I like too many things

You have seen people like them before, though not quite. You’ve seen lords far too proud for the halls they walk through, ladies who smile without warmth behind their eyes, heirs who’ve been taught from infancy that the world will bend itself to their will if they intimidate it enough. 

Titles never impressed you much. Your father had made certain of it. 

A crown, he once told you, did not make a fool any less foolish, and a dragon sigil embroidered over one man’s chest did not make him any less mortal. But still, there is something peculiar about them. 

Prince Baelor is the easiest to understand. The Hand of the King. Firstborn son. A perfect prince. He carries himself like a man who has spent his whole life being watched and somehow learned not to resent it, not too much. You can see why your father likes him more than he likes other lords, more than he likes other knights. Baelor listens when others speak, remaining entirely present for conversations who would bore other people to death, your father included. He laughs when something amuses him, and does not consider the act beneath his dignity. He seems so steady, you think, like nothing could ever break him. He resembles the castle in a way, you laugh at the thought. 

Prince Maekar is… another matter entirely. 

He is his brother’s polar opposite. You cannot decide whether the man is perpetually irritated or if his face had simply decided to stay that way after years of never-ending disappointment. Though he also, like his brother, watches everything. It is a talent, you decide. To be able to pay enough attention to his surroundings, his three sons, his brother, his nephew, your father, and you. All that with just two eyes. Gods. Even as he says nothing, you have the uncomfortable impression that he is measuring the room and finding it lacking in a way. 

His sons are stranger still. 

Prince Aegon, the magnificent child who has not stopped questioning you regarding the castle or the cats he saw by the entrance since he dismounted his horse and all the way into the halls. If he had noticed the way his father glared at him with the intention of silencing him, he paid it no mind. 

Aegon is easy enough, too young to have mastered whatever composure is expected of princes and far too curious to pretend otherwise. You suspect Storm's End will suit him perfectly. 

Aerion is not. You decide it almost immediately. 

Aerion is sharp and cutting in the way of broken glass beneath clear water. You feel the sting when it already drew blood. You had disliked the way he looked at you and further, you had hated the approval in his eyes when your gaze did not meet the ground and remained on his. You can make this work, though, there has to be something to him that could be… appealing enough. Or at the very least, something you could respect. 

You have a new mission now. You are determined to enjoy your father’s nameday celebrations and no overly pampered, ill-tempered princes will ruin that. No matter how pretty they are. 

You think of Daeron. You frown almost instinctively. 

Your meeting with him had been odd, at best. Visibly uncomfortable for everyone involved at worst. And he had given you his name. You had spent enough time around noblemen to know that princes did not simply forget they are princes, if anything— they weaponize it. Men born into that kind of power ended up remembering it and using it even when everyone else wished they would not.  

Unlike Aerion, his staring had not felt like a challenge. Unlike Valarr, it had not felt polite. Yet you could not place the emotion behind the lavender gaze. Was it dread? Perhaps recognition? The real question, the one nagging and eating you from the inside– what could possibly be the reason for him to look at you in that fashion? 

Not that you minded much. You find yourself wishing to have his eyes on you again. 

By the time supper is served, your father has already challenged some knights from the Vale to an arm-wrestling contest, accused a lesser lord of cheating in a game of dice, and loudly informed Prince Baelor that his refusal to participate in either activity is precisely why being the heir to the Iron Throne has made him boring, while the prince quietly laughs into his cup of Arbor gold wine. 

You watch the exchange from your place at the high table, shaking your head as you keep an eye on your father, who had deserted his place beside you a few moments prior to honour his self-proclaimed title of the most entertaining host in the Seven Kingdoms by tormenting the future king without the slightest concern for whatever dignity either of them is supposed to possess. 

Storm’s End has never been particularly good at dignity. 

The great hall is packed tightly enough that you can scarcely make out the tables beneath the seemingly endless assortment of food, wine and ale. Music carries from one end of the hall to the other, apparently, the singers your father had spent the better part of the morning terrorizing had been forgiven for their early crimes against his ears. Servants weave through the crowds with practiced ease, dodging drunken knights, overexcited squires and tipsy lords and ladies, while cats wait beneath the tables for unattended pieces of meat to inevitably find their way to the floor.

The Targaryens, you observe, are considerably quieter.

