the older Targaryen, he was interrupted by his brother.

"Maybe you should eat up, Maekar. Wouldn't want your food to go to waste." Baelor interjected, tone slightly teasing yet you could see the way he shot Maekar a look, a silent conversation being shared through those glances that caused Maekar to roll his eyes and remain silent, instead choosing to take a lengthy sip of his Dornish Red.

You didn't bother speaking for the rest of the meal, only replying to the younger Targaryens who began to hit you with a barrage of questions about Meraxes, and kittens, and animals in general.

Yet despite this, you couldn't quite distract yourself from the heavy weight of Baelor's stare. He didn't bother interacting with you either, seemingly more comfortable to observe the manner in which you spoke to the children that surrounded you.

You quickly decided that out of the two of his only children, you much preferred Matarys. The red-headed boy was far more sociable than his older brother, who appeared to be too busy analysing you rather than speaking to you. It felt as if Valarr was observing each and every one of your actions, dissecting them in his mind so that he could discover their true intentions.

Perhaps he was more cautious around you because he knew the true nature of your arrival, he had witnessed it afterall. The other children had all simply received second-hand recounts of what had occurred.

They hadn't witnessed the way you were thrown into the van like cargo, the way you had panicked when you realised what was happening. They hadn't seen the way Baelor seemed almost reckless in his actions.

Valarr had never seen his father act so carelessly, and for what? For a vet who hardly seemed qualified to care for Aerion? Valarr couldn't understand why they would undertake such a risk — he was certain there were one hundred alternate ways to deal with the situation, all that were far better than the one his father chose. He also knew that his father knew that.

Yet he still couldn't figure it out.

You weren't exactly marvelous, and it didn't seem like they had such significant information against you except what Bloodraven had delivered. So Valarr could not even come to a reasonable conclusion. Except one.

That his father wasn't acting reasonably. And Valarr was unsure if he wanted to know what might cause his father to act unreasonably.

Yet despite this, he couldn't help but look at you, bi-coloured eyes searching for something that he was unsure what it exactly was. He just knew that there must be a flaw that he would find.

But for now all he was receiving was your awkwardness as you stole glances at him to confirm whether or not he was still staring. And shit, he was still staring. Did he truly have nothing better to do?

As soon as you saw Daella leave the table, you copied her, taking your plate to the kitchen. Which, again, you were unsure why you were acting like a guest when they had made it glaringly obvious that you weren't a guest.

A guest could choose when they wanted to leave.

Your gaze latched onto the open glass french doors, staring through the ongoing void. The sun had long settled below the horizon, the sky now an inky black abyss that stared back.

It felt mocking. To see the doors wide open, nothing restricting you from leaving. And even while you walked through those doors, the chill of the night nipping at the exposed skin of your face, cheeks beginning to feel numb, the only thought that ran through your mind was that you could run. That there was nothing stopping you from darting through the courtyard, disappearing into the treeline.

No one would see you, no one would notice until it was too late.

But run where? You hardly even knew where you were; you knew you weren't in King's Landing anymore, and that was it.

You flinched at a noise behind you — it was muffled, the sound of metal scraping along metal. Your head snapped towards the source, only to find Daeron standing there, slouched against the wall, already watching you.

"Are you leaving?" He questioned, a cigarette trapped between his lips, the tip of it an angry red glare.

"No." Your voice sounded weak, and the way he stared at you revealed that he wasn't entirely convinced either.

"You thinking about it?"

Your gaze flickered down to his outstretched hand, looking at the cigarette balanced between his index and middle finger. You accepted his offering.

"Of course I am." You replied, bringing the cigarette up to your lips, drawing the smoke into your mouth before inhaling deeply feeling the way it made your lungs burn. You blew out the smoke, watching the pale tendrils twirl in the air, the sharp scent of burning paper filling the air.

He didn't reply, instead he just stole the cigarette out of your grasp and mirrored your actions, his focus stuck on you as he gauged your reaction. You didn't mind the way he was staring, it didn't feel as intrusive as the others, it didn't feel as if he was searching for something he was not privy to.

You remained with him in silence, listening to the rustles of night and watching the way the swirling smoke danced.

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