Perhaps not Prince Baelor, who seemed perfectly content listening to your father, laughing at stories he has undoubtedly heard before, offering a few comments when Lyonel allows him enough time to speak. His brother Maekar, however, looks as though he has been seated in the middle of enemy territory. His back remains impossibly straight as he eyes your father while he grows his head back, laughing at something a lord from the Reach says. And every so often, his eyes wander towards his sons.

You wonder what he is looking for. 

Prince Aegon has required very little convincing to participate in the festivities. Whatever shyness he possessed upon arriving at Storm’s End it appears he left it at the gates, before the impressive black stones and before the horde of kittens that caught his eye. He is currently engaged in an animated conversation with one of your younger cousins, waving a chicken leg around as he speaks and nearly striking Prince Aerion in the face with it twice. 

The third time, Aerion catches his wrist, and Aegon freezes in place, chicken leg still held aloft like some ridiculous little war banner. You have to bite the inside of your cheek, though your face betrays you, you’re unmistakably amused. 

“Aegon,” Prince Maekar warns from farther down the table.

“I did not hit him.”

“You nearly did.”

“But I did not.

“That is hardly the point.” Prince Maekar responds, sending him a stern look. 

Aerion releases his brother with an irritated sigh and smooths the sleeve of his doublet as though he has narrowly escaped some grave indignity.

You glance between them. A thought crosses your mind. You want to disrupt them, you find yourself feeling as if you need to see them interact further. Surely they're not so well behaved in Summerhall, you've heard stories from servants who quit their station in order to escape the family chaos. 

What better place for chaos than Storm’s End. 

“I think the boy makes a compelling argument.” You state. Several pairs of lilac eyes turn toward you and Prince Maekar does not hide how his brow furrows, as Aegon does not hide the absolute delight on his face to have someone on his side, for once. “He, in fact, did not hit him.”

Aegon nods enthusiastically. “Precisely.” What a funny child, you ponder, you want to keep him here with you and feed him lemoncakes, take him as your squire on your hunting trips to the Rainswood to keep him entertained. You cannot keep him though, you would probably be hanged for crimes against the crown for endangering a prince, or something.

“He nearly struck me with a chicken leg”, Aerion says. Now properly glaring at you as if you have offended him deeply simply by opening your mouth, because how dare you do so in your own home, at your own table. You think he looks like an angry kitten, you find it cute. 

“Nearly being an important word.” You respond, now with an open smirk. You take your time looking at Aerion. He has fire in his eyes. Not due to the mild rage he seems to be experiencing courtesy of your unwanted comments, but it seems to be a fixed state for him, as if he’s been inhabited his whole life by one of the dragons his family used to ride into battle centuries ago. You wonder if he would dare to insult you in front of his family and yours. Gazing into his eyes, you can definitely discern that he wants to.  “And if Prince Aerion is quick enough to catch his brother’s wrist every time, then clearly no lasting harm has been done.” 

Aerion seems either at a loss for words, or is mentally evaluating the possible consequences for jumping across the table and throwing you to the ground. He chooses silence, and when you notice and seem pleased by the fact, he opens his mouth–

You do not let him speak, though.

“Besides, Your Grace, I would think being bested by roasted poultry would be far more embarrassing than being struck by it.” 

There is a brief silence, Prince Baelor’s attention is now solely concentrated in what's transpiring between you and his nephews. He sees you notice, just as he sees you glance at his son, and directs his gaze towards him just in time to see him lowering his head, and to catch the unmistakable shake of his shoulders. Baelor looks at you once again. 

Too late. 

You point at Valarr once. “See? Prince Valarr seems to agree with my statements.” To this, he looks up, caught entirely unprepared, mouth opening and closing while struggling to form a sentence. Little fish, you think. 

“I said nothing of the sort.” He answers, glancing at his father with an expression that betrays the fact that he’s struggling to contain his amusement and is equally frustrated at his own failed attempts. 

“You were laughing.” You respond. 

“I may have breathed somewhat forcefully” He states, his defence poor. There is no anger in his face, his expression is open, and looking at you as though he is evaluating what he believed he knew about you and your character. Finally, he appears to accept this is a lost battle, and surrenders with a small smile directed your way. You may start to like him more, and you wonder what it would take to make him laugh in an undignified manner, another small task added to your list of things to keep yourself entertained during this event.  

But that's for later. You’ll leave him be for now. 

A boisterous laugh is heard echoing in the hall, obviously belonging to your father. He makes his way back to his seat at your side and continues his previous conversation with Prince Baelor, and everyone at the table welcomes the interruption. You take the opportunity to throw a small piece of bread to Aegon’s plate in order to catch his attention, and offer him a big smile when his gaze finds yours. He offers a smile of his own. 

Across the table, someone shifts. You are immediately drawn to the sound of movement. Daeron.

He is staring at you again, and you find yourself staring back. Ignoring seems impossible now, it would be considerably easier to do so if the prince were not so terribly pretty. The thought comes so suddenly that you almost resent yourself for it. 

He’s beautiful. Annoyingly so. 

His brother and cousin are handsome men in their own ways, certainly. Valarr possesses the sort of beauty singers would compose the most tedious songs about, every feature placed exactly where the gods intended it. Aerion is pretty and alluring in a sharper fashion, something somewhat dangerous lurking beneath the silver hair and lilac eyes.

Daeron is different. 

He looks as though someone had taken all the Targaryen beauty and then refused to polish it. His hair is golden instead of silver, slightly too long and perpetually untidy, falling around his face however it pleases. There are shadows beneath his lavender eyes that ought to make him look sickly and somehow only succeed in making you wonder what he looks like after waking. 

Oh, that is an unfortunate thought. 

You are no blushing maiden, you are well past the typical age when ladies marry, and you are no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. Partly because your father’s moans can sometimes be the reason you fail to rest properly at the hour of the owl. Partly because you have had your share of scandalous paramours yourself. You were not like Lyonel, you were careful, chose your men –and the occasional lady– wisely. Made sure they would not speak of it afterwards, few of them you would now consider good friends. You made certain that type of reputation would not follow you, even if your father insisted there was no need for you to marry, since once he passed, Storm’s End would be yours to rule. So, the wanting is not what spooks you–

It's wanting a prince. You reach for your wine. No longer lost in thought, you gaze at him again. Perhaps you should stop looking. You take a sip. You look at him again. He's still staring.

Strange man. 

Handsome, though.

Very handsome. 

Unfortunately. 

You wonder whether he knows it. Of course he does, men who look like that always know– and princes? Even worse. Yet there is something about the way Daeron watches you that does not feel particularly arrogant. Which might be what bothers you the most. There is no smugness in it, no lazy appraisal of your body, no self-satisfied smile of a man waiting for you to notice his attention. 

He simply looks. As though he cannot help himself. 

And the wine is already catching up with you, head tilted backwards, resting against the back of your chair. Most undignified for a lady. You’re not really a lady, at this moment. 

Now, you feel as if you’re just a woman, looking at a man, who is just a man. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, his eyes immediately drop to his plate.

Your mouth twitches. Interesting. 

Daeron has been with enough women to know when one is looking at him. And enough men, for that matter. 

There is usually a pattern to these things. A lingering glance. A smile held for too long. Fingers brushing his wrist while passing a cup. Finding an excuse to stand closer than necessary. It’s a simple game, comfortable, and predictable. He likes predictable, he knows exactly what to do when desire is uncomplicated. 

He would smile. He would lean closer. Perhaps say something improper enough to make them laugh, let them decide whether the rest of the distance should disappear. There have been serving girls, and tavern girls, daughters of merchants, widows who knew exactly what they wanted from him, young lords who had a preference for dark corners and discretion. He has woken in enough unfamiliar beds to have long since stopped pretending he remembers every name attached to them. 

This should not be any different.

Lady Baratheon is looking at him.

And she’s so beautiful, painfully so. And it should make everything easier. But he remembers the dream, and he feels the same eyes on him now, as the ones he felt when he was getting swallowed by a blood lake and he has yet to know how he feels about it, nevermind what it all actually means. 

She catches him staring. One eyebrow raises. He feels almost compelled to look down. 

Coward. 

Gods, he almost scoffs at himself. 

When has he ever looked away first? Perhaps the problem is the wine, or rather, the lack thereof. He is too sober and his fingers begin to shake when they curl around the cup. The conversation between the families has long been resumed, and across the table, you laugh at something Valarr says. He finds his attention snapping back without willing it to, and before he can stop it. 

You look at ease with Valarr. Worse. Valarr looks at ease with you. Which is absurd, he has known you for less than half a day, surely he is just being polite, it would be rude not to entertain a conversation with the heir of the host and with– in all ways that it matters, the actual head of the household. You must be merely being polite yourself. There is absolutely no reason for the sight to irritate him.

It does so anyways. 

And you are not helping the situation. You seem intent on making Valarr laugh again, over-articulating with your hands as you tell some random story, accompanied with some quips from your father here and there. Of course you like Valarr. Everyone likes Valarr. He is handsome and courteous and knows how to properly introduce himself to a lady without staring at her like some half-witted stable boy who has never seen such a pretty face before in his life. 

He must have been staring daggers at his cousin, causing him to turn his attention from Lyonel to himself. “Are you well, Daeron?” He says, as he looks at him with a strange look on his face.

“Perfectly fine. Thank you, cousin.” He answers. Gods, make him shut up. 

Valarr says nothing, he merely smiles that little smile of his when he’s being a polite little shit, and tilts his head sideways while he continues to look at him. After a moment, he looks away, paying attention to Lyonel and yourself once again.

Insufferable cunt.

You have stopped pretending not to watch Daeron. At least not openly. You do possess some dignity, regardless of what your father has taught the realm to expect from House Baratheon. But curiosity has always been among your more persistent weaknesses, and Prince Daeron Targaryen has become something of a question you would very much like answered.

Why has he looked at you that way in the courtyard? You doubted he had not seen his fair share of pretty ladies, and his look was no one of a flustered boy.

And why does he keep doing it now?

Why had he given you only his name?

Why does he look so exhausted? And why does he keep drinking?

And why, by all Seven gods, does he look so lovely when irritated? This last question being considerably less important than the rest. 

His cup is empty once again, and you are not the only one who noticed. A servant approaches with a flagon of Dornish red. Daeron glances towards it. For the first time all evening – and unbeknownst to you, probably his entire life– he hesitates. He places two fingers over the rim. 

“No, thank you” His eyes are not on the servant, rather on the table. The servant pauses before bowing and moving away. You blink. 

Suddenly, from beside you, comes a yell that makes your ears ring. “You are too quiet!”

You close your eyes. There is no need to look, you know precisely whom your father is addressing. He entirely seems to know.

Daeron slowly raises his head, and looks at your father. “Am I, Lord Baratheon?”

Your father responds immediately. “Yes!” He points accusingly at him from several seats away. “You’ve been sitting there looking miserable and barely saying a word for half the night.”

“Father,” you murmur. “You cannot just tell that to a guest.” You spare a glance to Prince Maekar, who had seemed about ready to jump at his son’s defense, even if you suspect he had thought the same thing himself. 

“I can if he looks miserable.” Your father replies without even looking at you. His eyes still fixed on Prince Daeron.

Daeron stares back. For one terrible moment, you wonder whether you are about to witness a diplomatic incident over roasted boar. But then Daeron’s mouth twitches. 

“I assure you, Lord Lyonel, this is simply, and unfortunately, my face.”

For a second, everyone is quiet at the table. Unbeknownst to you, due to your lack of overall assessment of the members of the royal family, you notice entirely too late that Prince Baelor seems flushed, slightly red in the face, and his eyes are a bit glazed over. 

It is him who laughs first. And it’s as polite a laugh as he can manage without making an absolute fool of himself in front of the guests, who are about almost all of the most important lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.  

Baelor’s laugh, though not the loudest, triggered a chain reaction from everyone at the table, including yourself. Perhaps excluding Maekar. And Aerion was… nowhere to be found, for some reason. You’ll make sure the servants and the knights keep an eye on him. 

Your father slams one enormous hand against the table and you quickly grab your wine cup in a panic, to stabilize it. “I knew I liked you!” Once again, yelling in your ear while gesturing at Daeron, who almost looks regretful. When you glance towards him, his eyes find yours at the same time. He smiles this time.

There it is. You had wondered about that mouth. A mistake, apparently. He looks much prettier when he looks happy. 

Terrible. You are going to have to do something about this fascination before it becomes embarrassing. Yet you refuse to be the one who looks away first. His smile slowly fades, though he does not look displeased. Quite the opposite, if the sudden flush creeping towards the tips of his ears is any indication. 

Oh. 

Your amusement deepens. How easy it is to gain a reaction from the prince, you find yourself wanting to explore more, to push, to see how far this goes, even if it's unwise. You tilt your head.

Daeron swallows. 

She knows, Daeron realizes with mounting terror. 

She knows he finds her attractive, even worse, she finds it amusing.

There is something almost challenging in the way she stares at him now, as though she has discovered some secret about him and intends to poke at it simply to see what happens. He should dislike it. 

He does not. 

He has flirted with women far more forward in their approaches than this. Women who have climbed into his lap before bothering to ask his name. He has been propositioned in taverns, corridors, gardens, once rather memorably during his grandfather’s nameday feast by someone whose husband had been sitting less than a table away. None of them had made him nervous.

The only thing Lady Baratheon did was to raise one single eyebrow and suddenly he cannot remember where to put his hands. Ridiculous. 

Their staring contest continues a few seconds more and at last, he looks away. When he spares her one more glance, she is already looking away. He exhales, he did not notice he was holding his breath in the first place. He looks at Lyonel now, he is speaking with you in more hushed voices. He watches the way you answer to him without hesitation. The manner in which you interrupt him when he talks. The way Lyonel interrupts you back. Neither appears offended. 

At one point, he reaches and steals something directly from your plate. 

You slap his hand away. 

And Daeron holds his breath. 

“You have your own,” he hears you say “why do you always have to take things from my plate?.” You do not sound angry, not really. Vaguely irritated, perhaps. This seems to be a recurring thing. 

“Your food always looks better!” Lyonel tells you with a big smile, while he chews whatever food he was eating. He seems to be trying to irritate you purposefully, he notices. He wants to keep watching. 

“It is the same fucking pie!” You answer him, now more indignant, but with a smirk still. 

“Then you have lost nothing.” He’s beaming now, as he appears to have outsmarted you. 

An impressive feat, Daeron thinks.  

You take a second to glare at your father, while Daeron cannot seem to look away from the two of you. What a peculiar relationship the two of you have, he ponders, almost sadly. He had never seen anything like it. 

You take a piece of your pie and place it on your father’s plate. You look at him now, no longer vexed at him. In your eyes, he finds a warmth he had not seen in his siblings, or in himself, for a long, long time. 

Something uncomfortable settles beneath Daeron’s ribs, and his chest begins to ache.

He cannot remember the last time he touched his father without being instructed to.

The feast grows louder as the evening wears on. Ale loosens tongues. Music becomes faster. Somewhere below the high table, two knights begin arguing over which one of them has the better singing voice, despite neither possessing any evidence of having one at all.

Your father is delighted. Prince Maekar looks less horrified than he had an hour ago, which you consider remarkable progress.  Baelor has surrendered entirely, though he had not drunk any more wine after the incident. Aegon has acquired one of the cats, it’s the white one with orange and black spots, a fluffy one, it's one of your favourites. Aerion has disappeared. Valarr has relaxed enough to lean back in his chair. 

Daeron is watching you once again. 

And for all the times the two of you have played this little game in the course of the evening, it has yet to lose its novelty. 

You catch him staring, he does not look away. Good. You give him a smile, not the smile you offer guests, nor the polite curve of the mouth that is expected of Lady Baratheon. You offer him something smaller. More intimate. You decide to do something different this time around. 

You lean forward. He mirrors you immediately. 

“Prince Daeron” you say to him.

Daeron’s eyebrows raise, surely he must not have been expecting this. You do not blame him. “My lady?”

Finally, a conversation. You had begun to think you might have to drag one out of him. “Are you enjoying Storm’s End, my prince?”

You observe as his eyes flicker briefly onwards the chaos surrounding the both of you. A serving boy is currently attempting to retrieve a sausage from beneath the table while being thwarted by three cats. Daeron appears to consider his answer. 

“I haven’t decided, my lady.” He says. 

“Oh?,” you respond. “You have been here for hours.”

“I like to be thorough.” 

Oh, I’d wager, you think.

“And what have you discovered, your grace?” You place a hand beneath your chin to support yourself, as you stare at him with nothing short of want. Gods, this fucking wine. 

His eyes return to yours. “That Baratheons are loud.”

You do not know half of it.  You smile. “Took you hours to discover that?”

His mouth twitches once again. “And impertinent.”

Fuck

“That one took you longer?” you ask him. 

“Only slightly.”

You laugh at that. Lazily. 

He watches you do it. Once again, that strange intensity. As if he knows all about you already, every one of your secrets, and he’s just waiting for you to tell him. You can recognize his own want beneath it, as well. He is not a subtle man. Your stomach tightens pleasantly.

You know that type of look. But there is still something else behind it, something that does not belong to simple attraction. You need to know what it is. 

Odd man. 

Pretty, though. 

Gods, so very pretty. 

a.n: fuck i need himmmm. give it up for these two who managed to have an entire conversation without bursting into flames!!!! woohooooo

 get ready for the insane amounts of aura farming that reader is gonna be doing next episode when she leads the hunting party into the rainswood, daeron won't know what fucking hit him omg

also there's some of u that i tried to tag and couldn't:( hopefully u see the post anywayss

A crown, he once told you, did not make a fool any less foolish, and a dragon sigil embroidered over one man’s chest did not make him any less mortal. But still, there is something peculiar about them.

And it already starts out with this banger description??? You have way with words. I seriously love your descriptions and your way of wording things!

Once again love the descriptions of all the Targaryen family members! Baelor and Maekar's is so perfectly fitting and paints a very good picture of them. I can just about picture their mannerisms as if it were the show! And how sweet that Aegon is asking about the cats, he really seems to like felines. Aerion on the other hand has such an interesting description, it's very different to what I have read in other fanfics. Not to say that is bad, it's actually very refreshing! I love the glass under water description for him.

And then Daeron, oh Daeron. I see he already captivated her with that strange introduction and I'm all for it! And the way she wants his attention on her again?? I'm screaming!

I truly truly love the way you portray the relationship between Lyonel and Baelor. Ahh I cannot get enough of it! Lyonel is such a cheerful character, the entire opposite of the two elder Targaryen princes, it's so refreshing.

waving a chicken leg around as he speaks and nearly striking Prince Aerion in the face with it twice.

the way i snickered at this, Aerion kinda deserves to get a oily chicken leg smashed into his face. Although I suppose this would not end well for Aegon or for anyone else in the hall.

OH is she going to stir up something between them? Is she going to invoke Aerion's wrath, perhaps not at herself but at Aegon??

“I think the boy makes a compelling argument.” You state. Several pairs of lilac eyes turn toward you and Prince Maekar does not hide how his brow furrows, as Aegon does not hide the absolute delight on his face to have someone on his side, for once. “He, in fact, did not hit him.”

SHE INDEED DOES AHAHA this is going to be interesting!

You think he looks like an angry kitten, you find it cute.

He indeed tends to look like a angry kitten, not anywhere close to an angry dragon hehe AHHH and she doesn't let him even get a word in. I LOVE HER And now she also got Valarr caught ha! This is seriously so amusing. Pls the Targaryens shall never leave Storm's End. I need this constellation of them all together to never end! It is so endlessly amusing to read I can see and feel the sparks flying between her and Daeron from miles away oh my. And that's just from simply staring at each other at the banquet table, I wonder how that will further develop when they interact some more

You look at ease with Valarr. Worse. Valarr looks at ease with you. There is absolutely no reason for the sight to irritate him.

I am absolutely enjoying this even more! Getting to see Daeron's pov and him being already jealous?? There is so much curiosity in me. Although I'm a little scared of what Daeron's dream will mean and the potential angst it could bring with it.

Valarr says nothing, he merely smiles that little smile of his when he’s being a polite little shit, and tilts his head sideways while he continues to look at him. After a moment, he looks away, paying attention to Lyonel and yourself once again. Insufferable cunt.

I'm screaming I love this!

HE REFUSES HIS WINE??? DAmn, oh my oh my, this is an interesting turn of events Aww Maekar ready to throttle Lyonel for bothering his firstborn haha. Lyonel let the poor guy be miserable and quiet in the corner. He isn't harming anyone with it

Your father slams one enormous hand against the table and you quickly grab your wine cup in a panic, to stabilize it.

Lyonel may actually be my fav character in this so far. Just because he is so unhinged and so unapologetically himself and so loud. As someone really shy I could never be like this but it's so refreshing to have him be like the whole opposite of myself

Terrible. You are going to have to do something about this fascination before it becomes embarrassing. Quite the opposite, if the sudden flush creeping towards the tips of his ears is any indication. Oh.

I feel like a broken record saying this but once again: I AM SCREAMING. Screeching like a harpy actually. Ah this is making me so giddy and happy, I feel like a maniac

None of them had made him nervous. The only thing Lady Baratheon did was to raise one single eyebrow and suddenly he cannot remember where to put his hands. Ridiculous.

This is like crack. It's addicting. I need more of them. I need this to never stop!

Something uncomfortable settles beneath Daeron’s ribs, and his chest begins to ache. He cannot remember the last time he touched his father without being instructed to.

Okay this however now is really sad. Heart achingly sad :(

Gosh these two, they are basically openly eye fucking each other and I'm all for it. Cheering from the sides at them to do it more! I do feel Lady Baratheon because after finishing this chapter I am currently wanting to climb Daeron like a tree very very badly

me while reading this masterpiece btw: