Summary: What happens after you, a Mandalorian, use the Force to save an unconscious Din Djarin?
Pairing: Din Djarin x Mandalorian!Force-Sensitve!Reader
Words: 5,477
Warning(s): Mention of injuries to Din (like broken bones/concussions)
Notes: I tried my best to keep this consistent with the lore of Star Wars! Clan Ordo is actually really cool!! I kept the Razor Crest for the sake of the story. This isn't beta read, so sorry if this isn't like the rest of my works!
The first time you realized Din Djarin had stopped asking where you learned to move so quietly, you were already three systems past the last honest answer you had given him.
By then, the habit of omission had settled into your bones so deeply it barely felt like deception anymore. Just survival. Another layer of armor beneath the beskar.
The Razor Crest groaned softly around you as it cut through hyperspace, every loose panel and aging bolt singing its familiar complaints through the hull. Blue light from the cockpit washed faintly down the corridor, catching against scratched metal walls and the polished edges of Din’s armor where he sat forward in the pilot’s chair, silent as always. Grogu slept in his pram nearby, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of engine oil and the sweet broth Din always managed to find for him no matter how poor the planet.
And somewhere along the journey, Din had stopped asking questions.
He never pried. That was one of the things that made traveling with him easier than it should have been.
Din was the kind of man who let silence do the work of a conversation. He asked only what he needed to know.
You noticed it in the way his helmet would angle slightly toward you whenever your instincts reacted before his scanners did. The tiny shift of black visor tracking you after you paused outside a corridor seconds before an ambush emerged from it. The way his hand sometimes drifted nearer to his blaster when you suddenly went still, because he had learned that your stillness usually meant danger. If he caught the strange rhythm of your awareness- the way you seemed to feel ships before they docked, violence before it erupted, fear before it reached someone’s face- he buried the observation beneath the same quiet restraint he buried everything else under.
Then there was Grogu.
The child watched you differently.
Not suspiciously. Not even curiously.
Knowingly.
Sometimes you would look up and find those enormous dark eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus, his little head tilted slightly to one side as if he were listening to something beyond sound. Those moments always made heat crawl beneath your plating. It felt less like being observed and more like being recognized.
As though some part of him already knew.
Every time it happened, Din would simply reach down and adjust Grogu’s blanket or rest a gloved hand briefly against the edge of the pram, patient and calm, seemingly unaware of the tension tightening in your shoulders.
Or maybe aware of it, and choosing not to corner you with it.
So you kept your silence. It was not a lie exactly, not entirely, just a door left shut. A hand braced firmly against the frame whenever anyone came too close to opening it.
You told Din enough to make the shape of your life believable.
You were Mandalorian. That much required no explanation. It lived in everything you did.
In the way you entered a room already cataloguing exits.
In the instinctive checks of your vambraces before sleep.
In the habitual awareness of weight at your hips where weapons rested.
In the economy of your movements: efficient, deliberate, never wasting energy where precision would suffice.
Armor was another language to you. You understood beskar the way mechanics understood engines or smugglers understood hyperspace lanes. Every dent told a story. Every scorch mark carried memory. You knew how to tighten weakened straps by touch alone, how to recognize imbalance in a chest plate before it restricted movement, and how to hear when a jetpack’s ignition cycle sounded wrong.
That part of yourself was easy to share. People saw beskar and blasters and the steady discipline in your movements, and they knew where to place you in their minds. Mandalorian. Warrior. Survivor. The galaxy understood those things. It knew what boxes to put them in.
It was the rest of yourself that stayed buried beneath layers of steel and silence.
Because Mandalorians had long memories.
And so did the Jedi.
History lingered in both cultures like old scar tissue- never fully healed, only endured. Stories of wars fought centuries ago still lived in training chants and cautionary tales. Children on both sides were raised hearing different versions of the same battles. Different villains. Different martyrs.
The Jedi spoke of Mandalorians as fierce, dangerous, stubborn people forever flirting with violence.
Mandalorians spoke of Jedi as arrogant mystics who thought the Force gave them the right to decide the fate of everyone around them.
And somewhere between those histories sat your family, Clan Ordo.
Even now, the name still existed in old archives and older grudges. Buried in war records. Mentioned in fading stories traded between surviving clans around campfires and ship holds. A bloodline remembered not for conquering Jedi, but for standing beside them when the rest of Mandalore sharpened blades for war.
A clan that had once looked at centuries of hatred and decided alliance was not weakness.
To some Mandalorians, that history made your family honorable. Proof that strength meant choosing your own path instead of inheriting old hatred unquestioned. Your clan’s name was spoken with rough respect in certain circles, especially among older warriors tired of endless wars that only left more ghosts behind.
But to others, Ordo was a stain. A family that had allowed outsiders too close to the heart of Mandalore.
You remembered the looks sometimes. The subtle shift in posture when someone learned what blood ran through your veins. The slight narrowing of eyes behind helmets. Questions that sounded polite but carried sharpened edges underneath.
Your father was a Jedi?
As if the word itself explained something dangerous about you.
And the Jedi had not been much different.
Some had viewed your Mandalorian heritage with fascination, others with quiet concern. Your armor, your training, your anger- they looked at those things as if waiting for them to prove an old fear correct. As though violence lived in your bones more naturally than peace ever could.
You had learned very young that people loved contradictions only when they remained distant enough to feel poetic. But stories became far less comforting when they turned into a living person standing directly in front of them.
You learned quickly how uncomfortable that made people: too Jedi for some Mandalorians, too Mandalorian for some Jedi. It lived in hesitation more than hatred. In the tiny pauses between words. In the way conversations subtly shifted around you once someone understood what you were. The realization settling into their expression like a door quietly locking.
You could feel the divide every time a Mandalorian’s posture stiffened after hearing your family name, every time the word Jedi entered the conversation and eyes flicked instinctively toward you afterward.
As though they were checking for signs of corruption.
Or betrayal.
Or weakness.
You remembered one old warrior staring at you across a fire when you were young, helmet resting beside his boots while sparks drifted into the dark between you.
“Can’t serve two creeds,” he had said flatly.
Then there were the Jedi who watched your hands too carefully whenever you got emotional. The ones who noticed how naturally your stance shifted toward defense. The ones who spoke gently, but always with the faint concern of people handling something unstable.
And so you became careful. You learned to ration pieces of yourself out in ways people could digest without recoiling from them.
The Mandalorian side was easier. The galaxy understood armor. Understood blasters and discipline and scars. People trusted visible danger more than invisible power, so you leaned into that, let others see the warrior first.
And then there was the thing you never said at all.
You were Force-sensitive.
Even thinking the words sometimes made something tighten painfully in your chest.
Not because you hated that part of yourself, but because of what the galaxy had taught you those words meant. People heard Force-sensitive and imagined legends. They imagined towering Jedi in flowing robes deflecting blaster fire without effort. Sith with burning eyes tearing ships from the sky. Holovid dramatizations filled with screaming lightning, impossible acrobatics, and destinies so large they crushed everything around them.
That was never what it felt like for you.
For you, the Force had always been quieter. It lived in small things.
A pressure at the back of your thoughts moments before someone spoke your name. A strange pull in your chest before a door opened. The instinctive certainty that a room had changed somehow before anyone else noticed the shift in atmosphere.
Sometimes it felt like standing in shallow water and sensing distant movement before the wave actually reached you. Other times it was almost unbearable- an invisible static humming constantly beneath the surface of the world, brushing against your nerves until sleep became difficult.
You noticed things other people missed.
The tremor in someone’s breathing before they reached for a hidden weapon. The emotional shape of a crowd before panic spread through it. The subtle wrongness in places where violence had happened recently, as if suffering left fingerprints on the air.
The Force did not make you feel larger than other people.
It made you feel open.
Too open.
As though the galaxy was always speaking just beneath hearing range and your mind could never fully tune it out. Like existing with a second pulse layered beneath your own heartbeat: something ancient and immense brushing constantly against the edges of your awareness.
Some days it was beautiful.
You remembered sitting beside your father as a child aboard a quiet transport drifting through hyperspace, eyes closed while he taught you how to listen instead of resist. The Force had flowed around you then like warm current through dark water. Vast. Alive. Connected.
You remembered feeling the life aboard the ship all at once- the steady concentration of the pilot, the restless dreams of sleeping passengers, your mother’s calm presence nearby sharpening a blade with rhythmic precision. For one brief moment, the entire galaxy had felt impossibly close.
And then there were the other days.
Days where crowded cities became suffocating because emotion pressed against your senses from every direction. Fear. Rage. Hunger. Grief. Desperation. So many people carrying pain through the galaxy that sometimes it felt impossible to breathe beneath the weight of it.
And then there was the day you learned the worst part of betrayal was how ordinary the moment looked right before it happened. Just another evening beneath the cold iron sky of Kalevala Station while fuel lines hissed overhead and half-drunk warriors traded stories around burn barrels in the loading district. Armor gleamed orange in the firelight. Someone nearby was sharpening a beskar blade against stone with slow metallic strokes. The air smelled like engine smoke, rain, and overheated circuitry.
You had been younger then. Younger enough to still believe honesty could earn understanding if it was offered carefully.
Your father had warned you otherwise.
“Some truths,” he told you once, “change shape after they leave your mouth. You may speak them with peace and still watch them become weapons in someone else’s hands.”
At the time, you thought he sounded paranoid. Now you understood he had simply survived longer than you had.
The warrior who attacked you had eaten beside your family before.
That was the part your memory returned to most often.
Not the fight itself.
Not even the blood.
It was the memory of him laughing hours earlier beside the fire. The kind of Mandalorian children naturally gravitated toward because he told loud stories and exaggerated victories until everyone around him laughed.
The friendly warmth in his posture was gone now, replaced by something harder. Older.
“You hid this.”
Your father answered before you could.
“They’re still Mandalorian.”
Rav’s helmet tilted slightly.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
The next few seconds lived in your memory with brutal clarity.
Your father stepping forward, your mother reaching for her weapon. And then Rav drew his blaster. Fast.
The Force surged through you violently, raw and uncontrolled, and the blaster bolt twisted sideways in midair with a scream of displaced heat. It slammed into metal behind you instead. The entire station suddenly felt alive with danger. You could feel adrenaline surging through every body nearby. Fear spreading. Rage igniting. Ancient history clawing its way into the present through the simple reality of what they had just witnessed.
Your mother slammed into Rav before he could fire again, driving him backward into the barrel fire hard enough to scatter sparks into the night. And your family fled.
The memory still followed you sometimes when Grogu stared too knowingly at your face from inside his pram. Or when Din’s visor lingered on you a second too long after your instincts reacted before his scanners. So you learned to bury your connection to the Force beneath competence and caution. Learned to pass unusual instincts off as experience, impossible timing as sharp reflexes. Learned to keep your hands still when fear threatened to move objects around you unintentionally.
Tonight, Din stayed in the pilot’s seat a moment longer than necessary, one gloved hand steady on the controls. Grogu stirred in his pram at the change, blinking sleep from his eyes and making a small, questioning sound.
You turned toward the cockpit.
“Are we here?”
Din’s helmet angled, a curt acknowledgment.
“Near enough.”
Always near enough with him. Never a word wasted.
You moved closer, your boots quiet on the worn deck. Beyond the viewport, the planet below looked dry and broken, its surface marked by pale ridges and deep scars where old riverbeds had once cut through the earth. Not a place that welcomed anyone. That made it sound, in your experience, exactly like the sort of place someone had a reason to choose.
Din’s voice came after a pause.
“Local contact says a cache was moved through the settlement two days ago. Could be Imperial. Could be raiders. Could be both.”
“Could be trouble,” you said.
“That is usually what it means.”
Grogu gave a soft little chirp, lifting both hands as if in agreement. Din reached back without looking and touched the edge of the pram with two fingers, an absent gesture so familiar now it made something in your chest ache.
You watched the two of them in the reflection of the viewport glass. The Mandalorian in his armor, all hard lines and silence. The foundling in his floating crib, round-eared and wide-eyed and too perceptive for his own good. There were moments when traveling with them felt strangely like standing at the edge of something safe and impossible at the same time. A place where you could almost imagine being ordinary.
Almost.
The settlement was smaller than the last three you had passed through with them, a scatter of low buildings pressed into red dust and wind-carved stone. No dome. No grand landing pad. Just a rough field cleared of rocks and marked by old fire pits, and a handful of villagers watching the Razor Crest touch down with the exhausted caution of people who had already learned to expect the worst.
Din had not even removed his gloved hands from the controls before one of them approached.
The woman was broad-shouldered, sun-worn, and tired in a way that seemed older than her face. Her eyes flicked to Din’s armor, then to you, then to Grogu, lingering on the Child with a look that was careful and frightened all at once.
“You’re late,” she said.
Din gave her the sort of stare that made lesser people apologize for things they had not done.
“We were told we were expected.”
“We expected someone less obvious.”
You almost smiled at that, almost. Din most likely did not.
He only said, “Then you were given poor information.”
The woman looked at you again.
“You the one they said was quiet?”
Your instincts went still. “Depends who’s asking.”
She exhaled through her nose, which might have been amusement if her shoulders were not so tight.
“Name’s Sera. We’ve got a problem in the western cisterns. Something took up residence there two nights ago. Took two workers already. Maybe more.”
“Took?” you repeated.
She nodded once.
“Nobody saw it clearly. Just shadows. Screaming. A smell like burned metal.”
Din’s helmet turned toward the distant ridge line.
“And the cache?”
“Still down there.”
That was when you felt it. Not the smell she described, not the worry in her voice, not even the tension that spread through the gathered villagers like a slow crack in ice.
The wrongness.
It touched the back of your neck first, then settled deeper, a cold seam opening in the air itself. Your breath caught before you could stop it. The world did that sometimes- shifted, sharpened, as if some unseen hand had tilted it just slightly off balance.
You looked toward the western side of the settlement.
A cistern opening half-hidden between jagged rocks.
Dark.
Too dark.
The feeling pressed harder.
Din noticed your stillness immediately. He always did.
“What?”
You could have lied. Could have said nothing. Could have let the instinct pass as unease over a dangerous mission.
Instead you heard yourself say, quiet and certain, “We should not go down there first.”
Sera frowned.
“Why not?”
You stared at the cistern entrance, every muscle in your body braced against the pull of what waited below.
“Because it knows we’re here.”
Din was silent. That silence was worse than any question.
Grogu made a low, worried sound from the pram as his little fingers curled against the blanket. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward the cistern too, as if he had heard the same thing you had.
That made your stomach drop.
Din’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
“You sensed something.”
It was not a question.
You looked away before he could read too much in your face, despite it being concealed under your helmet.
“Old instinct.”
“From what?”
You should have had an answer ready. You had spent your entire life making answers ready. But the air seemed to press tighter around your ribs, and Grogu was still watching you with that unnerving, knowing stillness, and Din had gone very, very quiet in the way he always did when he had already begun to piece something together.
So you said nothing.
That was answer enough.
The descent into the cistern was a narrow stair of cut stone, damp at the edges, the air growing colder with each step. Din took point, blaster low, armor barely making a sound despite the tight confines. You followed close behind, one hand near your sidearm, the other hovering in unconscious readiness. Grogu stayed at the top with Sera until Din ordered otherwise, which did nothing to ease the pressure in your chest.
Below, the tunnel widened into a chamber lined with old water channels. Most of them were dry now, cracked and lined with mineral crust. The flashlight mounted on Din’s vambrace cut through the dark in a narrow beam, revealing broken crates, torn cloth, and dragged marks in the dust.
Signs of a struggle.
Signs of something much larger than a person.
The Force pressed against your awareness in uneven pulses, brushing the inside of your skull hard enough to make your jaw tighten beneath your helmet. You focused on your breathing instead. On the sound of Din’s boots against stone. On the weight of your blaster at your hip.
The tunnel finally widened into a massive underground reservoir, the ceiling vanishing high above into darkness. Ancient support pillars rose from black water below like the trunks of petrified trees, their reflections trembling faintly across the surface. Most of the cistern had dried long ago, leaving only scattered pools and deep channels winding through cracked stone.
The Force screamed at you.
“Din-”
The water of the closest pool exploded upward.
The creature emerged so suddenly and violently that your mind refused to understand its scale at first. Black water crashed across the stone floor as something enormous unfolded itself from the reservoir depths, towering high enough that its back nearly scraped the ceiling above.
It was massive.
Long-limbed and malformed, covered in slick armored hide that reflected Din’s flashlight in fractured glints. Its front limbs ended in hooked claws the size of vibroblades, while its lower body dragged through the water with terrible weight. Its head was eyeless, split open down the center by a circular maw lined with rotating teeth that flexed and churned as it roared.
Din fired instantly.
Blaster bolts slammed into the creature’s chest in bursts of red light, but the thing barely recoiled. One blast scorched its hide. Another disappeared into layers of armor-like flesh.
Then it moved. Far too fast for something that size.
One enormous limb crashed sideways into a support pillar, shattering stone apart like brittle glass. The next swing came directly toward you both.
“Move!”
You threw yourself sideways as Din fired his grappling line toward a higher ledge. The claw smashed into the ground where you had stood a heartbeat earlier, the impact splitting stone and sending debris exploding through the chamber.
The entire cistern trembled.
Din landed hard atop the ledge and kept firing, drawing the creature’s attention upward while you scrambled for cover below. Red bolts lit the darkness in rapid flashes, illuminating glimpses of the monster’s body twisting through the chamber. You barely had time to shout before one gigantic claw slammed directly into the ledge beneath Din.
Stone ruptured, and the platform collapsed.
Din hit the ground hard enough to crack duracrete. His helmet struck stone with a sharp metallic crack that echoed through the chamber.
Then he stopped moving.
Everything inside you went cold.
“Din!”
The creature turned toward him, toward the still shape sprawled beneath broken stone.
Your thoughts vanished.
Not strategically. Not calmly. Every lesson about restraint and concealment and survival disappeared in one instant beneath a single overwhelming certainty: if it reached him, he would die.
The Force crashed through your senses in a sudden brutal wave—flashes of movement, claws, blood against beskar, Din hitting the floor hard enough not to get back up afterward. Not prophecy. Not certainty. Just possibility screaming loud enough to drown thought beneath it.
And underneath all of that, him.
The shape of his presence in the Force had become painfully familiar to you over time. Steady. Controlled. Quiet in a way that hid exhaustion instead of peace. You had learned the emotional rhythm of him without meaning to. The constant vigilance. The buried grief. The stubborn refusal to let himself break even when every part of him was splintering beneath pressure.
You knew the sound of his footsteps on the Crest.
Knew the slight tilt of his helmet when he was listening instead of speaking.
Knew the tiny pauses before he answered difficult questions.
Knew the warmth of his gloved hand against your shoulder after nightmares he pretended not to notice.
And somewhere along the way, without permission and without safety and without any tactical wisdom whatsoever, your entire nervous system had begun treating Din Djarin’s continued existence as something essential.
The Force erupted through you before you could stop it.
Loose debris lifted from the ground around your boots as invisible pressure exploded outward from your body in a violent wave. The creature roared as something unseen seized it mid-motion.
For one impossible second, the gigantic beast actually stopped moving.
Then it lifted.
Stone cracked beneath its weight as the Force hauled the creature sideways across the chamber with catastrophic force. The monster slammed into one of the massive support pillars hard enough to splinter ancient rock apart.
The creature screamed in rage, claws tearing through stone as it fought against the invisible pressure crushing it backward. You could feel its weight straining against your mind like trying to hold a crashing ship in place with your bare hands.
Pain ripped behind your eyes.
Your knees nearly buckled.
But the creature was still moving.
Still trying to reach Din.
“No,” you heard yourself snarl.
You raised one shaking hand instinctively.
The Force answered. The broken remains of the shattered pillar tore free from the ceiling above and crashed downward onto the creature in a thunderous avalanche of stone.
Din.
You turned instantly and dropped beside him.
He still lay motionless where he had fallen, partially buried beneath broken stone. Panic clawed up your throat as you reached for him, hands trembling despite every effort to steady them.
“Din-”
Your voice sounded wrong. Thin. Fractured.
You pressed gloved fingers against the side of his neck beneath the helmet seal, desperately searching for a pulse.
There. Weak, but there.
Relief nearly made your vision blur.
“You idiot,” you whispered shakily, though your chest ached so hard with fear the words barely held together. “You absolute idiot…”
Your hands hovered uncertainly over him, checking for injuries you could not fully see beneath the armor. The cracked stone around his body suggested bruised ribs at minimum. Possibly worse.
The creature remained buried beneath the collapsed pillar across the chamber, though every instinct in your body warned you not to trust that stillness. Something that large did not die easily. You could still feel it faintly through the Force: a dim, furious pulse buried beneath rubble and broken stone.
You looked down at Din again. The sight of him lying there unnaturally still sent another cold spike of fear through your chest. The crack of his helmet against the stone replayed viciously in your memory. You had seen armored warriors die from impacts like that before. Beskar protected against many things, but bodies inside armor were still flesh.
You hooked one arm beneath his shoulders and hauled him upright with effort. Din was heavy even without the armor damage. With it, dragging him through collapsing tunnels felt nearly impossible.
“You owe me for this,” you muttered breathlessly.
No response.
You tried not to think about that.
The climb back toward the surface became a blur of strain and noise. Several times you had to stop to brace Din’s weight against the wall while dizziness clawed behind your eyes. Using the Force like that had drained you more than you wanted to admit.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
You could still feel the echo of it roaring through your nervous system. The terrible instinctive release of power after years spent locking every door inside yourself shut as tightly as possible.
You reached the surface level just as another deep tremor shook the settlement. Villagers shouted nearby. Somewhere behind you, deeper underground, part of the cistern collapsed with a thunderous roar.
Sera turned sharply the moment she saw you emerge carrying Din.
“What happened?”
“No time,” you snapped.
The words came harsher than intended. Fear was making everything sharp-edged.
“Ship. Now.”
Her eyes widened at the condition of the armor. “Is he-”
“He’s alive.”
You hoped.
Grogu was already racing toward you before you fully crossed the landing field, tiny hands gripping the edge of his pram so hard the fabric bunched beneath his claws. The child made a distressed noise the moment he saw Din hanging unconscious against your side.
“I know,” you said quietly.
Grogu looked up at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time since you had met him, there was no uncertainty left in his expression at all.
Only recognition.
The Force brushed softly against your awareness from him, warm and worried and heartbreakingly gentle. You swallowed hard and looked away first.
The Razor Crest lifted from the settlement only minutes later, engines screaming against the storm of dust now rolling across the desert. You strapped Din into one of the rear bunks as carefully as you could manage, removing damaged sections of armor where the impact had warped the beskar inward.
Bruised ribs.
A dislocated shoulder.
Possibly a concussion.
Your chest loosened slightly once you confirmed he was breathing steadily beneath the helmet.
Grogu sat beside the bunk the entire time, tiny ears lowered anxiously while you worked. He watched your hands with intense focus, following every movement as you adjusted medical patches and tightened stabilizers around Din’s side.
The trip to Tatooine took longer than you liked.
Din regained consciousness exactly once during the journey. You were in the cockpit trying to keep the Crest together through another wave of turbulence when you heard movement behind you. You turned instantly, hand already near your blaster out of instinct.
Din sat partially upright on the bunk, one gloved hand pressed against his ribs.
“You should be unconscious,” you said.
“Tried.” his voice came out rough through the modulator.
You exhaled shakily before you could stop yourself. His visor tilted toward you.
“Tatooine?” he asked.
“Figured your friend owed you enough favors not to ask questions.”
“Boba Fett asks many questions.”
The Razor Crest touched down outside the palace near dusk beneath Tatooine’s endless burning sky. Heat rolled across the sand in visible waves while the old fortress loomed above the dunes like the skeleton of something ancient and territorial.
Before the ramp had fully lowered, you heard blaster safeties disengaging outside.
Reasonable, honestly.
You stepped carefully down the ramp first with your hands visible.
Immediately, a rifle pointed directly at your chest.
“You look terrible,” said Fennec Shand from beneath the shade of the palace entrance.
“You should see the other guy,” you answered.
Her gaze flicked past you toward the ship interior.
“Djarin alive?”
“Currently.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her a moment later as Boba Fett emerged into the sunlight wearing his weathered green armor.
His attention landed on you first.
Then on Din being half-carried down the ramp moments later.
Then finally on Grogu hovering anxiously nearby in his pram.
Boba sighed deeply through his helmet.
“What happened now?”
For a moment, nobody answered him.
Hot desert wind rolled through the landing platform, tugging faintly at cloaks and carrying sand against metal with a dry hiss. The palace loomed behind Boba Fett like something watching the exchange with ancient patience.
You adjusted Din’s weight slightly against your shoulder.
“He got hit hard in a cistern collapse,” you said. “There was a creature.”
“That explains the damage.” Boba’s helmet tilted toward the dented beskar plating along Din’s side.
Before you could answer, Din shifted slightly beside you with a low sound of restrained pain. Instantly, Grogu chirped anxiously and floated closer in his pram.
“I’m fine,” Din muttered.
“You are absolutely not fine,” you shot back automatically.
Fennec snorted softly somewhere to your right.
You swallowed once. Then slowly lowered Din’s arm from your shoulder as Boba stepped forward to take his weight instead.
Din stiffened slightly from the movement but didn’t resist.
The sudden absence of him beside you felt strangely cold.
“I need a favor.” Your voice came quieter than intended.
Boba crossed his arms as best he could under Din’s weight.
“That depends heavily on the favor.”
“A ship.”
“Hangar three,” Boba Fett said gruffly. “Old Firespray patrol craft. Needs work, but it flies.”
Fennec turned toward him. “You’re just giving them a ship?”
“They saved Djarin.”
You stared for a second before nodding once.
“Thank you.”
Then you moved. Fast.
Because if you stopped long enough to think about this, you were not sure you would actually go through with it.
Grogu chirped sharply behind you.
Your boots rang against metal walkways as you crossed deeper into the palace hangars. The sounds behind you blurred together beneath the pounding of your pulse. Someone called your name once- Din, maybe- but you kept moving anyway.
This was the right choice.
It had to be.
You had seen the way people looked at you your entire life once they learned what you were. Eventually there was always distance afterward. Carefulness. Hesitation. Even among good people. Especially among good people.
Because good people tried to reconcile compassion with fear, and sometimes that process hurt more than outright hatred ever did.
You couldn’t do that to Din.
Not after everything he had already survived.
Not after the covert.
Not after Mandalore.
Not after a lifetime spent inheriting stories about Jedi and wars and betrayal.
Your hands shook while entering the launch sequence.
Not from fear. From grief.
Because somewhere along the way, the Razor Crest had started feeling like home.
And Din Djarin and Grogu had started feeling dangerously close to family.
The realization hollowed your chest out from the inside. Because you spent your entire life being the contradiction that made people uncomfortable and you could not survive watching that realization settle into Din’s silence too.
A moment later, the stars stretched into hyperspace lines with the familiar violent lurch that always made your stomach tighten no matter how many years you spent traveling between systems.
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- Summary: Y/N Targaryen is dragged to the Ashford tourney to get her out from under Aerion’s obsession, only for Valarr to publicly ask for her favor and spark a feud that erupts into a brawl in the royal pavilion.
- Pairing: cousin!reader/Valarr Targaryen
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (There’s no explicit content until Part 3. However, Aerion appears earlier in the story, and there are implications about things he may have done to the reader character.)
Ashford Meadow did not smell like spring the way songs pretended it did. It smelled like trampled grass beaten into pulp by thousands of boots, like horse sweat baked into leather tack, like roasting meat turned too often over too-hot coals because nobody wanted to be the cook who disappointed a lord. It smelled like cheap perfume drifting out of a line of bright tents where men with coin went looking for distraction, and like fresh sawdust scattered over patches of mud that had already lost the fight. The air was loud with it too, a constant, messy sound that had no discipline and no shame: hawkers calling, children shrieking, ale sloshing, metal ringing when someone bumped a suit of armor, laughter that came too quick and died too quick. If you closed your eyes, it was chaos. If you opened them, it was color arranged into something almost orderly: banners and streamers, painted shields on poles, pavilions set like small kingdoms in rows. Lord Ashford had turned a meadow into a city and expected everyone to pretend it was permanent.
Your father refused to pretend.
Maekar Targaryen rode in like he was arriving at a battlefield inspection, not a celebration for a girl’s thirteenth nameday. His horse moved steady under him, and he sat the saddle with the same brutal economy he sat a chair, as if comfort was a childish thing other men chased. You kept pace at his side with the rest of the royal party, heat pressing under your collar and at the back of your neck, your hair pinned up and already threatening to come loose from the ride. It was an insult, being dressed for court in a place that wanted dust and sweat, but the insult wasn’t new. The insult was that you were here at all, because Aerion had made such a long, whining sport of it that Maekar had chosen the simplest solution: bring you, let him stop complaining, and in the process, maybe give you something beyond the walls of Summerhall to look at for once.
Aerion rode a half-length behind, as if he wanted the world to see him but also wanted to be close enough to lean in and poison anything you might enjoy. He wore his bright arrogance like a cloak, all pale hair and polished fittings, and the kind of smile that promised he would ruin a thing just to prove he could. Every time you shifted in your saddle, you felt him watching, not with affection and not even with desire in the clean way singers lied about, but with that possessive fixation he’d nursed since you were children, the one that turned him stupid when Maekar told him no and turned him cruel when he could not have what he decided belonged to him.
Then Valarr came alongside, the shift in the air around you as immediate as shade.
He did not crowd you. He never did. He just moved close enough that Aerion’s casual reach, the way his hand sometimes drifted toward your reins or your sleeve like he owned the right to touch, suddenly had somewhere to crash. Valarr’s presence was a barrier made of manners and blood and the fact that, for all Aerion’s swagger, Valarr was Baelor’s son and carried himself like it. Not soft. Not weak. Just… controlled, as if he’d learned early that power did not need to shout.
“You’re staring,” Valarr said under his breath, not looking at you when he spoke, eyes forward on the sprawling field ahead. He sounded mildly amused, which in a Targaryen boy was almost suspicious.
“I’m taking account,” you answered, because you refused to give anyone the satisfaction of calling it awe.
“Taking account of the smell?” he murmured. “Or the fact half the Reach has decided this is an acceptable way to spend coin.”
“You can smell the Reach from here,” you said. “Perfume and pride.”
Valarr’s mouth quirked, quick and restrained. “That’s an unkind summary.”
“It’s accurate.”
He glanced at you then, just a flicker. His eyes were steady, the kind that could look at a situation and not flinch. “Try not to look like you want to set the whole meadow on fire. It will draw attention.”
“Attention is what everyone here is paying for,” you said, and you hated that it came out harsher than you meant, because you could feel Aerion behind you, could feel him listening for any crack he could shove a blade into.
Valarr’s gaze moved past you, casually, as if checking the spacing of the riders. “He’s in a mood,” he said, as if you needed the report.
“He’s always in a mood,” you replied.
From ahead, Maekar’s voice cut back without him turning his head. “Enough.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The word landed like a hand on the back of your neck, reminding you where you were and what your father expected: composure, restraint, obedience to the shape of the family even when the family felt like a cage. You straightened automatically, reins adjusted, posture corrected. You had been trained to do that long before you understood why you needed it.
They brought the royal party through a lane that stewards had cleared with frantic energy, men shouting for smallfolk to move and bow and pretend they hadn’t been standing there first. The crowd pressed in anyway, hungry for spectacle. Faces turned, dirty hands waved, children craned to see pale hair and dragon sigils. Some looked at Maekar with fear. Some looked at Aerion with fascination. A few looked at you with the specific interest people had in noblewomen, the kind that measured you for stories you didn’t ask to be part of. You kept your chin level and your expression calm, the way you’d been taught, even as your skin prickled under their attention.
Lord Ashford’s welcome waited near the larger pavilions, where the grass had been hammered flatter and the banners flew higher. The Ashford sigil snapped in the wind like it wanted to be noticed by gods. Lord Ashford himself bowed low, sweating through his finery, doing that careful dance men did around dragons: reverence mixed with calculation. His wife hovered behind him like a shadow in embroidered cloth, and beyond them, you saw girls, a cluster of them, all dressed bright, all trying to look thrilled and not terrified. One of them was the nameday girl, Lady Ashford’s daughter, thirteen and clearly overwhelmed by what her father had built in her honor. She looked like a doll placed too close to a hearth. Her smile shook.
“Your Grace,” Lord Ashford said, voice thick with sincerity he had purchased. “Prince Baelor. Prince Maekar. Princes… my lords. Princess Y/N.” His eyes landed on you, and you felt the assessment, the quick calculation of your place in the web of this gathering, what use you might be as a compliment or a pawn. “You honor my house.”
Baelor Targaryen dismounted with the ease of a man who did not carry his authority like armor because he did not fear anyone would forget it. He smiled at Lord Ashford in a way that made the man’s shoulders loosen, as if he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Baelor’s presence did that. It was infuriating, almost, how simple he made peace look.
“Your hospitality honors us,” Baelor replied, warm and measured. “And your daughter. A thirteenth nameday should be remembered kindly.”
Maekar swung down next, sharper, the movement efficient, as if lingering was indulgence. He gave Lord Ashford a nod that was not quite a greeting and not quite a dismissal. “The lists look well set,” he said, because Maekar could compliment a structure and ignore the sentiment behind it.
Lord Ashford brightened at that anyway, starving for approval. “We’ve done our best. Five champions for my daughter, as tradition asks. Challengers will ride to take their places if they’re unhorsed. The queen of love and beauty will have her defenders, and the realm will have its sport.” His gaze flicked to Baelor again, hopeful, because if Baelor approved, the story would spread.
“And the melee?” Aerion asked, sliding into the conversation like a knife into soft fruit. He smiled at Lord Ashford with false charm. “Will there be enough men brave enough to bleed for a girl’s smile?”
Lord Ashford laughed too loudly. “Plenty, my prince. Plenty.”
Aerion’s eyes cut to you, bright and cruel. “Good,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll see who deserves to be called a knight.”
Valarr had dismounted close enough that you felt him at your shoulder. Not touching you. Just there, as if he understood that your brother’s words were not aimed at Lord Ashford at all.
Baelor’s gaze moved briefly to Aerion, a quiet warning in the look. “We will see who remembers what knighthood means,” he said, tone still gentle, but the meaning clear enough.
Aerion’s smile did not falter. It never did, not when he was being corrected. He simply bowed his head a fraction, mock-deferential. “As you say, uncle.”
Maekar’s attention snapped toward you then, quick as a whip. “You will stay near our pavilion,” he said, voice low enough that only you and those closest could hear. “You will not wander. You will not be drawn into anyone’s games.”
You met his eyes. They were hard, but not unfeeling. Maekar loved like a man who did not trust love to save anyone, so he used rules instead. “I understand.”
Aerion laughed softly, as if it was the funniest thing in the world that you had to be instructed like a child. “She understands,” he echoed, and his gaze lingered on you, proprietary, poisonous.
Valarr spoke before you did, easy as breath. “She’s not here for your entertainment, Aerion.”
It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was just a sentence said with calm certainty, and you felt the small shift in the air as Aerion’s attention snapped fully onto Valarr. Like a hound catching scent.
“You didn’t,” Valarr replied, and his tone stayed polite enough to pass in front of strangers. “You rarely do.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. Baelor’s expression stayed pleasant, but his eyes held warning now, the kind of warning that said not here, not now.
Aerion leaned closer in his saddle, voice pitched for the family alone. “Careful,” he said to Valarr, sweet as honey. “You forget your place.”
Valarr did not flinch. “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t.”
The moment could have snapped into something uglier, right there in front of Ashford’s banners and all those eager eyes, but Baelor placed a hand lightly on Maekar’s arm, a silent reminder that spectacle fed on Targaryen temper. Then Baelor turned back to Lord Ashford, smile returning like nothing had happened, and the world obligingly followed his lead.
They were led toward the royal pavilions, a cluster of tents that looked like a small fortress dressed in silk. Inside, the shade was a relief, though the air was still warm and heavy with the scent of oiled leather and crushed herbs. Servants moved quickly, setting basins, offering watered wine, arranging chairs as if furniture could protect royalty from discomfort. You let them fuss without reacting, because reacting invited comment. Outside, the noise of the meadow rolled on, unbothered by dragon blood.
When you stepped back out after washing the dust from your hands, the lists were visible from a slight rise, long and fenced, with stands built for lords and ladies. Knights moved like bright insects below, armor flashing, horses tossing their heads. Squiring boys ran with lances and buckets and cloths, sweating through their tunics, faces alight with excitement or fear. Banners lifted and dipped in the breeze, each sigil a claim, each color a declaration. This was pageantry, yes. It was also a marketplace of pride, and pride was often the first thing that got men killed.
You watched as a hedge knight passed near the outer line, taller than most, moving awkwardly in gear that didn’t quite fit like it was borrowed or inherited. His shield was plain compared to the rest, and he carried himself with a wariness that made him look older than his face suggested. He had the air of someone who had been told “no” his whole life and was foolish enough to try anyway. A boy trailed him, small, watchful, too keen-eyed for his size, glancing at everything like he was memorizing the world. They were nobody, which made them interesting in a place where everyone else was desperate to be somebody.
“Don’t,” Valarr said, and you realized he’d followed your gaze.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start collecting strays,” he replied, dry.
You looked at him then, eyebrow lifting. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Valarr’s expression softened for a heartbeat, something almost fond under all that control. “I think you’re bored,” he said. “And when you’re bored, you look for patterns. You look for people who don’t fit. Then you feel responsible for them.”
“That’s an assumption.”
“It’s an observation,” he corrected.
Before you could answer, Aerion’s voice slid in from behind you, too close. “Talking about responsibility?” he asked, amused. “That’s rich.”
You didn’t turn immediately. You hated giving him reaction. When you did look back, Aerion was smiling like he’d just been invited into a conversation he’d been eavesdropping on for sport, his eyes bright with that restless malice that always seemed hungry. “Enjoying the view?” he continued. “Or are you staring at the smallfolk like they’re a curiosity?”
“I’m staring at the lists,” you said evenly.
Aerion’s gaze flicked over you, slow. “You stare at everything like you’re judging it. It’s unattractive.”
Valarr’s voice cut in, mild. “And yet you keep looking.”
Aerion’s smile thinned. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the heat of him, the faint scent of wine already on his breath even though the day had barely begun. “You think you’re clever,” he said to Valarr. “Because Father likes you. Because Uncle smiles at you. Because you’re Baelor’s pretty son who gets to pretend he’s a hero.”
Valarr’s posture didn’t change, but you saw the subtle tightening at his jaw. “I don’t pretend.”
Aerion leaned in a fraction more, voice soft enough that it was almost intimate, almost a secret. “If you keep inserting yourself between me and what’s mine, you’ll learn what pretending costs.”
Your stomach went cold, not with fear exactly, but with the familiar recognition of Aerion’s logic: everything was a contest, everything was possession, and anyone who resisted him was an enemy. You didn’t look away. You refused to give him that victory.
“She’s not yours,” Valarr said, and there was steel under the quiet now.
Aerion’s eyes slid to you, possessive and delighted all at once, like he enjoyed hearing your life spoken about as if you weren’t standing right there. “She is Targaryen,” he said. “She is blood. She is family. That means she belongs to the House, and the House decides.”
“The House already decided,” you said, voice steady, and you watched the smallest flicker cross his face at that reminder. Maekar’s refusal was a wound Aerion never stopped picking at.
Aerion’s smile returned, dangerous. “Father decided,” he corrected. “For now.”
From the pavilion, Maekar’s voice snapped out, hard. “Aerion.”
Aerion straightened as if he’d been yanked by a leash. He took a step back, all innocence in his posture, and called back, “Yes, Father?”
Maekar emerged into the light, eyes like hammered iron. He looked from Aerion to Valarr to you in one sweep, reading the shape of the tension without needing to be told. “You will behave,” he said to Aerion, each word deliberate. “You will not shame your uncle here. You will not start trouble in another man’s hall.”
Aerion bowed his head. “I would never.”
Maekar’s stare did not soften. “Your ‘never’ is unreliable.”
That earned a quick laugh from somewhere behind, and you saw Baelor step out, expression composed but eyes sharp with quiet disappointment. “The tourney is meant to honor Lord Ashford’s daughter,” Baelor said, tone calm. “Let it do that. Let it be… simple, for a day.”
Aerion’s gaze flicked to Baelor, and for a heartbeat you saw something like resentment, because Baelor was everything Aerion wasn’t: respected without needing to be feared. “Simple,” Aerion echoed, polite. “Of course, uncle.”
Baelor’s gaze moved to you then, a silent check-in, and you found yourself holding his eyes for a moment. There was kindness there. Also caution. Baelor knew what Aerion was. Baelor also knew what it cost to fight a fire in public.
“Come,” Maekar said to you, and the command was gentler than it sounded, because it was a rescue disguised as authority. “You will sit with us in the stands. You will watch. You will learn something, if you can.”
You followed without argument, because arguing would only feed Aerion’s appetite for spectacle. As you moved toward the stands, Valarr fell into step beside you, not crowding, not touching, just steady at your shoulder like a quiet promise that you would not be alone in this crowd.
“You didn’t have to say it,” you murmured, eyes forward.
Valarr’s voice stayed low. “Yes, I did.”
“What are you trying to be?” you asked, not teasing, not quite. Something else, edged with exhaustion. “My shield?”
Valarr glanced at you, and his expression softened again, brief and real. “No,” he said. “Just… present.”
It was such a simple word. Present. As if that could be enough against Aerion’s obsession and the way noble families chewed their own. And maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing ever was. Still, when you sat in the shaded stands and the first lances were carried out, when the crowd roared itself hoarse and the meadow turned its attention fully to sport, you felt Valarr’s calm beside you like a hand on the back of your mind, steadying you.
Below, the champions rode out in their bright arrogance, five defenders for a child’s honor, and challengers lined up to take their places if they fell, because that was the game Lord Ashford had chosen. A game of replacement. A game of men proving themselves by knocking each other into the dirt for the sake of a girl who looked too small for the weight of all those eyes. The queen of love and beauty sat stiff in her seat, smiling like her cheeks hurt, while her father beamed as if he’d purchased glory itself.
Aerion leaned back in his chair beside Maekar, looking relaxed, looking amused, looking like a prince at ease. You knew better. You could feel his attention shift and circle, always hunting for the next thing to ruin. The sunlight caught on his pale hair, made him look almost angelic if you didn’t know what was under it.
Valarr sat a little farther down, close enough that you could speak without raising your voice, far enough that it wouldn’t look like a declaration to the whole stand. He watched the lists with focus, but every so often his gaze flicked toward you, quick and checking, like he was making sure you were still steady.
The horn blew. The crowd surged to its feet. Hooves thundered. Wood cracked. A man went down hard, armor biting into earth, and the roar that followed was hungry, delighted, thoughtless.
You watched, hands folded in your lap, and told yourself you were here to learn something, like Maekar demanded.
What you learned, quickly, was that Ashford Meadow was not just a tourney.
It was a stage.
And you were not here as an audience member. You were here as part of the show, whether you liked it or not.
The next day evening at Ashford Meadow was its own beast, dressed up in torchlight and music to make people forget what it cost to build a city out of canvas and pride. The air cooled just enough to feel merciful against skin that had baked all day under sun and scrutiny, but the ground still held the heat like a grudge. Torches lined the paths between pavilions and the lists, their flames snapping in the wind and throwing everything into gold and shadow, so armor glimmered like moving stars and faces looked carved a little harsher than they had at noon. The crowd sounded different at night too. The daytime roar had been bright and frantic, all appetite and noise. Now it was heavier, drunker, meaner around the edges. Men laughed with their mouths full. Women whispered behind sleeves. Boys ran half-wild until a steward cuffed them back into place. Somewhere a lute tried its best over the constant clatter of tankards and boots. The tourney was still a tourney, still horses and lances and the thrill of watching someone fall, but the evening wrapped it in celebration so it could pretend it was only sport.
This time you sat with Lord Ashford’s daughter as if you belonged beside her, as if you were simply another girl keeping another girl company, not a Targaryen placed there like a ribbon on a prize. She was dressed in something pale and expensive that looked too fine for the meadow’s grit, her hair braided with tiny ribbons that had loosened through the day. Thirteen was a cruel age to be displayed. Old enough to be told she was a lady, young enough that her hands still fidgeted in her lap when she thought no one was watching. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and the attention. Every time the crowd rose and cheered, she flinched like the sound might hit her.
“You’re quiet,” she said after a while, voice small but determined, as if quiet was something she could accuse you of to make herself feel braver. She glanced at you and then quickly looked away again, respectful and nervous in the way girls were taught to be around dragons.
“I’m watching,” you answered. You kept your tone even, gentle enough not to frighten her further, because she wasn’t your enemy and you were not in the mood to make one out of a child. “You’re allowed to be quiet too. It’s your nameday, not your trial.”
That earned a weak little smile, the kind that lived for a breath and then vanished when she remembered the stands and the banners and the men willing to crack ribs for the idea of honoring her. “It feels like a trial,” she admitted. “Everyone keeps saying how lucky I am.”
Lucky. You looked out over the lists where men in polished steel tested lances and checked girths, where squires hurried like ants, where blood had already darkened patches of sand despite the fresh scattering meant to hide it. “People call it luck when they don’t want to think about the parts that are unpleasant.”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Is it unpleasant for you?”
You could have lied. It would have been easy. A pretty lie would have kept her comfortable. Instead you chose something gentler than truth but not false. “It’s loud,” you said. “And everyone has an opinion. That’s tiring.”
She nodded quickly, grateful for something she could agree with. “My father says it’s an honor. He says it’s what a good lord does for his daughter.”
“A good lord does many things,” you replied, and you didn’t let your gaze drift toward the royal seating when you said it, even though you could feel the weight of it the way you could feel a storm brewing. “Some of them are for his daughter. Some are for himself.”
She stared at her hands for a moment as if she didn’t know what to do with that. Then, like a child reaching for safety, she changed the subject. “Will the princes ride again tonight?”
Your eyes lifted, and there, in the torchlit mess of banners and helmets, Valarr’s shield was visible near the far side of the lists, its colors clean, its shape familiar in the chaos. He was preparing with a calm focus that set him apart from the knights who strutted and preened for the stands. There was no showiness in him. Just intent, like the act mattered and the watching mattered and he would not cheapen it for applause. You felt your attention settle on him without asking permission from yourself.
“Valarr will,” you said softly, because she had asked and because you did not want to say Aerion’s name out loud tonight if you could help it.
Her face brightened. “Prince Valarr seems… kind,” she said, as if kindness was a rumor she hoped was true.
“He can be,” you answered, and that was as close to praise as you ever allowed yourself in public.
A trumpet sounded, dragging the crowd back into one mind. The chatter thinned into anticipation. The fighters moved into position. You felt the girl beside you straighten like a doll propped up by invisible hands. She was trying to look like what she had been told she should be, a lady presiding over her own celebration with grace. You understood the performance better than she did, and that made something in your chest tighten, not with pity exactly, but with recognition.
Across the way, the royal seating sat higher, heavier, draped in privilege like cloth. Baelor was there, composed as ever, watching with that quiet attention that made men behave when they remembered he could see them. Maekar sat stiff beside him, shoulders set like stone, eyes scanning everything as if he expected threat to crawl out of the crowd. Aerion lounged like he owned the stands, like the realm had been built for him to sneer at, his silver hair catching torchlight, his mouth curved in a smile that never reached his eyes.
Then Valarr rode out.
The crowd loved him the way crowds loved princes who looked like the songs. He was handsome in armor, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he carried himself, not arrogant, not timid, simply steady. His horse moved under him with practiced ease. His helm dipped in acknowledgment of the stands, not theatrical, not hungry. When he took his place, lance angled, shield set, he looked like he belonged to the lists in a way that made other men look like they were borrowing the role.
His opponent rode out too, a knight with a proud sigil and a heavier swagger, the sort that fed on the crowd’s reaction. They saluted. The herald shouted names that the wind half stole. The crowd rose, pressed forward, hungry as always.
You watched Valarr’s posture, the little shifts that meant control, the way his knees hugged the saddle, the way his shoulders stayed loose enough to move. You had seen enough training in castle yards to know when someone was competent and when someone was merely brave. Valarr was both. That was a dangerous combination in Westeros, because it made people expect things of you.
The trumpet blew.
They charged.
Hooves hammered the ground hard enough you felt it in your ribs. Lances lowered. The world narrowed to two riders and the thin line between them, and then the impact came like a crack of thunder. Wood splintered. The opponent’s lance shattered against Valarr’s shield, pieces flying like sparks. Valarr’s lance hit clean, not cruelly, not wildly, but with precision, and the other knight reeled in his saddle. He fought to stay up, pride refusing to fall, but the force took him anyway. He went down hard, armor clanging, the crowd roaring like it had been starving.
The nameday girl gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh,” she breathed, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to truly fall.
You didn’t move. You kept your hands in your lap. Your gaze stayed on Valarr as he reined in, circled once, controlled his horse like he controlled everything else, then turned toward the stands. He lifted his helm enough that you saw his face, flushed from exertion, eyes bright with the heat of the tilt, but still… him. He looked up toward the royal seating first, because duty demanded it, because Baelor was there. Then his gaze shifted.
It found you.
Not by accident. Not as a sweep. It landed on you with intention, and for a heartbeat the noise dimmed in your head the way it did when something became suddenly, very personal.
Valarr raised his voice. He didn’t shout, not like a man trying to make himself a spectacle. He spoke like a prince who expected to be heard. “Princess Y/N,” he called, and the words carried across the lists, across the stands, cutting through the cheering in a way that made faces turn. “Will you grant me your favor?”
You felt it immediately, the way a crowd reacts when it smells a story. Hundreds of heads shifted, like a field of grain bending to wind. Whispers sparked into life. The nameday girl beside you went very still, eyes wide, like she had been struck by the thrill of being next to scandal.
Your heart did not race. It dropped, heavy and cold, because you understood what that request meant in your family. It wasn’t only romance. It was alignment. It was a public declaration that could be twisted into politics by morning. It was Valarr placing himself between you and Aerion in a way so visible that even the stupidest lordling in the Reach would notice.
And because the gods hated quiet, you felt Aerion’s reaction like heat at your back even though he was far across the lists.
He sat up from his lazy sprawl as if yanked by invisible hands. His smile vanished. His face tightened into something dark and ugly. The torchlight made his eyes look almost black. For a moment he looked younger, not in innocence, but in the raw, petulant fury of a boy who had been denied a toy and had never been taught to accept it.
Maekar moved before Aerion could. Your father’s hand clamped down on Aerion’s forearm, not gentle, not subtle. It was the grip of a man stopping a dog from lunging. You saw Aerion’s body tense against it, saw the twitch at his jaw, the pulse in his throat. Maekar leaned in and said something you couldn’t hear, but you didn’t need the words. Whatever it was, it dragged Aerion back into his seat by force of will alone.
Aerion still tried to rise.
Maekar’s grip tightened.
Aerion’s mouth moved, and you could read it even from here. Mine.
You swallowed once. The air felt too thin.
Beside you, the nameday girl whispered, voice trembling with excitement and fear. “He asked you. In front of everyone.”
“Yes,” you said, and your voice came out calmer than you felt. Calm was a weapon you had been forced to learn early.
“What will you do?” she asked, and you could hear the awe in it. As if choice was a gift and not a trap.
You looked at Valarr. He waited, horse steady, posture composed, not begging, not pressuring, simply offering you a moment where you could accept or refuse and the whole realm would interpret it either way. His eyes didn’t flick toward Aerion. He didn’t perform courage at your brother’s expense. He didn’t do it to bait him. He did it because he meant it.
Across the royal seating, Baelor’s gaze locked onto Valarr. It was not anger. It was not approval either. It was a look that said: you have done something brave and complicated, and we will speak of it when there are no crowds to feed on it. Baelor did not move, did not make a scene, but the warning in his eyes was clear enough that even Valarr, shining in victory, must have felt it.
Your fingers moved before your mind finished arguing. You reached up and touched the ribbon braided into your hair, a narrow strip of fabric the color of dark wine, chosen because it suited you, because you liked it, because you had been stubborn enough to keep it when a handmaid suggested something brighter. You drew it free slowly, deliberately, letting the crowd see that you were not panicking, not rushing, not being dragged into anything. The act felt strange in your own hands, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with kisses and everything to do with being seen.
The nameday girl let out a tiny sound, almost a squeak, as if she couldn’t bear the suspense.
You stood, because you refused to be small while you did this, and because standing made you visible in a way that said you were not hiding behind anyone’s permission. You stepped forward to the edge of the stand, the torches throwing heat against your face, the wind tugging at loose strands of hair. You held the ribbon in your hand, felt the roughness of it against your palm, then lifted it high enough for Valarr to see.
“For your next ride,” you called back, and your voice carried, clear and even. You kept the words simple because anything too poetic would sound like surrender. “And for your honor, if you remember what it is.”
A ripple went through the crowd, a sound like a wave pulling back before it crashes. Valarr’s expression shifted, just slightly, as if something in him eased and tightened at the same time. He raised a hand, palm open, a gesture of respect more than triumph. One of the squires ran forward to collect the favor, and Valarr took it with care, winding it around his lance with a steadiness that looked almost reverent.
The nameday girl turned to you, eyes shining. “That was perfect,” she breathed, as if she had witnessed some great romance in a song.
It wasn’t romance that made your stomach knot. It was the fact you could feel Aerion’s stare from across the meadow like a blade pressed to skin.
Aerion did not look away. He leaned forward in his seat now, Maekar’s hand still iron on his arm, and spoke to your father in a hiss you couldn’t hear, but the way Maekar’s face went even harder told you enough. Aerion’s fury wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It had weight. It had memory. It had the kind of entitlement that didn’t burn out quickly.
Valarr turned his horse, rode the circuit of the lists, accepted the crowd’s roar with polite distance. When he passed beneath the royal seating, he lifted his lance slightly, ribbon fluttering in the torchlight like a wound dressed in silk. He did not look at Aerion. He did not give him the satisfaction. He looked at Baelor, briefly, and there was something like apology in the angle of his head. Baelor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest nod that did not soothe or forgive, only acknowledged: Later.
Maekar finally released Aerion’s arm, but only because Aerion sat still enough to pretend he was under control. Your brother’s smile returned, slow and sickly sweet, the kind he wore when he was planning something and wanted everyone to think he wasn’t. He lifted his cup, took a long drink, and never once stopped watching you.
The nameday girl tugged at your sleeve, tentative. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that Prince Aerion will challenge him?”
You looked down at her, at the innocent curiosity and fear braided together in her expression. You could have lied again. You could have protected her from understanding what princes did when they were crossed.
Instead you said, quietly, “If he does, it won’t be noble.”
The trumpet sounded again. Another match called. The crowd’s attention shifted, because people were fickle and violence was easy to love when it wasn’t your life on the line. You sat back down, smoothing your skirts, posture composed. Inside, you felt the consequences stacking like stones.
On the sand below, Valarr rode on with your favor tied to his lance, bright against the dark. In the stands above, Aerion sat with his anger leashed but not tamed. Maekar watched like a man calculating the cost of tomorrow. Baelor stayed calm, because Baelor always stayed calm, but his gaze did not soften when it drifted back to his son.
And you, sitting beside a frightened girl in a borrowed city of tents, understood exactly what had just happened.
Valarr had asked for your favor in public.
You had given it.
Now the realm would do what it always did with Targaryens.
It would turn it into a problem.
The royal pavilion at Ashford looked civilized only if you kept your eyes on the cloth and the gold thread and ignored the fact it was still a tent pitched in a churned-up meadow, held together by pegs and the fragile agreement that men with swords would behave. Torches burned in iron brackets, their smoke caught under the canopy until it found a seam to escape through, so the air tasted faintly of pitch and spiced wine. Music drifted in from outside, muffled by canvas and distance, a steady thrum meant to soothe and entertain, but inside the pavilion the sound was mostly voices. Lords laughing too loudly. Knights boasting about bruises. Stewards moving like shadows between benches with platters of roasted fowl and trenchers soaking through with grease. It was celebration the way court always did it, pretending feasting could wash blood off the day, pretending the realm was not a constant negotiation of ego and threat.
Maekar had already removed his daughter from it hours ago, as if he could fold you up and put you away where Aerion could not reach. He had ushered you off with your ladies and instructions and that hard look that allowed no argument, and for once, no one had tried to stop him. Not because they respected your rest, but because they respected the temper of the man escorting you. Even Aerion, simmering all evening, had not snapped at the moment. He had only watched you go with that too-bright smile, like a man watching a door close and making plans for the next time it opened.
Now, with the princess gone, the pavilion felt smaller.
Baelor sat at the center table like he belonged to the seat of a king even when there was no crown present, his posture composed, his expression pleasant enough to make the Ashfords believe their hospitality had succeeded. He spoke when spoken to, drank sparingly, listened more than he talked, and in the spaces between conversation his eyes kept moving, quietly taking measure. He was waiting for the moment he could pull Valarr aside and speak privately, not as a prince to a prince, but as a father to his son. He had given Valarr that look after the favor was accepted. The look had said: you have stepped into something dangerous, and you do not get to pretend you didn’t.
Valarr stood a little apart from the densest knot of revelers, helm gone, hair slightly damp at the temples from heat and exertion, still in his tourney clothes but with his gloves removed as if he needed bare hands to remind himself he was not made of armor. He accepted congratulations with polite restraint, nodded at lords whose names he did not care about, tolerated the way knights slapped his shoulder as if victory gave them permission to touch royal blood. He did not boast. He did not bask. He looked like a man who had done what he came to do and was already thinking about consequences.
Aerion had been thinking about consequences since the moment Valarr asked for the favor, and unlike Valarr, he looked as if he enjoyed the idea.
He drifted through the pavilion with a cup in his hand, the motion smooth and easy, the expression on his face almost charming if you were the sort of person who believed charm was the same thing as decency. He laughed at the right moments. He said the right shallow compliments to the right shallow men. He let the Ashfords feel honored that a prince was gracing their celebration with attention, and in return they fed him more wine and more praise because they were too proud and too foolish to recognize when they were being used as scenery.
Maekar watched him like a man watching a spark near dry straw.
“Drink slower,” Maekar said at one point, voice low, not a suggestion.
Aerion lifted his cup in a mock salute. “I’m enjoying myself. Lord Ashford has gone to such effort. It would be rude not to.”
“It would be wiser,” Maekar replied.
Aerion’s smile did not slip, but his eyes slid toward Valarr, where he stood with that infuriating calm. “Wisdom is so rarely rewarded,” Aerion murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, “Besides, it’s only wine. Not poison.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Not everything that ruins a man comes in a vial.”
Aerion laughed softly, as if his father had told a quaint joke, and took another sip anyway.
Baelor’s patience lasted longer than most men’s because Baelor had learned how to swallow irritation and call it diplomacy, but even diplomacy had its limit when you watched your son and your nephew circle each other like blades. He waited for a lull, for a moment when the Ashfords were distracted by their own guests, and then he rose. It was not dramatic. He simply stood, and the pavilion’s noise shifted slightly, instinctively making space. He moved toward Valarr with that quiet authority that made men step back without realizing they were obeying.
Valarr saw him coming and straightened, ready, eyes attentive.
Aerion saw him too, and quickened his pace as if he could not bear the thought of Baelor speaking to Valarr without him there to poison it.
“Cousin,” Aerion said brightly, slipping into the space before Baelor could reach his son. “You were magnificent today. Truly. A clean hit. Very pretty.”
Valarr’s expression held. “Thank you.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked down, deliberately, to where the ribbon favor was tied to Valarr’s lance resting against a support near the pavilion wall, kept there like a trophy. “And bold,” Aerion added, voice light. “Asking for favors. It’s almost romantic.”
Baelor’s gaze focused. “Aerion.”
Aerion turned that smile on him immediately, innocent. “Uncle. I’m praising him.”
“Praise is not the same as bait,” Baelor replied, calm but flat.
Aerion lifted his hands a fraction. “No bait. Only admiration.” His eyes went back to Valarr, and the admiration curdled into something thin and cruel. “You should be careful, though. Some favors come with… expectations.”
Valarr’s tone stayed polite. “I know what I’m doing.”
Aerion hummed, like he found that amusing. “Do you? Because from where I stand, it looks like you’ve chosen to involve yourself in something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Maekar’s chair scraped back. The sound cut through a nearby conversation like a knife. “Aerion,” he said, the warning heavier now.
Aerion did not look at him. “I’m speaking to my cousin,” he said, and he made “cousin” sound like a claim.
Valarr’s gaze held steady on Aerion. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
Aerion’s smile widened. “Plainly. Fine.” He leaned in slightly, just enough to make it intimate, just enough to make it feel like a private insult delivered in public. “You wanted her attention. You wanted to look noble in front of the whole meadow. So you asked for her favor like a gallant knight from a song.”
Valarr’s voice remained even. “And she granted it.”
Aerion’s eyes glittered. “She shouldn’t have.”
Baelor stepped closer, placing himself between them by half a pace. His tone was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. “This is not the place.”
Aerion’s smile turned toward Baelor again, almost affectionate. “It never is, is it? There’s always some better time. Some private chamber. Some later.” He looked back at Valarr. “Tell me, did it make you feel important? Wearing her ribbon? Pretending you’re her shield?”
Valarr’s jaw flexed once. The only sign, small and human, that the words were landing where Aerion wanted them to land.
Maekar’s voice cut in again, hard. “Enough.”
Aerion’s eyes slid to his father at last, lazy and defiant. “I’m only speaking truth.”
“You’re only speaking,” Maekar said. “And you’re doing it too much.”
Aerion’s lips parted in a grin. “So commanding.” Then, without looking away from Maekar, he spoke to Valarr anyway, voice sweetened with contempt. “You know what’s funny? You think you’re protecting her. But you’re not. You’re simply making yourself a target.”
Valarr’s composure held by a thread you could almost see. “Stop.”
Aerion blinked, as if surprised. “Stop what?”
“Stop talking about her like she’s an object,” Valarr said, and his voice had cooled, turning into something that did not ask. “Stop using her name like it’s a weapon.”
Aerion’s smile faded into something colder. “She is my blood.”
“She is her own,” Valarr answered, and that was where he made his mistake, because Aerion did not hate being corrected. He hated being denied.
Aerion’s cup tipped slightly in his hand, wine sloshing. He set it down with exaggerated care, as if he didn’t want to waste a drop. Then he stepped in close enough that only the people nearest would hear, and his voice softened into a whisper that carried anyway because the pavilion had begun to listen.
“She would have been mine,” Aerion said, and there was no charm left in it now. “Father stole that from me. And you.” His gaze flicked down and back up, quick and filthy in its implication. “You think you can take what was meant to be mine because you’re Baelor’s son and the realm claps for you? You think you can reach into my family and pull out what you want?”
Valarr’s nostrils flared. “You’re not entitled to her.”
Aerion’s mouth curled. “Entitled.” He tasted the word like it was ridiculous. “I’m a prince. Dragon blood decides entitlement.”
Baelor’s voice cut in, low, controlled. “Aerion. Step back.”
Aerion did not step back. He turned his face toward Baelor and smiled again, the smile he used when he wanted to wound politely. “Will you stop me, uncle?”
Baelor’s eyes hardened. “Yes.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped back to Valarr, and he chose the blade that would slip under the armor of restraint. “You want to play her champion,” he said softly. “Tell me, did she look at you the way she looks at me when she’s frightened?”
Valarr moved before he finished the thought.
It was not a dramatic lunge. It was a single step, quick and controlled, and his hand shot out and seized Aerion by the front of his tunic, hauling him forward hard enough that Aerion’s shoulders jolted. The pavilion sucked in a breath. A couple of lords rose halfway from their seats, eyes wide, like they were watching a bear step into a feast. Maekar’s chair scraped again, and this time he was on his feet fully.
Valarr’s voice was low, shaking with fury he had kept caged all day. “You will not speak of her like that.”
Aerion’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, not with fear, but with delighted surprise, because this was what he wanted. This was always what he wanted: proof that he could make another man lose control. He smiled, close enough now that his breath hit Valarr’s face. “There it is,” he whispered. “The pretty prince breaks.”
Valarr’s fist drove forward.
It was a clean punch, a straight line, not wild, not sloppy. It caught Aerion on the mouth, snapping his head to the side. Blood specked immediately, bright in torchlight. Aerion staggered a half-step, then laughed, actually laughed, the sound wet and vicious.
“Oh,” Aerion said, touching his lip with his tongue. “So it’s like that.”
He hit back.
Aerion was not as skilled as he believed himself to be, but he was fast, and anger made men stupid and strong in equal measure. His fist clipped Valarr’s cheekbone, a crack that made Valarr’s head jerk. Valarr’s response was immediate. He drove Aerion backward, hands on his shoulders, forcing him toward a support pole, and Aerion slammed into it hard enough that the canvas above shuddered. Tankards rattled on tables. Someone shouted. Someone else laughed nervously like they couldn’t believe it was real.
“Valarr!” Baelor barked, and the single use of his son’s name like that, loud and stern, cut through the pavilion like a whip. It did not stop Valarr’s motion, but it reached him, because Baelor’s voice was not something he ignored lightly.
Maekar surged forward at the same time, but the Kingsguard were faster. Two white cloaks moved like they’d been waiting for this moment all evening, because they probably had. One seized Valarr around the torso from behind, hauling him back with brute strength. Another stepped between Aerion and everyone else, arm across Aerion’s chest, blocking him. Aerion tried to shove past anyway, spitting blood and fury, and the Kingsguard slammed him back with a hard forearm that made the pavilion go quiet in shock at the audacity of stopping a prince like a misbehaving boy.
Aerion’s eyes went wild. “Get off me!” he snapped. “I’ll have you flogged!”
The Kingsguard did not release him. “Your Grace,” one of them said, voice flat with practiced disrespect disguised as duty, “you will stand down.”
Aerion twisted, trying to reach around him to strike Valarr again, and Valarr strained against the man holding him, muscles corded, breathing hard, face flushed with rage and shame. For a moment it looked like the Kingsguard might not be enough, not because they were weak, but because princes were stupid when their pride was bleeding.
Baelor stepped forward into the space between them, and the pavilion’s attention snapped to him like a hooked line.
“That is enough,” Baelor said, not loud, not theatrical, but absolute. The warmth had drained out of his voice. What remained was command. “Release my son.”
The Kingsguard holding Valarr hesitated, then loosened his grip but did not fully let go, hands still ready. Valarr stood rigid, chest heaving, eyes locked on Aerion with a fury he had not shown anyone before. A bruise was already darkening along his cheekbone where Aerion had struck him.
Baelor’s gaze moved to Aerion, and the disappointment in it was heavy, almost worse than anger. “You will return to your seat,” Baelor said. “You will wash your mouth. You will speak to no one until you can remember you are not the center of the realm.”
Aerion laughed, short and sharp, and blood flicked from his lip. “And what about him?” he snapped, nodding toward Valarr. “Your precious son. He struck a dragon.”
Baelor did not blink. “He struck a man who deserved it.”
The pavilion went so quiet you could hear the torches crackle.
Maekar’s head turned slowly toward Baelor, surprise flickering across his stern expression. He had expected Baelor to condemn violence on principle. Baelor had chosen, instead, to condemn the cause.
Aerion stared at Baelor as if he had never seen him before, as if he couldn’t understand how kindness could contain steel. “So that’s it,” Aerion breathed, voice tight. “You choose him?”
Baelor’s reply was calm and lethal in its simplicity. “I choose what is right.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped to Maekar, looking for support, for permission, for someone to confirm he was the wronged party. Maekar’s expression was granite. “You embarrassed yourself,” Maekar said. “Again.”
Aerion’s mouth twisted. “He attacked me.”
“You provoked him,” Maekar answered, and every word sounded like it hurt to say because it meant admitting what Aerion was. “You always do.”
Aerion’s breathing was fast, nostrils flaring, and for a second you could see the boy under the cruelty, the boy who had never been told no without turning it into a war. Then the cruelty slid back over his face like a mask.
“This isn’t finished,” Aerion said softly, eyes on Valarr now, promising. “You think you can touch what I want and not pay for it.”
Valarr’s voice was hoarse. “She’s not what you want. She’s who you want to own.”
Aerion smiled, bloody and bright. “Same thing.”
Baelor’s hand lifted, a small gesture, and the Kingsguard tightened again, guiding Aerion away despite his resistance. Maekar watched him go with an expression that looked like fatigue and fury had finally fused into something permanent. Lords and knights pretended not to stare, pretended this was not the most interesting thing that had happened all night, but their eyes followed every step, greedy for a story they could repeat over fires for years.
When Aerion was gone from immediate reach, Baelor turned to Valarr. His voice dropped, private but still edged with authority. “Come with me.”
Valarr’s anger had not vanished, but it had shifted. Now there was shame in it too, because he had lost control in public, because he had given Aerion exactly what he wanted: a scene. He nodded once, jaw tight, and followed Baelor deeper into the pavilion where the light was dimmer and the air tasted less like wine.
Maekar stayed where he was for a moment, staring after them, hands clenched at his sides. Then he exhaled through his nose like a man trying not to become a storm and turned to the Kingsguard still stationed nearby.
“Double the watch,” Maekar said quietly. “On the girl’s quarters. On Aerion. On everyone. Tonight.”
The Kingsguard inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Maekar’s eyes tracked the pavilion entrance, the torchlit gap in the canvas where the noise of celebration still drifted in as if nothing had happened. “This meadow is full of drunk men and sharp tongues,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “And my son thinks he can set fires without getting burned.”
Outside, the music kept playing. Cups kept clinking. Laughter kept rising into the night.
Inside, blood dried on Aerion’s mouth, a bruise darkened on Valarr’s face, and Baelor Targaryen took his son away to speak words that would not be gentle, because gentleness did not stop men like Aerion.
tags: slow burn, love triangle, enemies to lovers, female knight, found family, eventual smut
note: honestly not proud of this chapter as i could be but i just wanted to get this out but i hope you enjoy it anyways! next chapter is gonna be fun to write but perhaps not so fun to read…thanks for sticking with this story!!!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You’d sooner face a ring of hardened sellswords, blades drawn and closing in, than go through these doors.
Conversation was treacherous, you could never be sure what would be struck back at you. Words had a way of twisting, of meaning more or less than they first appeared, of slipping between intention and interpretation until nothing felt solid anymore.
A single sentence could shift the ground beneath your feet, turn an ally into a stranger, or a harmless remark into a quiet wound. There were no clear rules, no boundaries you could see, only the constant risk of misstep.
A duel was different. A duel was honest.
You might not anticipate your opponent’s strike, might not read the subtle shift of weight or the tightening of their grip in time to avoid the blow, but that uncertainty was clean, almost comforting.
Steel did not pretend to be anything other than steel. It did not hide behind implication or disguise itself as kindness. When a blade came for you, it came openly, with purpose, and you answered in kind.
More importantly, you could trust yourself. You knew the balance of your weapon, the way it moved as an extension of your arm, the familiar pull of muscle and instinct working together.
Your blade did not lie to you. It did not hesitate or betray. In the chaos of motion, there was a strange kind of clarity. A narrowing of the world to the space between you and your opponent, to breath, to timing, to the simple truth of action and consequence.
And a fight had only two outcomes. Victory or defeat. Survival or the end. There was a finality to it that stripped away doubt, that left no room for second-guessing once it was done.
With people, there were countless outcomes. Conversations lingered, echoed, reshaped themselves long after they ended. You could win an argument and still lose something you hadn’t meant to risk. You could say the right thing and watch it land wrong, or hold your tongue and regret the silence just as deeply. There was no clean ending, no moment where everything settled into certainty.
Steel, at least, was honest. People rarely were.
This was especially true in King’s Landing, which in truth was just a battlefield without the armour and the mercy of knowing who your opponent was, or when even the fight had really begun.
Exceptions to this rule, however, did exist. There was one person whose feelings toward you were laid bare so plainly on their face every time you were near, that doubt had no foothold.
“May I have a word with His Grace?” you asked, pausing before the Kingsguard who stood unmoving at his post.
He raised an eyebrow at you, the kind that said on your head so be it, and then disappeared briefly behind the double doors, just to reappear moments later.
“Beware, he’s not in the best of moods.” He said with a hint of amusement, motioning for you to go in.
Is he ever?
You squared your shoulders, forcing your nerves into a semblance of composure, and reminded yourself that you weren’t doing this for you, which, oddly enough, gave you enough courage to follow through.
The doors opened, revealing the solar and the man within.
At the sight of you, Maekar Targaryen rose from behind his desk, though no courtesy required it. The movement was abrupt, unguarded and done as if thought had failed to catch and restrain it. For the briefest moment, something like irritation flickered across his face, not at you, but at himself.
His solar was sparse.
The desk before him held only a few neatly ordered papers and a single map lay pinned beneath a dagger to keep it flat, its corners worn from use. There was little else.
Then he met your gaze, and saw the same flicker of confusion reflected back at him, as if you were both caught in a moment neither of you knew quite how to navigate.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
He cleared his throat, the sound rougher than intended, and sank back into his chair with a stiffness that did not suit him. His attention dropped to the desk, large fingers shifting a stack of papers that did not require moving, as though occupation alone might steady him.
“Speak,” he said, the single word clipped and uneven.
You supposed there could have been a worse start, than whatever it was that just happened.
“Your grace, I wanted to talk to you about Eg—Aegon.” You began, twisting your hands behind your back. “About him leaving for Summerhall.”
Maekar’s gaze snapped up, sharp and sudden. “And?”
“And… I don’t believe he should go.” You met his eyes steadily, forcing calm into your voice. “I’d ask you to let him stay here, to serve as Ser Duncan’s squire.”
He didn’t answer for a few long moments, and you wondered if it was because of his shock at your boldness or if he really was considering your words, a spark of hope brewed in your chest.
“This matter doesn’t concern you.” He said finally.
“Aegon concerns me.” You replied easily. “He would be best served here, and there’s no better man he could squire for.”
“Or woman?” He returned dryly, almost bordering on mockery.
Something in you tightened, as your hands curled at your sides. “I’m not naive enough to assume anyone would want to squire for me, let alone a prince. But this isn’t about me, it's about Aegon and what’s best for him.”
“And you presume to know what’s best for him?”
“I presume whatever didn’t work for Daeron or Aerion, would not suit Aegon either.” You answered, your words holding a hardened edge that you didn’t intend. “I only mean that-”
You felt it at once, the shift in him, not loud, not sudden, but absolute. Like a door closing somewhere you hadn’t realized was open.
“That he would be best away from his family and father.” He said, rising from his chair now, his jaw so tightened you thought he might break teeth.
“I didn’t mean-”
“You speak of my sons,” he said quietly, “as though they are mismanaged hounds.”
“No,” you said, more carefully now, “only that they might have needed something different. And Aegon—”
“You are finished.”
The dismissal came without force, and without room for anything else.
For a moment, you stood there, the weight of it settling in, your misstep clearer now than it had been a breath ago.
Fuck.
You inclined your head, the motion controlled despite the tightness in your chest. “Your Grace.”
And turned before the conversation could worsen, stepping back into the hallway.
For a moment, you stood there unmoving.
“I told you he wasn’t in the best of moods.” The guard smirked from his place by the doors.
You ignored him and carried on walking.
Your steps were measured at first, controlled, the rhythm steady against the stone beneath your boots, but the further you went, the tighter something coiled in your chest.
The words replayed, unbidden, sharper now in memory than they had been in the moment.
Whatever didn’t work for Daeron or Aerion…
Gods.
Your jaw tightened.
It was a foolish thing to say, but sense seemed to so often fail you around Maekar Targaryen, replaced only by a boldness of tongue.
The corridor stretched long and dim before you, torchlight flickering against the stone, casting shifting shadows that seemed to follow at your heels. A pair of servants passed, heads bowed, stepping neatly aside to give you space. You barely noticed them.
Or woman.
Your hand flexed at your side. You may be tactless but he was anything but he was stubborn and prideful.
He had dismissed you like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. And yet, he hadn’t been wrong. That was the part that settled the worst.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, your pace quickening despite yourself.
What right did you have to speak on his sons? On him?
But somebody needed to, you reasoned with yourself and you cared for Aegon, you’d do anything rather than see him turn out cruel or mad, unrecognisable beyond the boy you knew now.
Something hot flared again, stubborn and unyielding.
Maekar hadn’t even tried to listen, not really.
He had heard the insult, yes, but not the rest of it. Not what you had been trying to say beneath it. About Aegon. About how different he was, how easily that difference could be worn down into something harder, colder if left in the wrong hands or the wrong place.
You turned a corner sharply, your shoulder brushing closer to the wall than intended, the roughness of the stone catching lightly against your sleeve.
He ruled his sons the same way he carried himself, tight, controlled, unyielding. Everything contained. Everything is shaped into what it should be, whether it fit or not.
You thought of Aerion, cruel, vain and coiled too tightly around his own pride. Of Daeron, tortured, drifting somewhere beyond duty entirely. And Aegon. You slowed again, the anger faltering just slightly at the thought of him.
Bright. Open. Still untouched by whatever had shaped the others into what they were.
You had spoken out of turn and you knew that. But you believed you hadn’t been wrong to speak and that was the part you couldn’t quite shake.
A frustrated breath left you, quieter now, the heat in your chest settling into something heavier, more complicated. Because beneath the anger, there had been something else, too.
The way he had gone still. The way his voice had changed; not louder, not sharper, but contained.
A frown faintly reached your face.
You had struck something. Not pride alone, something deeper.
And you knew, despite everything, that Maekar was not a cruel man. Not heartless. If anything, it was the opposite. The weight of his sons, of what they were and what they might become, sat heavier on him than he would ever allow to be seen.
It was, perhaps, the first thing you had learned of him that made him… human. Likeable even, though you resisted the word the moment it formed.
And for a fleeting moment, you found yourself wondering, whether anyone ever spoke to him like that. Whether anyone ever said anything that wasn’t careful, or measured, or shaped to please.
Your thoughts shifted, unbidden to Baelor.
You had seen the way they were together, brothers, yes, but not equals in the same way. Baelor listened. He considered. He allowed space for things to be said, even when they were not easy.
Maekar… did not.
It could not have been easy, living in Baelor’s shadow. To be measured against him at every turn, against his steadiness, his restraint, the quiet way he seemed to command respect without ever demanding it.
To always be the other son. The harder one, the forgotten one.
And now he had sons of his own. Sons who would be measured just as closely and compared just as readily, To Baelor, to each other and to him.
You reached your chambers before you quite remembered the walk, your hand coming to rest against the door as though you had arrived there by instinct alone.
“Are you alright?”
Duncan’s voice cut gently through your thoughts.
You glanced over your shoulder to find him watching you, concern plain in the set of his brow, in the way he lingered a step too close as if unsure whether to leave you to your quiet or not.
“Yeah,” you said, a little too quickly. Then softer, offering a faint, tired smile, “Just tired, you know.”
About Maekar. About the conversation that had gone wrong before it had truly begun. About the way you had meant to help and instead made something worse.
But what use was there in telling Duncan this now? What good would it do to give voice to something that had already slipped beyond your reach? If anything, it would only raise hope where there was none left to hold onto.
So you said nothing.
“If it’s about what’s being said…” he began carefully, shifting his weight, “then perhaps you should tell Baelor. He’d put an end to it.”
For a moment, you just looked at him.
If anything, the whispers were the least of your concerns now. They stung, but they were easy, in a way. Predictable and manageable.
And the truth of it was known where it mattered, that had to be enough.
“It is,” you insisted, though your voice had lost some of its firmness. You looked away, your gaze settling somewhere along the corridor instead of meeting him. “I’m not going running to Baelor over every bit of talk.”
He didn’t interrupt, but you could feel his attention still fixed on you, steady and patient in a way that made something in you ease. You had been alone on the road for so long that it felt unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, to have someone notice the quieter shifts in you.
“And besides,” you added, quieter now, “it only feeds it. Gives it more weight than it deserves.”
Duncan gave you a look that said he didn’t entirely agree but, to his credit, he let it go.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “you’re needed on Baelor’s post.”
You blinked, a flicker of surprise cutting cleanly through the weight of your thoughts. “Now?”
He nodded. “Aye. But if you’re too tired, I can take your place.”
“No,” you said quickly, already pushing off from the door. “It’s fine, I’ll go.”
The truth was, you welcomed it.
Anything was better than standing there, torturing yourself by turning over the same words you had exchanged with Maekar again and again.
Duty, at least, gave you something to occupy your hands, if not your mind. It filled the hours, set your steps, and gave shape to the day. Even if much of it was spent standing guard; still, watchful, alone with your thoughts as they crept back in all the same.
Duncan watched you for a moment, as if weighing whether to stop you anyway.
You were already moving before he could change his mind, your steps turning toward the winding path up the Tower of the Hand, your pace just a fraction quicker than it needed to be. And you didn’t slow as you reached the base of the tower, your hand brushing lightly along the cool stone as you began the climb.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” you called back over your shoulder.
The stairs spiraled upward, narrow and worn smooth with age, each step carrying you further from the noise below and closer to something quieter, more contained.
When you reached the top, the door to the solar was closed, but voices within were just loud enough for you to catch through the wood of the door.
“...it is not just the shortages, your grace,”
You stilled, your steps halting just short of your post.
“There are reports of sickness in the lower districts,” the voice continued, measured and almost too calm, as though discussing something distant, something contained. “Flea Bottom, for the most part. Though we are… hoping that is where it remains.”
Inside, something shifted like a faint scrape and the quiet movement of someone turning.
“What kind of sickness?” Baelor’s voice came through, sharp but calm. The kind of voice you had come to associate with quiet control, even when everything around him threatened to slip into disorder.
“No one can say for certain,” came the reply. “Fever, weakness. Some recover quickly enough. Others…” A slight hesitation. “Do not.”
The words lingered, unfinished, but clear enough.
“And how many are afflicted?”
“Many more than there were a few days ago.”
You found yourself holding still without thinking, your hand resting lightly against the cold stone beside the door.
“It spreads easily in places like that,” the man went on, quieter now. “Close quarters. Poor air. Little in the way of clean water.” A breath. “If it remains there, it can be managed.”
If. The word sat heavy in the silence that followed.
“And if it does not?” Baelor asked.
There was no edge to the question, but no softness either.
“…then it will not remain a problem of the lower districts.”
You shifted your stance just slightly, the faint scrape of your boot against the stone sounding louder than it should have in the stillness.
Inside, someone exhaled slowly.
“Send every healer we can spare,” Baelor said, his voice firm now, leaving little room for hesitation. “And whatever supplies can be gathered; cloth, vinegar, clean water, see that they reach the worst of it first.”
You frowned faintly at that, your gaze dropping to the worn edge of the stone floor. It sounded… serious. More serious than the scattered rumours you’d heard in passing, from the rest of the guard. Those had been easy to dismiss, seasonal illness, nothing more.
A brief pause, then, more decisively—
“Quarantine the districts. All of them. No one moves between them without express permission.”
A brief pause followed, long enough to feel the weight of what he’d said.
“Your Grace…” the other man began carefully, a note of hesitation threading through his otherwise measured tone. “That may be… premature.”
Silence, then a quiet shift of papers.
“With respect, reports are still uncertain. Illness is not uncommon this time of year, especially in the lower districts. To cordon off entire sections of the city now,” he exhaled lightly, as though choosing his words with care, “it may cause more disruption than the sickness itself,” Another beat. “Panic spreads faster than fever, and is far harder to contain.”
“And how often,” he said at last, his voice low but unyielding, “has caution been mistaken for overreaction, until it is too late to call it either?”
He continued before the other man could answer.
“If it is nothing, then we have been careful.” A slight pause. “If it is not… then we will have already done what should have been done,” a breath, “I will not have us wait for certainty while the city fills with bodies.” Baelor continued,
“Yes, your grace.”
His words settled heavily, leaving no room for argument, and something in you shifted with them.
Because there was no performance in it. No careful shaping of words but only a quiet refusal to look away from what might come.
You felt respect, certainly, but not only that. Something warmer and quieter that curled in your chest
Footsteps followed, measured and deliberate, drawing closer to the door. You straightened at once, shoulders squaring, your hand settling loosely at your side as the latch turned.
The door opened, and the councilman stepped out. His gaze flicked to you briefly, sharp and assessing, before he dipped his head in the barest acknowledgment and moved past, his pace hurried.
You listened to the sound of his steps fade down the spiral stairs.
“Would you come in for a moment, please?”
You blinked, the words catching you slightly off guard. For a brief second, you didn’t move, your mind slow to catch up, as though you had been standing somewhere just outside yourself.
Then you realised, he meant you.
The solar felt warmer than the corridor, but the air carried a different kind of weight, ink, parchment, and something sharper beneath it. Urgency.
Baelor sat behind his desk now, bent slightly over it, writing with quick, decisive strokes. His dark brows were drawn faintly together, the lines at their corners more pronounced than usual, his focus fixed entirely on the page before him.
The solar had thick high walls, narrow windows that let in strips of light rather than full warmth, with views that looked out high and removed over the city. Maps, letters and writings fill the desk and shelves, stacked and arranged with quiet precision. There was no excess, no ornament for ornament’s sake.
He did not look up immediately when you entered. The scratch of the quill filled the room, steady and purposeful, as though even time itself had narrowed to the motion of his hand.
You paused just inside the door, unsure whether to speak or wait. For a moment, you simply watched him.
There was none of the ease you had seen on the road now, none of the quiet space he had always seemed to carry with him then. Here, everything about him was sharpened, drawn tighter, more deliberate, shaped by the weight of his title.
And yet. there was something steady in it, too. Something certain, as if, despite everything, he knew exactly what he was doing.
You wondered despite yourself, what it would be like to follow behind him into battle. It was almost too easy to picture it, the same steadiness carried into chaos, the same refusal to yield to fear or noise or confusion. The kind of command that did not need to be shouted to be obeyed.
It was a dangerous thought, not because of what it imagined but because of how easily it settled in you, and how little you wanted to dismiss it.
At last, he finished the line he was writing, folded the parchment, and set the quill aside.
Only then did he look up.
His gaze found you at once, and for a brief moment, something in his expression softened, just slightly, like a breath taken after holding too long.
“I won’t pretend to think that you didn’t hear any of what has just been said.” Baelor said.
You lowered your head slightly. “I heard a little, your grace.”
For a heartbeat, you considered saying more and explaining, perhaps, that you had not meant to listen but that the walls carried sound too easily, that you had only caught fragments.
But none of that felt necessary, not with the way he was looking at you.
“Do you have any family?”
The question, simple as it was, caught you off guard.
For a moment, you just looked at him, as though you hadn’t quite heard it properly. It wasn’t what you had expected, not after the weight of the conversation before, not here, not now.
Your first instinct was to deflect it, to give something brief and unremarkable and move on. Questions like that rarely came without reason, and you had spent too long learning how to step around them.
But something in the way he asked it gave you pause, there was no edge to it, no judgment but just honest curiosity.
You wondered, briefly, if he asked this of all those who stood guard at his door, if he took the time to know them in the same quiet, deliberate way.
And yet, you suspected he did. He seemed the sort of man who would remember such things; the names, the places, the small details others overlooked. Not out of obligation, but because he chose to.
The kind of man who understood that those in his service were more than the roles they filled.
“I did.”
The words came more quietly than you intended, and for a moment, you let them sit between you before continuing.
“My father died when I was small,” you said, your gaze drifting briefly past him, as though remembering a memory that sat somewhere just out of reach.
You paused, the faintest crease forming between your brows, as if trying to decide whether to leave it there or whether to border more treacherously into why your memories of him now was were few and tainted.
It wasn’t a line you were willing to cross.
“And my mother,” your voice softened, not breaking, but losing some of its steadiness, “She passed just over a year ago.”
The admission settled heavier than you expected.
You had said it before, in simpler terms, to people who required the knowing. But here, in the quiet of the room, it felt different somehow, less like a fact, and more like something still unfinished.
Your fingers shifted slightly at your side, grounding.
“She was…” You hesitated, then let out a small breath, the edge of something almost like a smile flickering and fading just as quickly. “She was a very strong woman.”
Baelor did not rush to reply. “I imagine you are very much like her, then.”
His voice was quiet, but certain; not offered lightly, nor as something meant only to comfort.
A faint pause followed, his gaze steady on yours. “And I think,” he continued, a touch softer, “she would be proud of that.”
The words settled gently, but they did not feel empty.
There was no easy reassurance in them, no attempt to smooth over what you had said, only a simple recognition, as though he had taken what you’d given him and weighed it with care before returning something just as considered.
“Thank you, your grace.”
And you meant it.
Not out of courtesy, nor obligation but because, for a brief moment, the memory of your mother felt shared. Not carried by you alone, quiet and unseen, but acknowledged and given shape in someone else’s understanding, even if they had never known her.
It was a strange kind of comfort.
“Were you close to your own mother?”
The question slipped out before you could weigh it, before you could decide whether it was yours to ask at all. For a brief moment, you considered taking it back, but it was already there, posed between you.
Baelor didn’t seem taken aback.
“Yes,” he said simply, though the word carried more weight than it first seemed. “She was… a great influence on me.”
The quiet that followed was not uncomfortable, but it lingered just long enough to feel like it might become something heavier if left alone.
Baelor seemed to sense it too.
He straightened slightly, the more reflective edge of the conversation easing as he reached for a folded parchment on the desk beside him.
“There is something I need delivered,” he said, his tone shifting back toward something more practical, though not as distant as it had been before. “If you would.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
You stepped forward as he extended it toward you, but the movement was poorly timed on both sides.
Your fingers brushed his. It was brief, barely more than a moment, but it was enough.
Warmth, unexpected and striking in its contrast to the cool air of the room, lingered longer than it should have, spreading in a slow and unwelcome tide that rose all the way to your cheeks. The roughness of his fingers was at odds with the careful way he had passed the parchment.
And though you did not look at him fully, you were aware acutely, of his stillness mirroring your own.
And you had to make a conscious effort not to trace the features of his face with your eyes, though for some reason, in that moment, they felt important in a way you couldn’t explain. Too close now, you became aware of details you had never allowed yourself to linger on before, the tan of his skin, the rough edge of his beard, the slight crookedness of his nose, as though it had been broken long ago and never quite set right.
The space between you was falling into something that felt different now, something newly aware of itself, that terrified you without you really knowing why. And neither of you quite knew how to put it back.
“I’ll see to it,” you said, the words coming a touch too quickly, offering more to fill the silence than anything else.
Baelor inclined his head in acknowledgment, his eyes flickering from your face to your hands and then finally back to his desk.
You turned before the moment could stretch any further, before it could settle into something harder to ignore, and made your way toward the door.
The corridor beyond felt cooler when you stepped into it, the air sharper against your skin, but it did little to steady you.
Because the feeling lingered, stubbornly persistent.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the parchment as you descended the narrow stairs, grounding yourself in the purpose of it. A task. Something clear. Something that required no thought beyond carrying it from one place to another.
And yet your mind would not stay with it.
It kept slipping, back to the room, to the stillness, to the brief, the feel of his hand against yours.
You flexed your fingers once, subtly, as if that might shake it loose. It didn’t. Instead, there was a strange unfamiliarity to them now, as though they no longer quite belonged to you.
As if that brief, fleeting contact had lodged something firmly in you, sitting just beneath your thoughts and on the surface of your skin.
It meant nothing. It had been nothing.
And yet, it lingered.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dawn had broken reliably early and you with it.
For days now, Maekar had been in a temper that seemed to seep into the very stone walls of the keep, sharp enough that even those far removed from him moved a little more carefully, spoke a little more quietly. It was not unusual, but this time, it lingered.
So at Baelor’s suggestion or perhaps insistence, though gently given, a small hunting party had been arranged at first light. Better, perhaps, to have Maekar lose his temper on a stag than let it continue to coil within the halls of the keep.
The realisation that you would be one of the guards to accompany him though, had put a damper on this effort. But it was useless, since so many other guards were too busy with matters of the crown, to spend their day soothing the temper of their prince.
Upon the sight of you, he didn’t send you back to the keep, as you had half worried and half hoped, since being told you were to join the party. Instead his surprise on first noticing you had just been replaced with a hard set of his mouth, before ignoring you completely for the entire ride there. Which, you told yourself, was preferable.
It seemed most of his efforts were not reserved for you alone. A Lannister had made the effort to invite himself along on the hunt, and Maekar seemed to have found no reason to discourage him.
The lord rode beside him, speaking with a persistence that bordered on relentless commentary, observations, questions that required no answer yet lingered all the same. It was the kind of conversation that filled space rather than served it and Maekar bore it poorly.
What restraint he showed was thin at best, his silence sharper than any reply might have been, his attention fixed firmly ahead as though the man’s voice were something to be endured rather than engaged with.
If he answered at all, it was brief. Clipped. Just enough to prevent outright insult, but not enough to invite continuation. It was futile in discouraging the lord.
And so the ride carried on that way, his patience worn thinner with every passing moment, his temper not eased by the hunt but quietly fed by it.
You tried to keep your focus on the path ahead, on the trees, the ground, anything steady, hells even to the drivelling of the Lannister. But your thoughts slipped, persistently, back to the day before, back to Baelor.
You flexed your hand slightly around the reins now, as if the memory alone had weight to it. It was ridiculous, nothing had come of it, nothing had been said but the feeling trapped you all the same.
“And so I told him, your grace, if a man needs a hundred hounds to catch a hare, then he’s no huntsman at all.”
The Lannister lord gave a satisfied chortle at his own wit, lifting his waterskin for a long, indulgent swig, one that lingered just enough to suggest the contents were something stronger than water.
The sharp scent that carried on the air did little to argue otherwise.
Maekar didn’t even bother to grunt in response, and you didn’t trouble yourself to hide the roll of your eyes either.
The party had been deep in the Kingswood for a couple of hours now, the morning mist long since burned away, leaving only the quiet press of trees and the restless shifting of horses beneath their riders.
And the hunt had been as fruitless as the conversation.
But it was then that you noticed it, the faint grooves carved into the bark of a passing tree, too deliberate to be chance, too clean to be weathered away by time.
You slowed instinctively, your eyes catching on the mark as your horse drew level with it. The bark had been scraped raw in places, pale wood exposed beneath the darker surface, and the pattern was unmistakable once you saw it properly.
The shape of antlers.
Low and wide, as though something large had turned its head and pressed close enough to leave a trace of itself behind.
Your gaze lifted at once, following the line of trees ahead, where the undergrowth grew thicker and the light narrowed into long broken shafts between branches. If it had moved this way, it would not have gone far without leaving more signs.
Without fully thinking, you spoke.
“There.”
The word cut through the quiet of the party, small but certain.
You gestured toward the tree, your fingers hovering just short of the bark where the grooves sat carved into living wood.
“Antlers,” you added, quieter now, as though the stag itself might hear you. “It’s been through here recently.”
You felt, rather than saw, Maekar dismount somewhere just behind you, the quiet thud of boots on earth, the shift in the air as he stepped closer to inspect the tree for himself.
For a moment, there was only the sound of him studying it.
“Has the woman found the bloody beast?” the Lannister lord called, his words thick with drink, his eyes narrowed uselessly as he tried to focus from atop his horse.
Maekar did not look back at him.
“We follow through here,” he said instead, his voice level, already turning slightly to track the line of trees. “If it passed recently, there’ll be more signs. Droppings, disturbed ground.”
“Oh, wonderful,” the Lannister replied, the sarcasm heavy and poorly concealed as he let out a laugh meant more for himself than anyone else. “Let me just—”
The words cut off sharply.
There was a sudden clumsy shift, then a heavy smack as he pitched forward from the saddle, hitting the forest floor face-first with a dull unforgiving thud, one foot still tangled in the stirrup.
“Fuck!” The curse came muffled, half-choked, as his horse startled beneath him.
You were already moving.
By the time you reached him, his squire was scrambling to free his boot, hands fumbling in urgency as the lord struggled and swore beneath him.
“Hold still,” you said, dropping to a knee beside him, your tone firm despite the chaos of it.
The squire managed to wrench his foot loose, and the lord rolled partially onto his side, clutching at his face with a groan.
You caught his wrist and pulled his hand away despite his weak resistance. “Here, let me see.”`
Blood ran freely from his nose, bright against his skin, already beginning to swell beneath your touch. You leaned closer, assessing, your grip steady even as he twisted under it.
“I think it’s broken,” you said plainly.
“Of course it’s broken, you stupid bitch,” he snapped, his voice rising into something close to a wail as pain and drink tangled together. “Gods—”
You let his hand go and leant back slightly.
For all his earlier noise, all his self-satisfied wit, there was something almost pitiful in the sight of him now; sprawled in the dirt, bloodied by his own clumsiness, his dignity gone as quickly as his footing.
And you found, to your own surprise, that you felt very little sympathy at all.
“Take him back to the keep. We’ll go on.”
Maekar’s voice was steady, untroubled by the disruption, as though the fall, and the man sprawled in the dirt, were nothing more than an inconvenience already set aside.
He was moving as he spoke, turning from the scene without hesitation and mounting his horse in one smooth motion.
You looked up at him, caught off guard.
For a moment, you assumed that the order extended to you as well. That you would be left to see the injured lord safely returned, removed from the hunt as neatly as he had been.
After the silence he had kept all morning, the deliberate disregard… you had not expected to remain at his side.
Behind you, the Lannister lord groaned, his squire struggling to steady him, but the decision had already been made for all of you.
You rose without comment, brushing your hands clean before turning back to your horse.
There was no question to be asked.
You mounted in silence, falling into place once more as the two of you began to move off alone, your gaze drifting, just briefly, toward Maekar.
Still ahead. Still intent.
The forest closed in once more.
For a time, no one spoke.
The earlier noise, the exaggerated laughter and the interruptions had fallen away with the Lannister, leaving only the quiet rhythm of hooves against damp earth and the occasional shift of leather and steel.
You had expected the ride to grow more uncomfortable once the others fell away, once it was only you and the prince left in the quiet of the woods.
But it didn’t.
Instead, the two of you settled into something easier. Not conversation, not quite understanding but a silence that held purpose rather than tension.
Without the constant interruption, the forest seemed to open around you again. Your attention returned to the ground, to the subtle shifts in the trail, and without needing to look, you could feel him doing the same. Adjusting when you did. Slowing when the path demanded it.
You let your gaze drift low again, searching.
The tracks were easier to follow here.
Fresh prints pressed into softer ground, deeper than before, cutting slightly to the left. A broken branch caught your eye next, its pale interior still raw where it had been snapped. Further on, the undergrowth had been disturbed, leaves crushed beneath something that had passed not long before.
You slowed slightly, following the signs as they revealed themselves one after another.
The quiet stretched alongside the trail, taut but steady, filled instead with the shared awareness of the hunt, of something just out of sight drawing you deeper into the trees with every step.
You found yourself glancing toward Maekar before you meant to, the motion subtle, easily disguised beneath the act of tracking, but deliberate all the same.
He seemed not happy, not quite, but content at least, in a way he had not been within the walls of the keep. There, he had carried a restlessness that never quite settled, a sharp, contained energy with nowhere to go, turning inward until it showed in clipped words and a temper too easily stirred.
Out here, it was different. The edge of it had eased, redirected rather than suppressed.
His pale hair had come loose from its usual careful order, strands shifting with the movement of the ride, and there was a faint flush to his face now from the exertion. It softened him, if only slightly made him seem less like something contained and more like something in motion.
But it was in his focus that the change showed most clearly.
His violet eyes were sharp on the trail ahead, fixed and intent, following signs and movement with a steadiness that had been absent before. Here, there was something to occupy him, something that demanded attention rather than patience.
Something that met him in kind.
And for the first time since you had seen him that morning, he seemed… settled.
You could say something. The thought came unbidden.
Not an apology, not quite, but something to soften it. To return to it, perhaps, and undo what had been said in the heat of it. You could explain and clarify, tell him what you had meant, rather than what had been heard.
But you found, to your own quiet surprise, that you were enjoying the hunt more than you had expected. And you resisted the risk of disturbing it, besides you doubted he would hear anything but what he had already decided.
The trail sharpened the deeper you rode.
What had begun as scattered signs became clearer, with tracks pressed deep into softer ground, the undergrowth bent and parted where something large had passed through, the occasional mark of antlers against bark guiding the way like quiet confirmation.
You found yourself adjusting your path without thinking.
And, just as quietly, Maekar adjusted with you and you tried to ignore the faint validation and satisfaction that came with it.
No words were exchanged, but there was a rhythm to it now, an unspoken understanding. When you slowed, he did. When the trail veered, he followed without question. Once, you caught him glance toward a broken branch just as you had noticed it yourself.
Neither of you acknowledged it, but it was there.
The trees began to thin. Light shifted ahead, softening, widening, and then the forest opened. A clearing.
It spread out before you, untouched and still, grass swaying faintly beneath the heavy air, bordered by tall trees that seemed to hold it in quiet reverence. And there—
The herd.
They stood scattered across the clearing, delicate and alert, their coats catching the muted light. Does and younger stags, heads lifting in slow, cautious unison.
And at the centre—
Him.
The stag.
Larger than the rest, his antlers wide and branching, unmistakable against the pale sky beyond. He stood still, head raised, watching.
You did not move.
Neither did Maekar.
For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that single point, the distance between you and the animal, the quiet tension of it, the fragile balance that might break with the slightest wrong motion.
It was beautiful. And fleeting.
A shift of wind, barely there.
The stag moved first.
A sharp turn of his head, a sudden alertness, and then he bolted, the herd scattering with him in a rush of movement, vanishing back into the trees as quickly as they had appeared.
The clearing fell empty but for the silence that followed.
You exhaled slowly, watching the place where he had been only moments before.
Then, before you could quite stop yourself—
“We could go back after Lord Lannister instead,” you said lightly, glancing sideways. “He’d be easier to catch.”
For a second, you weren’t sure if he’d respond at all.
Then—
High, brief and unmistakably a laugh.
You looked at him startled, the sound of it catching you off guard more than anything else. It was a laugh, real and unrestrained, rising sharper and lighter than you would have expected from him.
It felt entirely at odds with the man you had come to know, the one of tightened jaws and narrowed eyes, of clipped words and barely contained irritation whenever you were near.
For a moment, you simply stared.
As though you had caught sight of something not meant to be seen.
“Perhaps,” he said, a trace of amusement still in his voice, “but he’d make for a far poorer prize.”
It was your turn to laugh then, the sound coming more easily than you expected.
It had barely faded when the first drop of rain struck the ground between you.
You both glanced upward as the sky, already heavy, finally gave way. The canopy above caught some of it, but not enough. The sound of rain began to build, soft at first, then steadier.
Maekar exhaled lightly, glancing once more toward the treeline where the stag had vanished.
“We should head back.”
There was no argument to be made.
The rain thickened quickly as you turned your horses, the path already darkening beneath it. Within moments, it began to soak through your cloak, hair, the steady drip of water trailing down your sleeves.
“How did you know?” Maekar asked.
You glanced at him, faintly caught off guard. “Your Grace?”
“The signs,” he said, his gaze still fixed ahead. “Tracks. Markings.”
There was no edge to it and no challenge, just observation.
You hesitated briefly before answering. “I learned on the road. You notice things, or you go without.”
A small pause followed.
At that, he glanced at you, brief and measuring before returning his attention to the trees.
“Hm.”
It wasn’t much, but it wasn't a dismissal. And strangely, you found yourself holding onto it. If nothing else, it meant you might pass the rest of the day without drawing his temper, or worse, his attention.
Maekar not looking at you constantly as though you were something to be endured made your life that little bit easier.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It had been an hour since you returned to the keep, and you now sat curled into a chair in Duncan’s room, still faintly damp from the rain and quietly grateful for the shelter of four walls, and the cup of hot wine your friend had stolen from the kitchens warming your hands.
“So you didn’t even catch anything?” Duncan asked from where he sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the frame looking comically too small beneath him.
You let out a soft breath, the corner of your mouth lifting as you turned the cup slightly between your fingers, feeling the heat of it seep into your skin.
“No,” you said, a faint amusement in your voice. “Not for lack of trying.”
Your gaze flicked up briefly, meeting his.
“We tracked him well enough,” you added, more thoughtfully now. “Found where he’d passed, where he’d marked the trees. We even came upon the herd.”
Duncan raised a brow at that. “And still nothing?”
You shook your head, the smile lingering, though softer now.
“He saw us first,” you said. “Gone before we could so much as draw breath.”
There was a pause then, easy and unforced, filled only by the quiet crackle of the fire and the faint sound of rain still tapping somewhere beyond the walls.
You leaned back slightly into the chair, letting yourself settle at last.
“It wasn’t a wasted ride,” you added after a moment, more to yourself than to him.
Though you weren’t entirely sure why.
Duncan watched you for a second, as if he might ask more—
The door burst open without warning.
You started in your chair, the movement sharp and instinctive, while Duncan half-rose from the edge of his bed, already turning.
“I’m staying!”
Aegon stood in the doorway, breathless, his face flushed bright with something that, at first glance, looked like triumph.
“He said yes,” he went on, stepping inside, words rushing over each other. “I'm here to squire for you! My father decided just now.”
Duncan blinked, caught off guard. “He did?”
“Yes-” He faltered. It was small and easy to miss, but you saw it.
The way his weight shifted wrong. The way the colour in his face wasn’t right, not from excitement, but something deeper. Too bright, too hot.
“Egg,” you said, already rising.
“I just, ” he started, blinking hard, his hand lifting slightly as if to steady himself. “I ran…”
His knees gave.
Duncan caught him before he hit the ground, the motion sudden and clumsy as Aegon’s little weight collapsed against him.
“Egg—!”
For a moment, you didn’t move.
The room seemed to narrow, sound dulling, your thoughts stalling somewhere just out of reach as the sight of him; limp, too still and all wrong fixed you in place.
Duncan was saying something and lowering him onto the bed, but it came through distant, muffled, like you were hearing it from underwater.
This couldn’t be?
The flush. The sudden drop. The heat.
Your chest tightened.
“He’s burning.” Duncan’s voice cut through sharply now, closer.
Something snapped back into place.
“Maekar.”
The name left you before you quite realised you’d spoken. You stepped back, already turning, your pulse loud in your ears.
“I’ll get him.”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
The door was open in a breath, and you were already moving, your steps quick at first, then faster, boots striking hard against stone.
The keep blurred around you as you sprinted, past servants and guards, past familiar turns you barely registered, your breath coming sharp as urgency took hold of you fully now.
Only one thought cutting cleanly through the panic—
Summary: As a widow, originally from house Redwyne, you were demanded to remarry and wed prince Maekar against your wishes. But you and Baelor have a history, and he falls for you as well.
Warnings: eventual polyamory, some angst, English is not my first language. For the sake of the fic, Maekar has no daughters, only sons.
You had not wanted to wed again.
That was the first thing you told your brother when the raven came from King’s Landing, sealed in red wax and heavy with implication. You had already buried one husband. You had already stood vigil through fever-slicked nights and listened to the rattling breath of a man dying of pox, watched servants burn his sheets, watched maesters shake their heads.
You had borne two sons for him. Strong, loud boys with lungs like trumpets and fists like little stones. You had done your duty. You had wept, then put your household to rights, then taught your eldest how to hold a wooden sword and your youngest how to sit still at table. Widowhood had been quiet, if not peaceful.
Then came the letter: the fourth son of the king required a wife.
You had known the name, of course. All of Westeros knew it.
Maekar Targaryen.
From the tales told at feasts, he was iron in the shape of a man: hard-mouthed, humorless, broad-shouldered, the sort who split shields at tourneys and skulls in war. The son of a king, yet not close enough to the crown to be gentle. A widower, too. Lady Dyanna Dayne had died years ago, leaving him with four sons and a temper that, rumor claimed, had only worsened.
You had no desire to be a balm for a dragon’s grief. But alliances were not woven from desire.
House Redwyne of the Arbor did not refuse such overtures lightly. Your blood carried fleets : two hundred warships, and five times as many merchant carracks and wine cogs besides. The Arbor’s vineyards fattened half the realm. Burgundy grapes on blue banners snapped proudly in sea wind.
And so you went. The first time you saw him, it was not at the wedding feast. It was in the yard.
He had arrived at the Arbor with a small retinue and four boys in tow. The sea air did not soften him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching his sons spar. His hair was pale as bleached driftwood, his face cut from angles rather than curves. His eyes, violet, unmistakable, narrowed in assessment.
The boys were easy to mark. Daeron, broad and flushed, already half-drunk on your family’s pride, deep in his cups.. Aerion, sharp-faced and sharp-eyed, moving like a coiled spring. Aemon, solemn and observant. And the youngest, Aegon, small for his years, all curiosity and stubborn chin. Egg, they called him, though he bristled at it.
Maekar did not look at you when you approached. He said, without turning, “Lady Redwyne.”
“Prince Maekar,” you returned.
Only then did he glance at you, and there was no courtesy in the look, only evaluation.
“You have sons,” he said.
“I do.”
“Healthy?”
“Very.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Good.”
You almost laughed. “That is all you have to say to your future wife?”
“I prefer to know what I am getting.”
“And what do you think you are getting?” you asked.
He studied you again: your straight back, your steady gaze, the fact that you did not dip your eyes away.
“A woman who does not simper,” he said at last.
“That would disappoint you?”
“No.”
You tilted your head. “Good.”
Aerion’s wooden blade cracked against Daeron’s shield with a loud snap. Egg had turned to stare at you openly.
Maekar followed his youngest son’s gaze.
“They will not make it easy for you,” he said.
“Nor I for them,” you replied. “We shall have that in common.”
For the first time, something flickered at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile.
The wedding was grand in the way alliances demanded in order to not imply offence. Wine flowed like river water. The hall glittered with candlelight reflected in polished goblets. Songs were sung of dragons.
You stood beside him in crimson and blue, hands joined before the high septon, speaking vows neither of you had chosen.
When the feast swelled loud with laughter, Daeron flushed and beaming over a goblet of Arbor gold, you leaned toward your new husband and murmured, “If he drinks like that at every meal, I shall have to water his cups.”
“He is old enough to know better,” Maekar said.
“And yet,” you returned, watching Daeron attempt to recount some tale and lose his thread halfway through, “he does not.”
Maekar’s eyes flicked to you. “You will not coddle them.”
“No.”
“You will not undermine me.”
“Only when you deserve it.”
His mouth twitched again.
“Good,” he said.
That night, when the feast had dwindled and the torches burned low, he came to your chambers without ceremony. You dismissed your women. He dismissed the last of his guard. For a long moment you stood facing each other in the quiet.
“I will not be gentle for the sake of appearances,” he said bluntly.
“I would not insult you by asking it.”
He searched your face as if waiting for fear. You did not give him any. He stepped forward instead.
He was not tender, not the way a young groom might be with a maiden bride. But he was not cruel. His hands were calloused from sword-hilt and rein, warm and sure. He kissed you not as a boy discovering sweetness but as a man reacquainting himself with something he had once known well. You found you liked the weight of him. The solidity.
You both lay in silence afterward.
“Do you compare?” he asked abruptly.
“To my first husband?” you said.
“Yes.”
“Only in that you are not him.”
He turned his head slightly. “Is that good?”
“It is,” you said.
His hand found yours beneath the coverlet, fingers lacing briefly before letting go.
King’s Landing was hotter than the Arbor, and drier. The Red Keep rose red and severe against the sky. You took up residence in Maekar’s apartments as though you had always meant to be there.
The court watched you. A Redwyne widow. A proven mother. A Reachwoman among dragons. You watched back.
The boys were wary at first.
Daeron liked you almost immediately, though you suspected it was less for your company and more for the steady trickle of Arbor wine that followed you north.
“If I am to be surrounded by Targaryens,” you told him dryly one evening as he accepted a modest cup, “I must ensure at least one of you is pleasantly disposed.”
He laughed too loudly. Maekar shot him a look.
“A small cup,” you added, narrowing your eyes.
Daeron groaned, but obeyed.
Egg, for his part, hovered.
He would sit near you when you embroidered, asking questions about ships and storms and whether the Arbor truly smelled of crushed grapes at harvest.
“It does,” you said. “You would like it. There are fewer stone walls and more wind.”
He considered that.
“May I see it one day?”
“If your father allows.”
Egg glanced at Maekar, who was reading by the hearth.
“Ask him,” you said softly.
Egg squared his shoulders and did.
You watched Maekar look down at his youngest son and then grunt, “Perhaps.”
It was more than the boy had expected. He beamed.
Aerion was harder. He circled you like a hawk circles prey, sharp words and sharper smiles.
“So,” he drawled one afternoon, “the Arbor sends us wine and a wet nurse in one.”
You met his gaze evenly.
“If I were your wet nurse,” you said, “I would have smacked that tone out of you years ago.”
Aemon’s lips twitched despite himself.
Aerion’s eyes flashed.
“You are not my mother.”
“No,” you agreed. “But I am your father’s wife. And while you are under this roof, you will speak to me with respect.”
He leaned forward. “Or what?”
“Or I will speak to you as I would my own sons.”
There was steel in your voice.
He studied you for a long moment, and then, unexpectedly, inclined his head a fraction. He did not mock you after that. Not openly, at least.
Maekar watched these exchanges in silence.
Later, alone, he said, “You do not fear him.”
“He is a boy,” you replied.
“He is not.”
“He is,” you insisted. “And he tests because he wishes to see where the walls stand.”
He looked at you for a long time.
“You are good with them,” he admitted.
“I have practice.”
He nodded once. “You will have to be harder still.”
“On him?”
“Yes.”
You thought of Aerion’s sharpness, his restless cruelty that flickered and vanished like heat lightning.
“I will be fair,” you said. “That is harder than cruelty.”
Maekar exhaled slowly.
“Fair,” he repeated, as if testing the word.
You grew used to his presence in your bed. He was not a man of many endearments. He did not whisper sweetness against your throat. He did not promise eternity. He came to you because he desired you and because it was expected. You welcomed him for the same reasons.
There was something deeply satisfying in the way he lost control only in small measures. The tightening of his grip. The low sound in his chest when you bit at his shoulder. The way his breath grew rough when you drew him back for more.
Afterward, he often lay propped on one elbow, studying you as though you were a puzzle.
“You are different,” he said once.
“From whom?”
“From her.”
Lady Dyanna.
You did not bristle.
“I should hope so,” you said lightly.
His mouth flattened. “I do not mean...”
“I know what you mean.”
He searched your face for resentment and found none.
“I am not here to replace her,” you said. “I am here because the realm requires it.”
“And you?” he asked quietly. “What do you require?”
You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw.
“A daughter,” you said.
The words settled heavy between you. His expression changed.
“You have sons,” he said.
“I do.”
“You do not lack heirs.”
“I lack a girl,” you replied. “A daughter to teach as my mother taught me. To braid her hair and tell her stories of ships and storms. To show her how to hold her head high in a hall full of men.”
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“I have sons,” he repeated, more to himself than to you.
“Yes.”
Silence stretched.
“You do not want another,” you said softly.
He did not answer at first.
Then: “I will not have another mad one.”
You turned onto your side, propping yourself up.
“Aerion is not mad,” you said carefully.
“He is…” Maekar’s jaw tightened. “He is too much like the blood that runs in our line.”
“And that blood runs in Egg and Aemon too.”
“Yes.”
“But you do not fear them.”
“No.”
You rested your hand on his chest. “You cannot govern what the gods send.”
“I can try.”
That was the heart of him. You understood it.
The next morning, he sent for moon tea.
The cup was warm in your hands when it arrived. Bitter steam rose from it.
You looked at him over the rim, your expression sour. “Must you?”
“Yes.”
“You think so little of me?” you asked.
“It is not you I doubt.”
“It feels like it.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“I will not risk it,” he said. “Not yet.”
You drank it anyway. You always did. But you made sure he saw your displeasure. And he bore it.
Time did what time always does. You and Maekar found yourselves speaking not only of duty but of smaller things, of the absurdity of certain lords at court, of the way one knight strutted as though his codpiece were stuffed with gold.
“Did you see his plume?” you muttered once at a feast. “I have seen peacocks with less vanity.”
Maekar huffed.
“His wife looked as though she wished to set it alight.”
“I would have,” you said.
He glanced at you sidelong. “I believe you would.”
You began to look for his eye across halls, to catch the faintest twitch of amusement before it vanished. He began to seek you after council meetings, muttering about fools and flatterers.
“You would have told him no,” he said once, recounting a lord’s request.
“I would have told him yes,” you corrected. “And then arranged matters so that his request became inconvenient.”
He stared at you. “You are dangerous.”
“Merely practical.”
“Gods help me,” he muttered, and then unexpectedly laughed.
It startled you both.
The moon tea did not stop. Each time, the same bitter cup. The same look between you. You did not argue every time.
But one evening, after a long day and longer night, you sat upright in bed and refused to take it.
“No.”
Maekar froze. “You will.”
“No,” you repeated.
Silence thrummed.
“You would defy me?”
“I would ask you to trust me.”
He stared at you as though you had struck him. “I do trust you.”
“Not enough.”
He rose from the bed, pacing once. “If a son is born?”
“Then we will raise him.”
“And if he...” His voice broke off.
You stood and crossed the space between you.
“If he is difficult, we will guide him. If he is cruel, we will correct him. If he is broken, we will mend what we can.”
“And if he cannot be mended?”
“Then he will still be ours.”
Maekar’s hands came up, gripping your shoulders. “I will not bring another monster into this world.”
“You cannot know that he would be.”
“And you cannot know he would not.”
You held his gaze. “I know this: I would rather risk loving a child than live fearing one.”
His breath shuddered. “You are braver than I am.”
“No,” you said softly. “I am simply less afraid of ghosts.”
Slowly, he took the cup from the table and poured it out. He did not look at you as he set the empty cup down.
“Very well,” he said.
Your heart pounded. You stepped into his arms. He held you tightly, as though bracing for impact.
“I want a daughter like you,” he admitted into your hair. “Stubborn and sharp-tongued.”
You smiled against his chest. “Then perhaps the gods will be kind.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. “If they are not,” he said quietly, “we will endure.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “We will.”
For the first time since your wedding, the future felt less like an obligation and more like a choice.
The council chamber was suffocating with heat and arguments.
You had attended enough feasts and councils now to know the cadence of it: prince Baelor speaking in measured tones about unity, about symbolism, about how a tournament could soothe tensions between proud houses. Valarr countering with logistics and optics.
“Seating the Martells and the Lannisters side by side would be a statement,” Baelor was saying, hands folded before him. “A gesture of reconciliation.”
“A statement, yes,” Valarr replied. “Though whether it will be read as reconciliation or provocation depends on how much wine is poured.”
Across the table, Maekar stared at nothing. His fingers drummed once against the polished wood. Stopped. His jaw flexed.
“Perhaps,” Baelor continued, “if we...”
The scrape of chair legs against stone cut through the air. Every head turned. Maekar stood.
Baelor blinked. “Brother?”
Maekar did not look at him at first. He rolled his shoulders once, as if easing stiffness.
“You have this well in hand,” he said flatly.
Valarr’s brow arched. “We are discussing seating arrangements.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I do not care.”
A faint murmur rippled around the table.
Baelor’s mouth twitched in exasperation. “It is not merely seating, Maekar. It is a matter of perception.”
Maekar finally met his brother’s gaze.
“Then perceive what you will,” he said. “Seat them together. Seat them apart. Put them in separate kingdoms if it pleases you.”
Baelor sighed. “And where are you going?”
Maekar adjusted his belt as if the answer were obvious. “I would rather be with my wife.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to slice.
Valarr let out a short, incredulous huff. “We are in the midst of...”
“Yes,” Maekar cut in. “You are.”
With that, he turned and walked out. No bow. No apology. Not even a backward glance.
You did not look up immediately when the door opened.
“Back already?” you asked lightly. “Have they resolved the fate of Westeros without bloodshed?”
“No,” Maekar grunted, closing the door with more force than necessary. “They are still discussing where to place the Dornish.”
You set the needle aside at that tone. “And you decided the matter required your absence?”
“It required absence from me.” He crossed the room and sat heavily in the carved chair near your worktable. Then he reached for you.
You let out a small, surprised laugh as he pulled you toward him, one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing against the armrest. You ended up half sprawled across his lap, skirts rustling, your hands instinctively finding his shoulders for balance.
“Maekar,” you chided, though your mouth curved. “You might give a woman warning.”
“You are warned now,” he muttered.
He leaned forward and pressed his face into your chest. His breath warmed the fabric at your collarbone. You rested a hand in his hair, fingers combing through pale strands.
“Did Baelor lecture you on harmony?” you asked.
“Mmm.”
“Did Valarr suggest charts?”
“Mmm.”
“Did someone use the word symbolism?”
His grip tightened faintly around your waist. “Yes.”
You laughed outright at that.
He made a low, disgruntled sound, half growl, half sigh, and shifted so that he could lean back in the chair, pulling you more fully onto his lap. One of his hands slid up your back.
“I am surrounded by men who think disputes are solved by rearranging chairs,” he said into the hollow of your throat.
“And what would you solve it with?” you asked.
“Steel.”
You smiled against his temple. “Of course.”
“They debate as though the Lannisters will faint at proximity to Dorne.”
“They might,” you said solemnly. “Have you considered the shock to their delicate constitutions?”
He huffed, the sound vibrating against you.
“I left,” he said.
“I gathered.”
Baelor’s faintly scandalized expression came to mind and you snorted softly. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I would rather be with my wife.”
“Well,” you said, arching a brow down at him, “how flattering.”
He tipped his head back to look at you properly now, violet eyes sharp but no longer bored.
“I have endured an hour of men arguing over chairs. I have earned this.”
“And what is this?” you asked sweetly.
He adjusted you on his lap, one hand sliding to your hip.
“Quiet,” he said. “And you.”
Your lips curved. “You are being terribly romantic.”
“I am being honest.”
He leaned forward again, this time not burying his face but brushing his mouth along the line of your collarbone, a slow drag that made your breath hitch despite yourself.
“Maekar,” you murmured. “It is not even nightfall.”
He lifted his head.
“Then we should go to bed,” he said simply.
You laughed. “It is hardly late. What will people think if the prince retires before supper?”
“I do not care what they think.”
“No,” you agreed. “You rarely do.”
You tilted your head, feigning scrutiny. “Perhaps you are growing old.”
His eyes narrowed. “Old.”
“Well,” you continued, tracing idle circles at his shoulder, “leaving councils early, eager for your bed...”
“My bed?” he interrupted.
“Our bed,” you corrected lazily.
He raised one pale brow.
“I was not aware,” you went on, “that you tired so easily.”
His grip on your hip tightened, just enough to make you shift against him.
“I am not tired,” he said evenly.
“No?”
“No.”
You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “Then why this sudden urgency, husband?”
For a heartbeat, he only looked at you. Then the corner of his mouth tilted.
“I wished,” he said, voice lowering, “to go to bed early so that I might have time.”
“Time?” you echoed innocently.
“For more rounds,” he replied.
Heat flickered under your skin. He did not look away.
“Until you grow sleepy,” he added, as if it were merely a practical consideration.
You swallowed, then smirked. “And if I do not grow sleepy?”
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, urging you closer, his thumb pressing.
“You will,” he said.
“Very well,” you said. “Since you have fled diplomacy in my honor, it would be cruel to deny you.”
“Cruel,” he agreed gravely.
You rose from his lap then, but only to take his hand and tug him to his feet. He stood immediately, towering, his expression sharpening as though a different kind of battle awaited.
Baelor Targaryen had always been the sort of man people preferred.
He listened when others spoke. He weighed his words before offering them. He did not fill rooms with force; he settled into them, and others adjusted themselves willingly. Widowed as well, he had never remarried. Two sons, he had once said, were blessing enough. The realm did not require more of him.
You had believed him.
It was during a small supper in the Tower of the Hand that you first noticed the shift.
The meal was simple. Roasted capon, greens dressed in oil, a modest red from the Arbor that you had approved. Maekar sat to your right, restless as ever in rooms heavy with policy. Baelor sat across from you, sleeves rolled to the forearm, speaking of road repairs in the Riverlands with surprising interest.
“You must miss the sea,” he said to you at one point, his tone mild.
“Every day,” you answered honestly. “Though King’s Landing has its charms.”
“Does it?” Maekar muttered beside you.
You hid a smile.
Baelor’s mouth curved faintly. “Surely you have found some.”
“I have found that if one walks along the eastern wall at dawn, before the city fully wakes, the air is almost clean,” you said. “And the gulls sound nearly like home.”
Baelor listened as though you had told him something rare.
“Then you have carved out a corner for yourself,” he said.
“Or claimed one,” you replied.
His eyes warmed.
Maekar’s hand tightened around his goblet.
Later that evening, when you and Baelor lingered near the hearth discussing the peculiar stubbornness of certain Reach lords, men you both knew by name and temperament, Maekar stood apart, speaking with a knight about levies.
You laughed at something Baelor said. Not a polite court laugh. A real one. Maekar looked up.
Baelor told himself it was admiration. Respect for a clever woman. Appreciation for a sharp mind.
You were not like the women who filled court with gentle chatter and soft agreement. You spoke plainly. You challenged him without disrespect. You understood the Reach, its pride and politics, in ways he did not. When he asked your opinion, you gave it without coyness.
He had known you before Maekar married you. He had met you once, years ago, when the Redwyne fleet had come to harbor. You had been recently widowed then, dressed in blue rather than black, because you had declared mourning did not require surrendering color.
He had thought you formidable. He had thought, briefly, that if he wished to remarry, such a woman would not be a poor choice.
But he had not wished. Or so he had believed.
Now he watched you across chambers and felt something like regret coil low in his chest. He saw the way Maekar’s hand rested at the small of your back when you stood together. The way you tilted your head toward him when he muttered something under his breath. The way you did not shrink from his temper but met it with steady eyes.
Baelor was happy for his brother. He was. Maekar had not been happy after Dyanna’s death. He had grown harder, less patient, more withdrawn. Your presence had altered that.
Yet, there were moments when Baelor wondered what might have been if he had chosen differently. If he had allowed himself to want.
Maekar noticed long before you did. He noticed because he knew his brother. Baelor’s restraint was legendary. His honor unquestioned. He would rather cut off his own hand than dishonor family.
But restraint did not erase longing.
Maekar saw it in the way Baelor’s gaze tracked you when you crossed a room. In the way his voice gentled when he addressed you. In the fact that he sought your opinion with increasing frequency.
“My lady,” Baelor said one afternoon as the three of you walked the gardens, “would the Redwyne fleet consider escorting trade ships north if the Stepstones grow restless again?”
You answered thoughtfully, weighing costs and pride and political advantage.
Maekar did not speak. He listened to Baelor listening to you. And something ugly stirred in his gut. It surprised him.
He had never envied Baelor. Not his position. Not his reputation. Not his ease with court.
Maekar had never wanted to be heir. Never wanted to sit the Iron Throne. The weight of it did not tempt him.
But you...The idea of Baelor wanting you was different.
That was not a crown to be passed. That was not a title to debate. You were his lawful wife.
That night, he found Baelor alone in the yard. The torches burned low. The air was cool. Baelor was overseeing a pair of squires at practice, correcting a stance with patient clarity.
Maekar waited until they were dismissed.
“Brother,” Baelor said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “You are abroad late.”
“I wished to speak with you.”
Baelor studied his face. “About?”
Maekar did not circle the matter. “You enjoy my wife's company.”
Baelor did not pretend confusion.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Tread carefully.”
Baelor’s expression did not change, but something flickered behind his eyes. “I would never dishonour you.”
“I know.”
“Nor would I place her in discomfort.”
Maekar stepped closer. “I am not a fool.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You keep looking at her.”
Baelor exhaled slowly. “I look at many people.”
“Not like that.”
Silence.
Finally, Baelor met his gaze fully. “She is remarkable.”
Maekar’s hand curled into a fist at his side.
“Yes,” he said, voice rough.
Baelor’s jaw worked once.
“I made my choice years ago,” he said quietly. “I will not undo it now.”
“You regret it.”
Baelor did not answer immediately. Then: “I wonder.”
The honesty of it struck like a blade.
Maekar stepped even closer, their shoulders nearly brushing. “You will not pursue her.”
“I would sooner die.”
“I believe you,” Maekar said.
But belief did not ease the tightness in his chest. Baelor placed a hand briefly on his brother’s arm. “She chose you.”
Maekar held his gaze. “Yes,” he said.
But later, alone in his chambers, the word felt less certain.
You were not blind. You felt the tension long before either man named it.
Baelor’s courtesy had deepened into attentiveness. He sought you out in halls to ask about the Arbor harvest. He lingered after meetings to debate the merits of certain reforms. He asked what books you read.
“You surprise me,” he said once as you spoke of trade routes and tariffs.
“Why?” you asked lightly.
“Many would prefer to discuss jewels.”
“I prefer ships,” you replied.
His smile was brighter, genuine.
Maeakar was in a foul mood that night.
“You and Baelor have grown close,” he said without preamble.
You paused. “We speak,” you said carefully.
“You laugh.”
You arched a brow. “Am I forbidden to laugh?”
“No.”
“Then what troubles you?”
He turned, and for once there was no anger in his expression, only something far less comfortable.
“Everyone prefers him,” he said.
“He is kinder,” Maekar went on. “More patient. Better suited to rooms like this.”
“And you believe I would prefer that?”
He did not answer. That was answer enough. You crossed the room slowly. “Maekar.”
He did not move when you reached him. “You think I married you because you were gentle?”
His mouth flattened. “No.”
“Do you think I would trade you for easier company?”
He looked away briefly. “I would not blame you.”
Something in your chest tightened. “You great fool,” you murmured, not unkindly.
His eyes snapped back to yours.
“You are honest,” you continued. “You do not pretend. You do not charm for sport. When you speak, I know it is truth.”
He searched your face as though hunting for pity.
“You are iron,” you said softly. “And I do not care for gilded things.”
A breath left him slowly.
“Baelor is a good man,” you added. “I enjoy speaking with him.”
“I know.”
“But I do not lie awake wishing for him beside me.”
The bluntness of it made his throat work.
“You are certain?” he asked quietly.
You stepped closer, placing your hands against his chest.
“If I wished for Baelor,” you said, meeting his gaze steadily, “I would have found a way.”
He studied you long and hard. Then his hands came up, gripping your waist.
“I do not fear crowns,” he admitted. “I do not fear battle. But this...”
“This what?”
“Losing what is mine.”
You softened. “I am not a thing to be lost.”
“No,” he agreed. “You are a woman who could walk away.”
You tilted your head. “And have I given you cause to think I would?”
“No.”
“Then trust me.”
It was the same word you had once offered him over a cup of moon tea.
Trust me.
He exhaled.
“I do not envy him,” he said. “Not his titles. Not his favor. But I will not let him have you. I cannot.”
A spark flared in your eyes.
“I am not his to have.”
“I know,” he said roughly. “But I needed to say it.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him.
When you pulled back, you brushed your thumb along his jaw.
“If Baelor admires me,” you said, “that is his burden. I sleep soundly.”
A faint, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“Good,” he said.
Across the Red Keep, Baelor stood alone at a window, looking out over the darkened city. He would never cross the line. He would never dishonor his brother.
But sometimes, in the quiet between duty and dawn, he allowed himself to wonder what might have been, before folding the thought away like a letter never sent.
It did not happen in a single, noble gesture. Maekar did not wake one morning transformed into a saint. He wrestled with it. He watched. He measured. He fought with himself. And he remembered.
He remembered Baelor as a boy, steady where others were sharp, patient where Maekar had been quick to anger. He remembered Baelor standing between quarrelling cousins, smoothing words before they became wounds. He remembered the years after Dyanna’s death, when Maekar had been less than fit company and Baelor had never once complained.
He remembered the realm, too. How Baelor bent himself toward it. How he chose duty over ease, always. How he had refused remarrying not because he could not have it, but because he believed his sons enough and the realm required no further complication.
Baelor had never taken what he wanted. Maekar had. And now what Baelor wanted was already Maekar’s. That was the thorn.
He expected to feel anger. Instead, he felt something heavier. Understanding.
Baelor caught sight of him first. His expression shifted immediately, composure sliding back into place, distance reasserted. You turned at the change in air, and your gaze softened when you saw your husband.
Maekar stepped fully into the room. “Am I interrupting?” he asked.
“No,” Baelor said at once.
“Yes,” you said at the same time.
Both men looked at you.
You lifted a brow. “He was about to concede that I am correct.”
Baelor’s mouth curved faintly. “I was about to acknowledge your perspective.”
“You were about to admit I am right.”
Maekar almost smiled. Almost. He crossed the room slowly.
Baelor stepped back. Always that restraint. Always that line he would not cross. Maekar looked from one to the other.
Then he said, evenly, “Stay.”
Baelor stilled.
“Brother...”
“I am not blind,” Maekar said.
The candlelight flickered across his face, carving hard planes softer at the edges.
“You have given this realm everything it has ever asked of you,” he continued. “You have never taken more than your share.”
Baelor’s expression tightened. “That is not...”
“Let me finish.”
Silence fell, thick but not hostile.
Maekar’s gaze did not waver. “You will not dishonor me,” he said. “I know that.”
“I would rather die,” Baelor answered quietly.
“I know,” Maekar repeated. “That is why this is my choice.”
You felt your pulse quicken. Maekar exhaled slowly.
“If there is…affection to be had,” he said, each word deliberate, “you will not take more than is given.”
Baelor did not move. “I would not presume.”
“I know.”
It was not generosity born of weakness. It was something harder. Maekar loved his brother. That was the truth of it. Loved him enough to see the quiet longing in him. Loved him enough to recognize that Baelor had spent years swallowing his own desires for crown and country. Loved him enough to loosen his grip.
You stepped closer to Maekar first. Not Baelor. Your hand slid into your husband’s, fingers curling firmly. His jaw worked once, but he did not pull away. Then, slowly, you extended your other hand toward Baelor. He looked at it as if it were a blade and a blessing all at once.
“I will not break what stands between you,” he said softly.
“You will not,” Maekar agreed.
Baelor took your hand. Gently. As though testing whether the world would shatter. It did not.
Baelor did not become bold overnight. He did not claim or demand. If anything, he was more careful. He stood a fraction closer when speaking with you. Allowed his hand to rest at your back a heartbeat longer than strict propriety required. When he smiled at you, he did not suppress it quite so quickly.
The first time Baelor brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, Maekar’s spine went rigid. But Baelor’s touch was reverent, brief. grateful. He did not linger as though entitled. He behaved like a man who had been handed something fragile and precious and did not wish to bruise it. That was what undid Maekar most.
Later, when the three of you were alone, Baelor’s restraint gave way to something quieter but no less sincere. His affection was not fierce like Maekar’s. It was steady. Attentive. He listened to the cadence of your breathing. He watched your expressions as if memorizing them.
It was obvious how much he enjoyed it. How long he had denied himself simple tenderness.
You had expected tension. You had prepared for brooding silences, sharp glances, perhaps the occasional territorial display that required smoothing over.
You had not prepared for this.
Two princes of House Targaryen, grown men, battle-tested, politically seasoned, reduced to absolute fools in your presence.
Maekar had always been handsy. Blunt about it, too. If you stood within reach, you were within possession of at least one of his hands. At your waist. Your hip. The small of your back. If seated, you were in his lap more often than not, regardless of who else occupied the room.
Now, however, there was competition. Baelor, who had once been the very model of dignified restraint, had apparently decided that if affection was permitted, he would partake politely but thoroughly.
Which meant that when you stood between them at a private supper, Baelor’s hand might rest at your elbow while Maekar’s palm settled firmly at your lower back. Which meant that if you laughed and leaned toward one, the other would immediately adjust to reclaim his portion. It was exhausting. And deeply entertaining.
“You are both insufferable,” you informed them one evening as you attempted to pour wine and discovered Maekar’s arm banded around your waist like a steel trap as you pulled you on his lap.
“I am comfortable,” Maekar replied.
“You are crushing me.”
“You exaggerate.”
Behind you, Baelor’s voice drifted warm and composed. “If she cannot breathe, brother, she may not be exaggerating.”
You twisted slightly to look at Baelor, who was watching with faint amusement, and very much not moving his hand from where it rested lightly along your forearm.
“Do you intend to help?” you asked him.
“I am helping,” he said mildly. “I am ensuring you do not topple while pouring.”
“I have been pouring wine since before either of you decided to grow sentimental.”
Maekar snorted. “You are wriggling,” he muttered into your hair.
“I am attempting to exist.”
“Stop wriggling, girl,” he grumbled, tightening his hold. “Have mercy on my cock.”
Baelor choked on his wine.
You went very still. Then you turned your head slowly toward your husband.
“Mercy,” you repeated sweetly.
“You heard me.”
“You could attempt decorum.”
“I could,” he agreed. “I will not.”
Baelor set his goblet down carefully, schooling his expression, though the faint pink at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
“My brother,” he said with grave patience, “does not possess a poet’s tongue.”
“No,” you agreed. “He possesses something far less refined.”
Maekar’s grip shifted upward, one large hand spreading over your stomach as if to emphasize his point.
“You are enjoying this,” you accused.
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Baelor’s hand slid from your forearm to your wrist, thumb brushing lazily over your pulse.
“You do provoke him, sweetling,” he said gently. “You cannot be surprised at the consequences.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do not ‘sweetling’ me as though I am some skittish maiden.”
His mouth curved. “I would never mistake you for skittish.”
“Or maiden,” Maekar added helpfully.
You elbowed him. He did not budge.
Later, in a quieter chamber, the situation deteriorated further.
You had been foolish enough to sit in the large cushioned chair near the hearth. Maekar claimed your lap first. Or rather, you claimed his, perching sideways across his thighs while arguing about something entirely inconsequential.
Baelor, ever the picture of restraint, had taken the seat opposite.
For approximately three minutes.
Then you shifted slightly, adjusting your skirts, and Maekar made a low sound. “Stop.”
“I am not doing anything.”
“You are.”
You blinked down at him innocently. “Doing what?”
“Rolling.”
“I am breathing.”
“Do it less.”
Baelor exhaled softly, amusement clear. “You are tormenting him,” he observed.
You tilted your head. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Maekar and Baelor said in unison.
Maekar’s hands tightened at your hips.
“Have mercy,” he muttered again.
Baelor rose from his seat and approached.
You eyed him warily. “What are you doing?”
“Balancing the scales,” he said.
And then, without fanfare, he sat close enough that his thigh pressed against yours, one arm draping comfortably along the back of the chair behind you. You were effectively boxed in by two tall, warm, very intent princes.
“This,” you said carefully, “feels like a conspiracy.”
Baelor leaned closer, voice low and smooth. “If it is, sweetling, you are its architect.”
Maekar huffed. “She enjoys being difficult.”
“I enjoy being adored,” you corrected.
Baelor smiled faintly. “Then you must be exhausted.”
Maekar barked a short laugh.
“You see?” you said, pointing at Baelor. “He is witty. You could try that.”
“I do not need wit,” Maekar said, dragging you slightly closer to his chest. “I have hands.”
“You certainly do.”
Baelor’s lips brushed you shoulder. “You are very pleased with yourself,” he murmured.
“I am,” you said.
Maekar tilted his head back to look up at you. “You are going to be the ruin of us.”
“You survived war.”
“War did not sit on me and wriggle.”
Baelor laughed properly then, warm and rich.
You felt rather smug about it.
At court, the spectacle became barely contained. If you paused beside Baelor to speak, Maekar would appear moments later as though summoned by instinct, planting himself at your side with blatant territorial energy. If you lingered too long with Maekar in some corner, Baelor would drift close under the pretense of consultation, his hand finding yours briefly, squeezing once before releasing.
The court did not know where to look.
You, meanwhile, felt like a particularly well-favored cat with two large, grumpy dragons determined to prove themselves.
“You are both behaving absurdly,” you informed them one afternoon when they each attempted to guide you through the same doorway at once.
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SUMMARY - After the events that went down during the tourney, you are beginning to look less and less like a friend to Taliya.
CONTAINS - direct continuation, reader is a tyrell, reader is evil and manipulative, aerion is aerion, read part one
A/N - got carried away, oops. I'm so open to expanding on this reader or this story in general I'm not ready to let go
"You..." Taliya's voice was barely heard, thick with tears that she was desperately trying to hold back. "He asked for yours. You said... You told me you were trying to help me."
"I only gave it to him because he is a prince, Taliya. I couldn't humiliate him or myself in front of the king. You understand that, dont you?" You lied, reaching out to squeeze her wrist.
For a second, Taliya looked completely lost, her mind warring between the devastating reality of what had just happened and the absolute, fake warmth you were radiating.
She let out a broken sniffle, pulling her hand away to press it against her trembling lips.
"I... I need to leave," she choked out, unable to look at you or the arena for another second.
"Of course," you whispered back instantly, leaning in to pat her arm. "Go back to the keep and rest. I'll come check on you the very moment the melee is over."
You watched her turn and flee from the pavilion, her head bowed to hide her crying face from the crowd.
The moment her back was turned and she was swallowed up by the crowd, the pity melted off your face in less than a second.
Turning back to the arena, you rested your chin in your hand, a tiny smile finally touching your lips as you watched Aerion tie your green silk ribbon tightly around his arm, ready to bleed the field dry for you.
Dinner was louder than usual that night. The melee had been a bloodbath, exactly as everyone expected, and Aerion had stood victorious at the center of it all, your pale green ribbon stained with the dust and blood of his opponents.
You were idly picking at a pastry when a shadow fell over your table.
"My lady."
Aerion stood there, simply extending a hand, his wrist still adorned with your ribbon.
"The King demands a dance from the victor," Aerion said, his voice smooth. "And I demand the presence of the lady who granted me her favour."
You let out a delicate breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. Your fingers slipped into his palm without hesitation.
"It would be my honour, my Prince." You smiled, standing up as the crowd cheered.
He pulled you close and led you toward the center of the floor where the musicians were shifting into a slow, heavy measure.
As soon as you were among the swirling crowd, away from the prying ears of your family, Aerion brought you even closer.
His hand on your waist was firm, pressing you against his chest.
"You played your part exceptionally well today, little rose," he murmured against your temple, "the Tully girl looked as though she was going to vomit when I took your ribbon."
You didn't flinch at his bluntness, you tilted your head up, keeping your face perfectly hidden from the rest of the room on his shoulder.
"I have no idea what you mean, my Prince," you lied smoothly, your tone a soft, mocking pitch. "Poor Taliya was simply heartbroken that you didn't notice her. I was merely trying to shield her from your cruelty."
"You are a liar," he whispered, his violet eyes flashing with possessive heat as he looked down at you. "A beautiful, vicious little liar. You wanted her to watch. You wanted everyone to see that you are the one I choose."
"And if I did?" you murmured back, letting a fraction of your real, unbothered nature show in the curve of your smile. "A dragon doesn't care about a bit of collateral damage, does he?"
"Never," Aerion replied, his thumb dragging sharply over your hip. "In fact, I find it thoroughly entertaining."
You found yourself smiling harder at that, slightly turning your head down at his comment.
The feast lasted for hours, but you slipped away, informing your father that you were getting sleepy.
Walking through the quiet corridors, your pulse was steady, and your mind entirely clear.
When you reached the front of your chambers, you didn't enter. Instead, you walked down the hall to Taliya’s room.
Her door was unlocked. Inside, the candles had burned down to stubs.
Taliya was huddled on the edge of her bed, still wearing the wrinkled blue gown from the tourney. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her face was stained from hours of crying.
"Taliya," you breathed, rushed and anxious, instantly crossing the room to sink onto the mattress beside her.
You reached out, wrapping your arms around her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace.
Taliya didn't hug you back this time. Her arms remained heavy in her lap, her body completely stiff against yours.
"Everyone was looking at me," she whispered, her voice hoarse from weeping. "When he took your ribbon... everyone whispered. They laughed. I could hear them."
"They are vultures, all of them," you cooed into her hair.
Over her shoulder, your eyes stared blankly into the dark corner of the room, struggling to feel a thing.
"They don't know your worth, Taliya. Prince Aerion is a monster for what he did today. He intentionally used me to humiliate you."
Taliya pulled back just enough to look at you, her red eyes searching your face. "But why did you dance with him tonight? I heard the music. If he was being cruel to me... why did you let him hold your hand?"
You squeezed her hands with practiced guilt, leaning in until your foreheads almost touched.
"Because I was terrified, Taliya!" you cried softly, your voice cracking with fear.
"You know what he is. If I had refused him, if I had publicly slighted the Prince after he won the melee... he would have ruined my family. I did it to keep his anger from all of us."
A fresh wave of tears spilled over her cheeks, and she finally collapsed against your chest, sobbing violently into your green silk gown.
"I want to go home," she wept, her fingers clutching desperately at your sleeves. "I hate this place. I want to go back to Riverrun."
"No, no, you mustn't run away," you said quickly, leaning in close and looking at her with fierce intensity.
"If you pack your bags and flee to the Riverlands now, everyone at court will know he broke your spirit. They'll laugh even louder, Taliya" You gave her hands a desperate squeeze.
Taliya looked completely lost, her mind stuck between her devastating humiliation and the fake warmth you were radiating.
"Alright.. Just, I need time to think. My mind is clouded with tears." She nodded, curling into herself and turning her back toward you.
With that, you rose from the bed and walked out of her chambers, letting out a sigh of relief as you closed the door.
The morning after the tourney, the highborn ladies gathered in the sunlit gallery, the air was thick with the scrape of needles through linen.
It was a picture of absolute serenity, a staged haven of courtly peace, but beneath all of it the murmurs of the tourney were still fresh.
You sat near the tall window, the bright morning light catching the delicate gold embroidery below your collarbone.
Your hands were steady as you worked a silver thread through a pattern of green leaves, your expression perfectly placid, a smile gracing your lips whenever an older septa passed by.
To anyone watching, you were the very picture of a dutiful lady of Highgarden.
Directly across from you sat Taliya.
She had forced herself to come down, desperate to prove to the court that her spirit hadn’t been crushed by the prince’s public snub.
Where you were a vision of calm, Taliya was unravelled. Her skin was pale, save for the dark hollow shadows beneath her eyes, and she hadn’t touched her cup of sweetened wine since she sat down.
Most telling of all, however, was her gaze.
Taliya wasn’t looking at her fabrics. She was watching you.
Every time you paused to select a new thread, every time you offered a comforting nod to a lady who whispered a word of greeting. Her eyes tracked the movement.
She was looking at your fingers. Flawless, unbothered, not a single tremble in sight.
She was remembering the panicked, concerned girl who had held her hand in the dark just hours ago, swearing she was terrified of the Prince’s volatile nature.
Yet here you were, completely serene. There was no fear in the curve of your shoulders, no lingering anxiety in the way you carried yourself.
“You’ve chosen a beautiful shade of green, my lady,” a minor lord chirped, leaning over to admire your needlework. “It matches the favour Prince Aerion wore yesterday.”
The gallery went subtly quiet, several heads turning to catch your reaction.
You let your needle pause, your eyes slightly rounding in a display of beautiful surprise. A flush rose to your cheeks.
“The prince was merely teasing my family, I am sure,” you said softly, your voice melodic and entirely convincing to the ears around you.
You turned your face slightly, offering Taliya a look of sorrowful sympathy—a reassurance meant only for her.
But the lie did not settle the way it usually did.
Across the table, her needle snapped sharply in her grip. She didn’t weep this time. She stared at your face, watching the way your lips curved into that familiar comforting shape.
For the first time, she wasn’t seeing a friend, she saw the seemingly absent warmth beneath your lips.
“Taliya?” you whispered, tone dripping with gentle sisterly concern as you leaned forward. “Are you quite well? Perhaps we should return to your chambers.”
At first, Taliya did not answer. She slowly pulled her hand back from the ruined embroidery, the pieces beginning to align in her mind.
“I am quite well,” she responded, voice dropping an octave. She looked directly into your eyes, her gaze tracing the smooth, unblemished line of your jaw. “In fact, I have never felt more clear-headed.”
Before you could say anything back, the bells of the Red Keep began to toll, echoing through the walls of the gallery.
It was the call for the midday court, the hour when the lords and ladies would gather to discuss important matters.
The older septa clapped her hands, dismissing the embroidery circle. Around you, the maidens rose in a flurry of soft chatter, gathering their belongings and smoothing their skirts.
Your movements were fluid as you stood up, you carefully folded your linen, fingers smoothing the green leaves you had embroidered with immaculate care.
When you looked back at Taliya, you offered her your arm. “Come,” your voice was a low sound, meant to soothe a grieving friend.
Taliya stared at your extended arm for a moment. Then, with a stiffness that made her look odd, she slid her hands around your forearm.
Her grip wasn’t the soft clinging touch of a frightened girl anymore, evident in the way her fingers clamped down against your sleeve with digging pressure.
You didn’t flinch. Your stride remained perfectly even as you guided her into the wide corridors that led to the castle’s heart.
As you walked, you navigated the crowd with proper charm. You inclined your head to an elderly lord from house Blackwood, you offered a dazzling smile to a pair of passing squires who quickly scrambled to clear a path for you.
But under the rustle of the crowd, Taliya leaned in close, her breath hot against your temples.
“Last night, you told me you danced with him out of fear,” Taliya whispered with her eyes fixed forward. “You said you only gave him your hand to keep his malice away from us.”
You continued walking the same pace, your composure remaining unaffected. “I did,” you replied with ease.
“Then why,” Taliya hissed, her fingers digging deeper into your arm, her voice shaky with sudden clarity, “did you look so beautiful doing it? I.. I lied last night. I watched you after returning to my room. You didn’t falter once.”
You paused just outside of the Great Hall, where the crowd was thinning as people streamed inside.
Your expression softened into a look of profound, deeply hurt innocence as you turned to face her.
“Taliya,” you breathed, your voice cracking slightly, “how can you say such a thing? I was terrified to my very soul. If I smiled, it was only because a lady must never let the court see her weakness.”
For a second, Taliya might have believed it. She might have burst into tears and begged for your forgiveness.
Yet as she stared at you, she noticed how eerily still you were. There was no sweat on your palms, no real heat in your skin.
Taliya let go of your arm, stepping back a single pace. Her face hardened, a look of spite igniting behind her swollen eyes.
“The heralds are calling,” she spoke, her words entirely flat. “Let us go inside.”
You slipped away from her with a gentle, reassuring squeeze of her hand, stepping into the gathering of house Tyrell. Your father stood near the front, flanked by his knights and companions.
As you took your place beside him, you smoothed your skirts, folding your hands neatly over your waist.
You offered an almost shy smile to a pair of ladies from the Reach who murmured praises about your grace.
Across the aisle, Taliya stood rigid beside her father. Her stance was an interesting sight. There seemed to be no movement in her body as her father conversed with her.
The doors at the back of the hall creaked open once more.
Aerion stepped through.
He didn’t look toward the lords surrounding him. Instead, his violet eyes searched around your area, briefly landing on you before stopping at your father.
He walked with purpose, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight.
Your father inclined his head with reverence as the prince approached. “Prince Aerion, the Reach is ever honoured by the presence of the royal blood.”
Aerion offered your father a polite nod of his own. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and carried beautifully across the silent hall, commanding the attention of every ear.
“The honour is mine, Lord Tyrell,” Aerion said, peeking a glance at you.
“I have come before the court today on a matter of great import to my house. Your daughter has entirely captured my favour, and I find myself unwilling to look elsewhere. I have come for your blessing to take her as my betrothed.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the gathered nobility. Whispers erupted and your father’s eyes flared with shock, a proud smile breaking across his face.
On cue, you took a half a step forward. A look of surprise also washed over your features, your lashes fluttering before you looked up at Aerion with a radiant smile. You sank into a graceful curtsy.
“Father,” you called, your voice sweet, clear, and humble. “The Prince honours our house beyond measure. If it pleases you, it would be my greatest joy to accept.”
“House Tyrell gladly gives our blessing, my Prince,” your father declared, booming with pride as he looked at you. “A glorious match.”
The court erupted into applause and excited buzz.
But from across the aisle, the final thread of Taliya’s control snapped. The green ribbon, the dance, your accidental meetings with him—it all fused into a single blinding flash of betrayal.
Before her father could grasp her arm, Taliya broke from her house.
The crowd gasped and parted in utter confusion as the Tully girl stormed forward, her face twisting in unadulterated rage.
“Taliya?” you asked softly as she stopped directly in front of you.
You let your wide eyes fill with concerned confusion, tilting your head like a worried friend trying to calm a madwoman. “What is–”
Smack.
The sound of her palm striking your cheek echoed like a whip through the whispers of the room.
The noise died instantly. The entire court went dead, suffocatingly quiet.
Your head snapped sharply to the side by the force of the blow, your skirts rustling with the sudden movement.
For a second, completely hidden by the fall of your hair, the facade vanished from your face. Your eyes went cold and empty as you stood entirely steady.
You turned your face to the crowd, and the mask was seamlessly back in place.
A single tear slipped down your reddened, burning cheek. Your lower lip trembled, your hands flying to your sternum as you shrank back against your father, looking completely shocked and heartbroken by the sudden violence.
“Taliya…” your voice was barely above a whisper, cracking with a fragile gasp. “Why… what have I done?”
For three heartbeats, the only sound was the heavy breathing of Taliya, who stood with her hand still raised, staring at you with wild, desperate fury.
Then, the room erupted.
“Insolence!” Your father yelled, “Guards! Seize her!”
From the other side of the room, Lord Tully looked as though he had been struck by a lance.
Blood rushed away from his face, his mouth opening in horrified disbelief at the social suicide his daughter had just committed before the eyes of the entire realm.
“Taliya, no…” he choked out, stepping forward to reach for her, but he was far too late.
Your hand trembled as you pressed your fingers against your cheek. Your eyes swimming with a fresh sheen of tears, looking bewildered as it fixed on Taliya with heartbreaking betrayal.
You looked so small, so fragile. A maiden assaulted by a madwoman.
The gold cloaks were about to approach when Aerion stepped forward, cutting through the space between you and Taliya.
His head tilted menacingly, the smirk he had worn earlier was now gone, replaced by a look of predatory outrage.
His knuckles were white as he gripped on the pommel of his sword, his eyes blazing with unhinged heat.
“You dare,” Aerion hissed, silencing the shouting of the lords in an instant. “You dare strike my betrothed? In my grandfather's own hall, before the eyes of the court?”
Taliya withered, the sudden, icy reality of her wrath finally piercing through her blind rage. She looked around the room, her chest heaving, but she found no sympathy.
The ladies twisted their faces in disgust, the lords were shaking their heads. To them, she was not a victim of betrayal, she was simply a bitter, jealous girl who had lost the prince’s favour and resorted to violence.
“She is a liar!” Taliya shrieked, hysterically sobbing as her father finally reached her, grabbing her tightly by the shoulders to pull her back. “She sat in my chambers! She swore she was afraid of him! S-she used me!”
“Silence!” Lord Tully roared, his voice thick with shame as he bodily dragged his weeping, screaming daughter away from the prince.
Two Tully guards quickly flanked them, shielding the uncontrollable girl from the court’s mocking stares as they hurried to the doors.
"Forgive us, my Prince… Your Grace, she is unwell… the heat of the tourney…”
The doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off Taliya’s cries.
The atmosphere remained tense, everyone still talking in hushed tones.
Aerion’s gaze lingered on the door where the Tullys had vanished, his chest rising and falling with a slow, controlled anger.
Then, he turned around.
The violent rage in his eyes softened into a look of protective concern as he stepped toward you.
Your father moved aside, allowing the prince to take your hands.
Aerion reached up, his rings cold against your skin as his thumb gently brushed the edge of your reddened cheek, tilting your face up so the whole court could see your tears.
Everyone who was watching saw a devoted, chivalrous prince comforting his wounded bride.
However, as your eyes met his, Aerion saw the calculation hiding behind the watery surface of your eyes.
A tiny, nearly imperceptible twitch touched the corner of his lips—a thrilled spark of amusement passing between the two of you, completely unseen by court.
Aerion turned to the people, his arm sliding securely around your waist, his posture an authority that brooked no further disruption.
“My betrothed has suffered enough shock for one morning. Lord Tyrell, I will see to it that your daughter's mind is set at ease.”
Your father inclined his head once more, his face still tight with lingering anger at the Tullys, though his eyes shined with immense satisfaction as he looked at the prince holding you so protectively.
“You honour us, Prince Aerion. Take all the time she needs.”
Aerion guided you to the door, and you kept your head lowered just enough to appear appropriately shaken.
One delicate hand was still hovering near your cheek as you walked with slight hesitation.
The loud noise began to fade as you walked through the heavy doors. He didn’t guide you to your quarters.
His grip on your waist remained firm, directing you down a stairwell.
He turned down a quieter hall that led toward the secluded gardens, a place he had shown you once before.
Aerion released his hold on your waist only to step right in front of you, leaning back on the balustrade.
Crossing his arms, his eyes scanned the faint flush on your cheek. A fine smirk appeared on his face.
“I must admit, little rose,” he started, a low laugh vibrating in his chest, “I did not expect the Tully girl to possess quite so much fire. She nearly ruined my grand announcement.”
“She didn’t ruin anything, my Prince,” you replied evenly, stepping past him to rest your hands on the railing.
"In fact, she gave us exactly what she shouldn’t have. Had she simply sat there and wept, the court would have pitied her. Now? They think she is mad with jealousy.”
Aerion’s smirk widened, his eyes darkening with erratic fascination. He moved to close the distance between you until his shadow completely swallowed yours. His fingers reached out to trace the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up.
“You barely even flinched,” he whispered, thumb brushing below the mark on your cheek.
You tilted your head slightly to his touch, “a lady must always know her audience. The court saw a girl attacked by a bitter rival. My father is furious, Lord Tully is shamed, and our betrothal is sealed with the sympathy of the realm.”
An amused chuckle escaped his lips. He leaned down, his breath warm against your face. “You are quite extraordinary, my rose.” His voice dropped into a low purr. “But you do know what happens to those who try to guide a dragon’s path, hm?”
You took a deliberate step forward, closing the scant gap between your bodies. Your hands came up, fingers light as they slip up his lapels, smoothing the wrinkled fabric.
“A dragon flies where it pleases," you looked up at him through your lashes, "and those who try get exactly what is offered.”
Aerion made a sharp breathless intake of air. Your lack of fear beneath such a gentle demeanor seemed to snap whatever restraint he had left.
His hand left your jaw and slammed against the balustrade behind you. He pressed his weight into you, trapping you while his other hand tangled into the neat pins of your hair. A few strands tumbled free, spilling over your shoulders to join the rest of your hair.
He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with bruising need.
The kiss was entirely untamed. Your fingers anchored tightly to his neck, while his hands roamed around your hair.
He groaned into the kiss, his grip tightening as his tongue slid past your parted lips, claiming your mouth with lustful hunger that stole the breath right from your lungs.
The pressure of his lips shifted from demand to a deeper consuming rhythm that made the rest of your world blur into insignificance.
The quiet air of the garden had vanished, now filled with the rush of the sea breeze and the searing friction of his mouth against yours.
He held you flush against him, hands moving from your hair down to the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer.
When Aerion finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his silver hair slightly disheveled. He didn’t let go of you, his forehead resting heavily on yours as you both pant for air, the feel still lingering om your lips.
“We should return, my Prince. The lords will be wondering where you went.” You giggled softly, moving your head back to gracefully readjust the stray locks of your hair.
Aerion made a noise of breathless laugh and a scoff, clearly enthralled by how quickly you could slip back into a dutiful lady.
He offered his arm, and you wrapped your hand around his sleeve. The two of you walked out of the garden and into the corridors that overlooked the lower courtyard.
The heavy sounds of shouting and wood scraping against stone made you two stop.
Aerion paused, drawing you to the edge of the stone railing. “Look there.”
The aftermath of Taliya’s outburst was unfolding in brutal, vivid detail.
The lower bailey was crowded with people on the steps, all of them watching the public disgrace of house Tully.
Several heavy wooden wheelbarrows were being aggressively loaded by royal stewards, trunks of fine blue silks and personal belongings thrown carelessly into the carts.
Lord Tully’s face was filled with deep, unmitigated shame. He was bowing frantically to a pair of stone-faced gold cloaks, his voice carrying up to the gallery as he pleaded for his house's honor, claiming his daughter had been struck by a sudden madness of the brain.
And then there was Taliya.
She was being escorted toward a covered wheelbarrow by two of her father’s own guards.
Her fine blue gown was wrinkled, her hair completely wild, and her face swollen from fresh weeping.
As she struggled against the guards' grip, minor lords turned their backs on her, refusing to look at the girl.
Taliya fought against the guards, her eyes frantically sweeping the high balconies of the keep, searching for any sign of mercy.
Instead, she saw you.
She froze, looking up at the high gallery where you stood side-by-side with Prince Aerion, his arm resting possessively over yours.
You didn't smirk. You didn't gloat, nor did you let a single trace of triumph show on your face.
No, right there in full view of the courtiers who were looking up at the newly betrothed couple, you let your expression soften into a look of tragic sorrow.
You squeezed Aerion's arm tightly, leaning into his side as if the sight of your former friend's ruin was too much for your gentle heart to bear.
Down in the dirt, Taliya screamed. A raw, choked sound of pure agony, realizing that even now, you were playing the saint, and her own reaction was only making her look more hysterical to the court.
The guards quickly shoved her into the dark interior of the carriage, slamming the wooden doors shut.
You let out a long, trembling breath, slowly turning your head away from the courtyard as if you could no longer bear to look upon the tragedy.
Your hand, still resting on Aerion’s arm, gave a delicate, involuntary shudder.
"Come, my lady," a soft voice called out from the archway.
A small group of ladies and an elderly septa had crept onto the terrace, their faces filled with profound, eager sympathy. Your father stood just behind them.
"The entire court bleeds for you, sweet girl," one of the older Tyrell women murmured, rushing forward to offer a silk handkerchief.
"To be assaulted so viciously by one you called a sister... it is a mercy the Prince was there to shield you from her madness."
You accepted the handkerchief with a small nod, gently dabbing at your unblemished cheek as if the memory of the blow still stung.
"Taliya is... she was merely unwell," you murmured, your voice sweet, soft, and entirely devoid of any malice. "The summer heat can do strange things to a gentle mind. I only pray the Septons at Riverrun can bring her peace."
"You possess the heart of an angel, daughter," your father declared, stepping forward to gently place his hand over your shoulder.
"And she shall have the protection of a dragon." One of the other ladies rang out, clearly admiring your betrothed.
The ladies-in-waiting let out excited, hushed whispers, as Aerion took your hand once more.
This time, he didn't pull you against his chest. In front of your father and the peering eyes of the court, he simply raised your fingers to his lips and kissed the back of your hand.
Aerion released your hand, a faint, ghost of a smirk playing at the very edge of his lips as he turned to walk back toward the council chambers.
You watched him go, your hands folding neatly over your skirts as the ladies swarmed around you, offering their arms and their endless bright congratulations.
You let yourself be led back into the castle, matching their light, joyful steps, your gentle smile perfectly intact as you walked forward into the golden future you had designed piece by piece.
the weather's got me down (but like the sun you'll come around) — M.T. x Reader (chapter two)
Series Summary: a straying Aegon finds himself in trouble and nearly dies if not for you—a mystery woman that lives reclused from society—the Anvil, who loathes owing anyone anything, offers you something others would die for, but you refuse?
Chapter Summary: the anvil comes to you again with a proposal, with no underlying motives, not at all.
Tags: maekar scheming, he is a dreamer too (daeron had to have gotten it from somewhere right?), the anvil is still unaware of his feelings, slight flirting, jealousy, slight possessiveness, egg mention (my baby), maekar loves his boy a lot, fluff, sorta angst? poorly beta read tell me if i missed anything.
A/N: yeah i don't know how that happened either lol.
W.C. 2.2K~
NAVIGATION — MASTERLIST
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
The moon waned, until it waxed to fullness once more — and the Anvil came to you again.
This time you found him unentangled when you unlocked that door, if he hadn't had the foresight to announce himself unlike his son the first time, you would've had Bluebell pounce on him, and you didn't know if he would be as kind if that happened.
"My lord," you say in surprise. "I did not think I would see you again."
His eyes trail down your body, clearly you had just came out of a bath, the dress stuck to you from the wetness that had not fully dried off.
"Evidently," he says with an amused curl of his lips, not in cruelty, but not devoid of sarcasm either. "I've come to see how you were faring."
"Why?" You blurt out, still rattled by his sudden appearance.
"Why-ever not?" He says as he invites himself into your home. "I am a prince, you are a royal subject I am expected to look after."
He seats himself on the chair like he's done the first time moons ago. "And I still owe you–"
"You already paid me back, my lord," you say abruptly, heart dropping once you realized you interrupted him but it was too late not to continue anyways. "and it was nothing as I've told you before."
"No," he tells you simply. "my son means much to me, and for that reason, my debt to you is not something easily paid, what I gave you is nothing compared to what you have done."
A moment of silence passes before he speaks up again. "Speaking of him, he very much liked to grant you this invitation."
He passes you a piece of rolled parchment, with the seal of the three-headed dragon.
You break the wax-seal as the prince continues. "His seventh name-day is fast approaching, and he would like for you to attend." The words looked clearly penned by a child—from all the wobbly lettering and spelling errors—you would have been concerned for the man's education if he hadn't said that the princeling was the one who invited you.
It must have been important to him, if he'd written it himself, the sweetness of the gesture warmed your chest and you found yourself agreeing without much thought to the consequences.
"Okay."
Okay? Maekar expected he would need to convince you, this went better than he thought. It was true that Aegon wanted you to attend along with your beast of a guard dog—but he was the nameday boy so he could not refuse him such a small request.
"Excellent," he says with a satisfied smile. "I'll send some skilled laborers your way to tend the field and animals while you take residence in Summerhall—the celebrations will be going for a week after all."
You hadn't thought of that, a flush rose up your neck.
Wait a minute…
Take residence? In the castle? You thought it would be for a single day…
"I will also send for a garment maker to pay you a visit, as royal blood will be in attendance – and no matter how much you deny it, you are still of noble blood, even if it is through your mother's line alone, therefore you must look the part."
You nod weakly, hoping you do not have to see your kin, or if they do attend (or when they attend, you doubt they would miss such a royal occasion) you hope that they do not recognize you.
"Do not forget," Maekar reminds. "you cannot change your mind on a whim, if you find yourself having second thoughts, voice them now, do not waste my time."
Your eyes flickered the sunlight back to him as you silently returned his gaze, he could not tell if you were having second thoughts from your unreadable expression.
It was only three seconds of thinking on how you would fix your schedule around his plan, organize the tasks you will have to do, such as disabling the traps around the perimeter of your home, writing down instructions to the workers on each animal's behavior and routine, locking your valuables somewhere safe (the prince may trust them but you don't know these people) and other cumbersome chores.
He did not see that silence as you planning out your next weeks, he took it as you ruminating on how to voice your reconsideration.
"It's settled then," the anvil declared as he stood. "I will be back with the garment maker in a week's time."
You got on your feet and watched him walk towards the bookcase to inspect it. "I see you have thrown those old things away."
You would never do such a terrible thing. "No, my lord," you reply. "only stored them elsewhere."
The prince hummed lowly in response, and strode off, and you thought he was finally leaving but instead he walked to the pens holding your cattle, nose slightly scrunched at the pungent odor of them, maybe you have gotten desensitized to it, but you believed they could not be so bad for him to look at them like that.
How you lived between these creatures daily and nightly and still managed to have such an… okay scent was beyond Maekar—anyway… that was not why he came here.
"The workers I mentioned," Maekar began. "would you prefer it if you met them some time beforehand?"
You nod. He mirrors your nod and looks back towards your little farm, eyes following a sheep.
"Should not need more than two by the looks of it." Maekar remarks, not quite believing his own words—he's certain two was not enough.
Is this your compensation for the loneliness? surrounding yourself with so many animals and work to busy yourself? It's a miracle how you have not gone mad.
You would not need be so overworked if you just set your pride aside and came with him to Summerhall.
What if you were too sick to take care of yourself? You were smart, he doubts the thought did not cross your mind, and still you refuse to cease living such a difficult life.
There's unbending resolve and there's senseless stubbornness — and he believes that same stubbornness would be the death of you.
That's why he came here — right?
If all goes to plan you would like Summerhall so much so that you would never want to leave.
"This will be all for today," Maekar says. "like I told you, I will be back with the dressmaker next week – have an idea of how you'd want your gowns because he will be asking questions."
You really do not believe all of this was necessary. Surely the dresses you've been given already were lavish enough?
You could not decline him though, you've done that enough, so with a small smile you nod. "I understand."
No more words were exchanged thereafter, and the Anvil took his leave.
True to his word, he was in your home at midday the following week, with the resident tailor of Summerhall in tow, Dorron of Myr.
That man was a perfectionist through and through. You could not deny he had passion for his work, but you could only endure so many questions and the prince staring ominously in the corner of the room did not help put you at ease at all.
The young woman named Tessa, who assisted him in taking your measurements conducted herself in a way that told you that this was not her usual work, not to mention she was not dressed as extravagantly as that dressmaker.
Your guess is that she was a servant girl at the castle that's been picked at random to take the measurements in place of him, which was very thoughtful of the dressmaker.
Once again, the credit does not find it's way to the Anvil.
Not that he'd know of your thoughts, of course.
Although those holes he's drilling into you might puncture into your mind and have them spill out for all to see — did his station permit he relinquish all manners?
"What is the sigil of your house?" The man asks you.
"Is that of importance?" You respond posture stiff to let the girl do her job accurately.
"Yes, one must need one look at you to know which house you belong to, colors are not enough."
You would not say you had a house sigil, could your father's coat of arms count?
"An icy blue bluebell flower on white."
Maekar knows house Stryker, and that was nowhere close to their sigil. Not in the slightest. Their colors were black and yellow and their sigil was as Stormlander as can be.
Two clashing battleaxes with sparks flying from their impact.
Have you made up a sigil for your father's on the spot?
No one has seen a sigil of a house Stallard, because this surname was of no renown, there were no lesser or great house of that name.
Hopefully no one finds themselves curious and interested in who you were, although it feels impossible, he's sure you would draw some eyes.
A pretty woman by her lonesome. No ladies-in-waiting nor any relatives at her side.
He needs to fix that.
"Please not so tight," you say when she binds the measuring ribbon tight around your chest. She mumbles an apology and loosens it, causing the dressmaker to click his tongue in mock disapproval.
He takes the ribbon from Tessa's hands and pulls the edges together slowly. "Why if it were any looser I'd lose all my fabrics. Tell me when it's just right, my lady."
You hum in response, grateful he was so careful with not touching you with his knuckles. "That's good."
"Excellent." The man says distractedly as he writes down the result.
He looks up at his prince and he swears he saw images of his enroaching execution flashing across his vision. While he's used to seeing the prince scowl and glare at everything. He's never seen him look so murderous before.
He has overstepped. He must rectify his mistake.
"I would like to apologize, my lady," you give a confused look. "Whatever for?"
"I should not have been so forward as to measure you myself, my prince told me of your aversion to touch and for that I apologize, I'd forgotten about it."
Your aversion to touch?
You had an aversion to people, not touches borne out of practicality, and it may have been odd but it was purely business and he had not been unpleasant or pervasive about it.
You give him a reassuring smile. "You hardly grazed me, ser, not much for me to forgive."
The man chuckles. "I am not a knight, my lady, you needn't call me ser."
"Well, I am not a lady but I allow you to address me as one." You counter.
When he goes to respond a deep voice rumbles out from behind you, impatience dripping from his tone. "Are you quite done?"
Dorron keeps the smile he gave you frozen on his face as he looks up towards his prince.
"Yes, your grace, all done," he replies wiggling his logbook up in affirmation, your name and measurements on the page adjacent to the one belonging to little Rhae.
"And when can the dresses be finished?"
"I think I can have them perfected and ready to doubly pretty up my lady by–" Dorron could not even finish his sentence.
"Next week?" The anvil deadpans.
The curt inquiry was more of an order, if you read into his tone that beheld absolute conviction, or simply look upon the man's impatient expression.
What the prince was asking of him was strenuous—fourteen extravagant gowns, two to wear throughout the day for a whole week—and they were to be done in the span of a single week!
Surely this was his punishment for his blundering mistake, but to Dorron of Myr, it was a challenge all the same.
"Certainly, your grace." Dorron says charmingly.
"Good." The prince sounds out venomously.
Maekar turns to you, and you tense up, slightly more than you did whilst watching the uncomfortable exchange.
"We shall see you next week then, my lady." He says stonily, and takes his leave, his entourage following after him but not before giving you respectful curtsies and nods.
Nearly a week passes, the gowns were not done, but he comes to you anyway.
A discomfort in his stomach urges him to, brought on by a dream.
You covered in red. Kneeling with blustering heavy breaths on the ground.
He wakes with a start at your crazed bloodshot eyes meeting his at a snap of your head towards him.
His concerns were brought to life when he found your front-door wide open, and your beast of a mutt was cowering and whining in fear in the corner. What has she to fear?
Furniture strewn about as if a battle stormed through.
No signs of you or the intruder.
If he were of sounder mind, he would have realized there was no intruder.
The trap you'd lain at your doorstep was untouched – inactive.
There was no intruder.
Only you.
He'd only realized that when thundering footsteps sounded at his side — and you lunged at him with your knife.
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pinterest board | inspo tag & asks | ao3┊baelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 90k┊next update: 29.03.26┊rated: t.
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms had long memories, and pride that clung even longer.
Prince Maekar learned that slowly, one letter at a time. One refusal after another, each dressed in courtesy and sealed with finality. House Tarly sent a courteous refusal, all neat phrases and careful distance. House Rowan said nothing for three months, then finally replied with a claim that their daughter had been promised already. The lie was thin enough to show through the parchment. House Baratheon sent condolences. Condolences, as if a death had occurred instead of a proposal. House Hightower did not answer at all, and Maekar did not press them. Smaller houses followed suit, each with their own reason. A daughter too frail, a daughter already in love, a daughter too young, too old, too recently in mourning.
The reasons piled up, one over the other, until they blurred together.
A year had passed since Ashford Meadow. A year since his son dragged that puppeteer girl through the dirt by her hair and broke her finger. Since he called for a Trial of Seven over an insult most men would have swallowed with their wine and forgotten by sunrise. A year since Maekar stood in the field with a hammer in his hand and felt the weight of his own name shift into something people spoke of carefully, if they spoke of it at all.
Men who had never stood near a tourney field could recount it with certainty, as though they had been there themselves. They told it with small changes, but the shape remained. A prince undone in public.
He had tried threatening Aerion with sending him away, exile him to Lys, he wouldn’t be the last Targaryen to do so. He had tried locking him down. He had tried shame. But after all that, Aerion didn’t even flinch, he endured it too easily, quiet in a way that made Maekar uneasy.
So now he had turned to marriage.
At last, Maekar wrote to Dorne. Your father was not the ruling prince, but from Lord Orran Martell, his brother. Close enough to matter, far enough to manoeuvre. When the letter reached him, he read it once, then again, then a third time, slower. Only then did he allow himself a smile.
The carriage carried the scent of cedar and dust, and the road behind you stretched longer with each turn of the wheels.
Your father had spoken plainly. No softening, no illusions. He laid out the value of the match, the reach it offered, the place it would secure. He spoke as he would to a man he trusted with consequence. That was his way of showing regard.
He did not pretend the groom was good. He did not ask you to pretend either.
You are strong enough for this, he had said. I would not send you otherwise.
He had expected hesitation, perhaps fear, but he had not found it.
You watched the land shift through the narrow window, red stone fading into green, dry air thickening with damp. The world changing in slow increments.
You turned the name over again and again, testing it.
Aerion Brightflame.
You had heard the Ashford story, of course, everyone had. The mercy of the hedge knight that some called wisdom and others called weakness. What stayed with you was not the cruelty itself, cruelty was common enough among men with power and power made men careless with other people.
I am no man, he had reportedly said. I am a dragon.
You found this almost amusing.
Not because it was foolish, though it was. Because it told you something useful. A man who believed himself a dragon was a man who had built his entire self upon a story. And stories had seams, they could be read, they could, if one were careful, be rewritten.
Maekar thought he was sending you to tame his son. You could feel it in the careful tone of his words, you could feel the hope through the careful diplomacy of his acceptance letter, which your father had allowed you to read. The prince wanted a strong wife for his son. A steady hand. Something that might anchor Aerion to the earth before he burned everything around him.
But you intended to do something more interesting than that.
The journey north gave you time, and you used it well. The rhythm of the road settled into your bones, wheels creaking, hooves striking dirt, the quiet murmur of voices beyond the curtains. Long hours where nothing changed except the light.
You let your thoughts arrange themselves without forcing them. That was how it always worked best. Piece by piece.
By the time you reached the Crownlands, the structure of your plan had taken shape. You named it: Seven Steps to Tame a Beast.
King's Landing announced itself in smell before sight, woodsmoke, salt, something sour beneath both. Too many people, too little space, all of it pressed together and left to simmer. The Red Keep rose above it all, pale stone against a dull sky. It looked less like a crown and more like something grown in the wrong place.
The reception was brief, formal and efficient.
Maekar received you himself. He stood solid and broad, the years written into his face in hard lines. His hair had gone mostly to silver. His eyes were sharp, searching, measuring. You held his gaze just long enough, then gave him courtesy and nothing more.
Aerion was not there, you noticed.
STEPT 1. Keep Your Distance from the Wild.
A wild creature does not welcome approach. Every movement is weighed, every sound judged. You do not step into its space uninvited. You do not reach. You watch. You learn the rhythm first. Where it rests. What startles it. What draws its attention and what it ignores. Rush, and it turns. Wait, and it forgets you are there.
You did not seek Aerion in those first days, even if it took some effort.
There were servants willing to arrange a meeting. Courtiers who offered, curiosity thinly veiled. You declined each time, politely, with reasons that could not be pressed. Fatigue, settling in, amild headache.
In truth, you were mapping him. You began where he could not avoid being seen.
Meals.
He sat very straight, almost too straight, not relaxed. Every movement placed with care, hands set just so. Shoulders squared. The stillness was deliberate, the kind that came from control, not comfort. He ate little. Drank more than he should, though he kept it from showing. His eyes moved often. Not restless. A sweep, measured, taking stock of the room without drawing attention to it. He noted everything.
He laughed twice in three days, both times it was wrong. Too quick, it stopped at his mouth and went no further. The men around him laughed as well, they always did. You watched them more than him in those moments. Watched how easily they bent to it. Mirrors, all of them, they gave him back what he wanted to see.
On the second day, a steward stumbled over a name. A small mistake, barely worth notice. But Aerion noticed. His jaw tightened, just once. A brief pause before he spoke, a fraction longer than natural. Then it passed, the steward went on, unaware. You did not miss it, he disliked error. Disliked imprecision. The world, in his mind, should hold its shape. When it did not, something in him bristled.
On the third day, there was a gathering. Music, wine, low voices. People playing at ease.
You took a place near the edge, beside a column. Your handmaid stood with you, quiet, unobtrusive. You spoke when required, smiled when expected, nothing more.
Aerion crossed the room twice. The first time, he did not look at you. The second time, he did. A brief glance, flat and measuring. The kind given to something not yet worth attention. You were already looking elsewhere when it happened. Your focus set just past him, as though he were incidental.
Still, you saw enough. The slight tension at his mouth, the way his gaze held for a breath, then moved on. He knew you were there. Of course he did, and he was not interested.
Good.
Interest that comes too easily is useless. It has no weight; it does not last. Curiosity had to be earned.
That night, you sat by the window and let the city settle into silence beneath you.
He was proud, that was obvious, but there was something under it. Control, carefully maintained. He was not as unrestrained as the stories suggested. It meant the outbursts were not constant. They built. Pressure, then release.
He was intelligent. More than most around him allowed. That kind of mind, left without challenge, turns inward. Finds its own amusements, not always good ones. He had been told he was exceptional for too long. Ordinary things no longer held him.
Boredom, then. Boredom as a spark.
You suspected he had never been met with anything real. Only reflections and performance. That would have to change. You drew your braid over your shoulder, thinking.
You were not satisfied. You never were, this early. But you understood the ground beneath your feet now. Where it dipped, where it held. You had not spoken to him yet; you had barely shared a room. And still, you were closer than anyone here knew.
The ceremony took place at dawn.
Black candles burned low, their smoke thick and sweet, curling into the corners of the chamber. The maester spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady as he shaped words that had existed long before the Conquest. Pale light slipped through a narrow window, thin and colourless. Maekar stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression set in that familiar way of a man who no longer expected much in return for doing what was required.
Aerion arrived on time.
He was dressed as expected, red and black, pale hair brushed to the side. He took his place beside you without hesitation, carrying himself like a man waiting out an obligation he could not avoid. He did not fidget; he was too controlled to do so. Instead, he held still, composed to the point of absence, his attention drifting toward the candles now and then as if searching for something that was not there.
When the maester's words required it, he took your hand. His grip was exact, dry and cold. It lingered only as long as custom demanded, then released at once, as if he had touched something hot and withdrawn before the burn could catch.
You kept your gaze forward and before you let your mind move forward, it was over.
The feast was small and slightly mournful. The kind of gathering where people ate and spoke because it was expected, not because they wished to. The food was well prepared, the wine even more so. Conversation moved carefully, never quite settling.
You were seated beside Aerion.
He spent the early portion of the meal demonstrating how effortlessly he could ignore you. He spoke across you, around you, treating the space you occupied as if it had always been empty. It was not for your benefit, it was for the others, for himself, for the quiet need to show that nothing had changed.
During the second course, he turned his head slightly in your direction, just enough to acknowledge you without granting you the full courtesy of attention.
"You are quieter than I expected. I was told Dornish women always had opinions about everything."
It was not the sharpest thing he could have said. You suspected he was holding the sharper things in reserve, testing whether blunt instruments would serve before reaching for finer ones. You let your fingers rest on the stem of your cup before answering.
"We do," you said. "We simply learn early which conversations are worth having."
Then you returned to your plate.
The silence stretched. You could feel it tighten, like cloth pulled just a little too far. You did not look at him; you did not need to. Beside you, he drank, then turned away, letting the moment dissolve.
Across the table, Maekar was watching. When the music began, it was him who moved first. You saw the decision before he acted. He crossed the room with purpose and spoke low to Aerion. You did not hear the words, but you did not need to. There was no request in the exchange.
Aerion turned toward you. He extended his hand with slow precision, making absolutely certain that every person in the room understood this was costing him something.
"Will you honour me, dear wife," he said, the words shaped correctly, the tone less so.
You placed your hand in his.
The floor was not crowded. The other couples kept their distance, leaving a space around you that felt exposed rather than open. He danced well, you noted without surprise, he had been trained to do everything.
This close, you could see the pale sweep of his eyelashes, lighter than his hair, catching the faint light when he blinked. The depth of his lilac eyes was clearer up close, not just colour but something layered beneath it. He had two scars under his cheek, but his skin still looked almost unreal in its smoothness.
His hand at your waist was the same as his grip during the ceremony, measured, controlled, with no warmth.
“Let us understand one another,” he said, his voice low enough to remain private, though there was nothing intimate in it. "I did not want this. I want you to know that I know what my father intends by it, and I want you to know that it will not work."
You let the music carry you through a turn before answering.
“I know you did not want it," you said. "I did not ask for your wanting. I asked for nothing at all, if you recall.”
"You will want things eventually. All wives do."
"Perhaps." You met his gaze briefly, then let it drift past him. "But I did not come here to want things from you, Aerion. I came because the arrangement was made, and I do not refuse an arrangement simply because it is inconvenient."
His hand tightened slightly at your waist, not painfully, but enough to notice.
"You think you can manage me." he said almost curious.
"I think, that they have been trying to manage you your whole life." you said. "And it has not served you much. I am not interested in managing you. I am interested in being your wife. That means I will keep this household in order, I will hold my place properly, and I will do what is required of me. Whether you choose to be part of that is yours to decide."
Another turn as the music continued.
"But I will be here," you added, quieter now. "That part is not negotiable."
He said nothing after that, but you did not mistake the silence for agreement.
Your chambers had been prepared with careful attention as expected. The fire lit, the bed done, everything arranged with quiet precision. You dressed for the night and sat near the hearth with a book open in your lap, though you were not reading.
You waited but he did not come.
The fire burned low. The sounds of the city shifted beyond the walls, settling into the deeper quiet of night. Somewhere, the watch called the hour and you closed the book.
You were not offended; you were not disappointed. You had already known Aerion would rather spend his wedding night in a brothel.
You extinguished the candle by the window and watched the room fall into shadow.
STEPT 2. Become a Familiar Shape.
Constant presence, always at the same distance, without sudden change. Given time, you stop being something to watch for. You become part of the world itself.
In the days that followed, you made yourself ordinary. It took more care than it appeared. True ordinariness had to be consistent. Too much absence would be noticed. Too much presence would draw the eye. You chose your places and kept to them. The great hall in the morning, a corridor near the training yard in the afternoon, a chair by the window in the library, once, where you read for two hours without lifting your head when he entered.
You did not seek him out and you did not avoid him. You were simply there. Aerion noticed.
At first, it was nothing clear. A pause when he entered a room and found you already in it. A shift in his attention, brief and controlled. The smallest recalculation. He had expected something from you. You could see it in what he did not find. No coldness, no wounded pride, no performance at all.
You gave him nothing to work with. Three days after the wedding, he passed you on the library and spoke to you for the first time since the feast.
“I trust you slept well. I confess I cannot say the same for the woman I spent the night with. She complained I kept her awake until dawn.”
You stopped reading and looked up at him.
“Kept her awake, or kept her waiting?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “There is a difference, I find, between a man who exhausts a woman and a man who simply prevents her from sleeping. One leaves her satisfied. The other leaves her staring at the ceiling." A brief pause. “From what I have heard of you, I suspect she saw rather more of the ceiling than she would have liked.”
You walked away with your book before he could answer.
You had learned early that a voice could betray a person faster than any blade. Most people used it badly. They made it loud when they wanted to be heard, sharpened it when they wanted to cut. They filled it with weight and urgency, as if force alone could make something true. Your father had taught you otherwise. In his solar, he spoke with the same measured evenness whether he was discussing grain yields or deciding a man's fate. A voice that only rises when threatened, he had told you once, is a voice that teaches people when you can be threatened.
You remembered that.
STEP 3. Let It Hear You Before It Sees You.
A calm voice, used often, without command. No edge to it, no sudden movement tied to the sound. The creature learns the voice first, without reason to fear it. Given time, the sound settles into the background. Familiar, expected, something it turns toward without quite knowing why.
So, you began to speak.
The first time was nothing. A grey morning, the stone still holding the night’s cold. Aerion walked the corridor outside the great hall with two of his usual companions, and you were walking alone, and there was no reason to say anything, silence would have served just as well, would in fact have required less effort, but you spoke anyway.
“The easternmost courtyard is iced over this morning,” you said as you went by. “If you are riding, the south gate will be quicker.”
You did not look at him as you said it. You did not look back after.
Behind you, there was a brief silence, and then the low sound of his companions resuming their conversation. You could not tell if he had answered, it did not matter. The point was the sound itself, your voice, steady, offering something useful and nothing more, left behind in his morning like a small, ordinary fact.
You did this again two days later. And again, after that.
An observation about the kitchens. A remark about a particular courier who had been delayed. Once, on the stairs, a quiet comment about a book you carried, spoken into the space without asking for anything in return.
He said nothing the first time. The second time, he gave you a look, the same one you had seen before, sharp and narrow, weighing, deciding whether what it saw was worth the trouble of attention. The third time, he answered, briefly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
You counted this as exactly what it was, progress.
The friction came eventually. Midday meal, smaller than the evening gatherings, the kind where people allowed themselves to speak a little more freely. You were seated across from Aerion rather than beside him, which meant you had the less comfortable position of being visible to him rather than adjacent.
He had been in a particular mood all morning. You had seen it earlier, out in the courtyard. A tightness in the way he held himself, a coiled irritation that suggested some earlier conversation had not gone as he'd wished. He kept it contained, but it showed in small places. The set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Halfway through the meal, he looked at you directly.
“I saw you speaking with the hedge knight this morning. The boy could barely look at you.”
“Ser Duncan,” You corrected, “Could barely look at anyone,” you said. “He has learned that drawing attention to himself is dangerous. A useful instinct, when one lives in a dangerous environment.”
Around the table, the shift was immediate. Eyes moved away, shoulders shifted, someone found their cup suddenly very interesting. No one wanted to be part of whatever this was.
Aerion's mouth curved, but not warmly.
“You say that as an observation. I wonder if you mean it as a criticism.”
“I mean it as neither.” You set down your knife. “A knight who flinches is a knight who has learned what happens when he does not. That tells you something about where he lives.” You looked at him steadily. “The more interesting question is what it tells you about yourself.”
“I am not in the habit of concerning myself with knights anymore.”
“No,” you said. “But you might concern yourself with the fact that a man who fears you will serve you only as long as he must. Fear is a short leash, and the moment it slackens, the moment you turn your back, a frightened man will not think of loyalty. He will think of himself.” You picked up your knife again. "Respect holds longer. It is less satisfying, I imagine, but considerably more reliable."
The table was very quiet.
Aerion's expression did not change, which was its own kind of change, in the vocabulary you had spent weeks building. The muscles around his jaw held with a precision that was not natural stillness. He was choosing his next words with more care than usual, which meant the previous ones had landed somewhere he had not expected them to reach.
“You speak as though I require your counsel,” he said almost thoughtful.
“I speak because the observation seemed worth making,” you said. “What you do with it is your own concern.”
You returned to your meal.
He said nothing more. But he did not look away for a longer moment than was comfortable, and when he finally did, it was not with a quick dismissal, it was with adjustment.
In the library, three days later, you found him already there when you arrived.
This was unusual. Aerion was not, in your observation, a man who spent mornings in libraries by preference. You entered anyways and took the chair you usually took, near the far window, which had the best light and a view of the inner yard, and opened the book you had brought.
For a time, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly. From outside came the steady rhythm of steel on steel, practice in the yard below.
“The Celtigar boy.”
You did not look up immediately. You marked your page, then lifted your eyes.
“The one my father is considering for a trade agreement,” he went on. “You spoke with him yesterday.”
“Briefly.” you said.
“He is not what he presents.” There was something restrained in the way he said it. Irritation, perhaps, or reluctance, as though the act of asking you something, or almost asking you something, cost him more than he was willing to fully account for.
You studied him for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “He is not. His family's debts are larger than they've admitted, and his uncle's position in the city has been weakening for two years. The trade agreement would favour him considerably more than it would favour the crown.
Aerion's eyes moved over your face, his gaze precise.
“You gathered that from a brief conversation.”
“From the conversation, and from the days before it,” you said. “People show where the pressure is, if you pay attention.”
A pause.
“My father should know,” he said.
“He should,” you agreed. “I thought you might be the appropriate person to tell him.”
You let that rest between you without elaboration, the implicit suggestion that this was a useful thing, that you were offering it to him rather than taking the credit for it, that you were treating him as someone worth offering useful things to. You did not dress it in sentiment. You did not soften it into a gesture. You simply left it there, plainly, for him to take or ignore as he chose.
He chose to take it. Not gratefully, not with any acknowledgment of the exchange's nature. He simply gave a short, almost inaudible sound of agreement and turned back to his book.
You had met, in your life, exactly three people who understood the particular discipline of the open hand.
Your father was one of them. A merchant woman in Sunspear who had built a trading empire from a single stall was another. The third was a maester who had served your household for eleven years and who had, in that time, quietly accumulated more influence over its workings than anyone with an official title. None of them had achieved what they achieved through force, or through the performance of authority. They had achieved it through the same mechanism, over and over, they gave things away, then let them go.
STEP 4. Offer Without Expectation.
Something of value left within reach, knowledge, advantage, ease. Then you step back. You do not insist. You do not demand. You do not watch too closely. The creature must come to the thing on its own terms, or the thing carries the smell of a trap. Patience here is not passive. It is the most active thing you can do, the discipline of the open hand, extended and then stilled, asking nothing, waiting without the tension of waiting.
You began small, that was where patterns took hold.
The first thing was almost accidental, simple enough to pass unnoticed.
Over weeks, you had seen how Aerion’s mornings turned. When his correspondence waited in disorder, something in him tightened. It was a small irritation, but it spread, it created a particular friction that compounded into the broader texture of his day. His steward handled it unevenly, some days careful, others careless.
You said nothing about this to anyone.
Instead, you mentioned to the steward’s assistant, a young man called Pell, anxious and observant. You mentioned once, that mornings that begin clean tend to stay that way, as though sharing a general philosophy, and then you moved on.
Next day, the letters were sorted before Aerion reached his study. You were nowhere near him when he noticed. You were in the eastern courtyard, the air sharp enough to sting your throat, walking slow circles over frost-hardened ground.
The second offering was more direct, and more deliberate.
The previous night, you had lingered in the great hall long enough to catch a conversation not meant for you. Two of Maekar’s advisors, careless in their angle, speaking of the Plumm family, a loan, a disputed inheritance, a claim that had the potential to become inconvenient for the crown if left unaddressed. The kind of thing that moved slowly until it did not.
You wrote it down, simply a single sheet of paper, placed beneath a volume you had observed Aerion taking from the library shelves twice in the past fortnight, angled just so, easily visible to someone reaching for the book.
You were gone before he arrived, you did not check if it had been taken. This was the discipline, the open hand, and then the stillness.
He found you in the corridor outside the great hall two days later. The way he approached told you enough, straight line, no hesitation, you knew the paper had been found and used.
“The Plumm family matter,” he said. “My father addressed it this morning. He mentioned information that reached him through unusual channels.”
“Did he.” you said.
“He did not know the source.” A pause. “I did.”
You met his gaze, nothing more. “Anyone listening could have heard it,” you said. “I assumed it was worth noting.”
“You assumed,” he repeated sceptical. “And the assumption led you to leave an unsigned document in a place you knew I would find it, rather than simply speaking to me, or to my father directly.”
“Speaking to your father directly would have made it mine to claim. It seemed more useful for it to be yours.” You said, you were well aware that he needed to slowly gain his father’s trusts again.
“You expect me to believe you want nothing in return.” He said.
“I expect nothing from you,” you replied. “I noticed something that seemed relevant to your interests. I noted it where you could find it. That is all.”
He studied you for a long moment, measuring again, then stepped past you without another word. You turned in the opposite direction and continued walking.
The pattern continued.
Days filled with small things, each one easy to miss on its own. A map left open to the right page before a meeting. A quiet word to a knight whose behaviour toward Aerion had been developing a particular insolence. Not a warning, only a reminder of how quickly favour could turn. The knight corrected himself. Aerion noticed the change; you were reasonably certain he had chosen not to address it directly.
During a meal he caught you refilling his cup before the servant reached it, an automatic gesture, barely conscious, and he watched your hand as you set the jug down.
“You do not behave like someone who dislikes me,” he said.
“I am not certain I dislike you,” you said, truthfully. “I have not yet seen enough of you to decide.”
“You have been living in the same castle for a month.”
“So, my husband has taken to keeping track now?” you said, a light note of teasing slipping in despite yourself. You lifted your cup and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger as a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of your mouth.
He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff he meant to share. He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long to be careless, as if he were trying to smooth over something that had caught him off guard. There was a faint tension in his face, in the set of his jaw and the stillness of his shoulders, the sort of thing that suggested he was trying very hard not to let any hint of embarrassment show.
Later you noticed he took the map you left on his desk. Maekar’s manner afterward told you enough, less strain and more thought behind his words when he spoke to his son. Aerion did not mention it and you did not either.
The absence of acknowledgment said what it needed to. He would take what was useful, he would not name the source. Pride held that line, but still, he had used it. He had accepted the offering, even reluctantly, even silently. That mattered more.
Which meant the distance was slowly shrinking.
He came to your chambers late on a Thursday, when the castle had settled into its quieter rhythm and the corridors carried only the distant steps of the watch.
You sat at your vanity, drawing the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes, winding you down toward sleep. Your sleeping gown was light, meant for the warmth of the room and the privacy of it, nothing more. Your hair hung loose, longer than it appeared when pinned, falling across your shoulders in a way that belonged to a version of yourself you did not generally allow the castle to see.
The door opened without warning, but you did not turn.
You watched him through the mirror instead. It gave you a clearer view than facing him outright. He stepped inside, then paused when he saw you, or the version of you caught in the glass. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before he shut it down.
You kept brushing your hair.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace. No sudden movement, no sign of haste, still, there was weight in it. He stopped behind your chair and rested both hands on its back. In the mirror, his eyes met yours directly, without the usual angle or distance.
You held his gaze and continued the brush stroke to its end.
The silence lasted several seconds. In the mirror you watched him watching you. The loose hair, the gown, the particular version of you that belonged to this room and this hour, and you watched him notice that he was watching, and tighten slightly around it.
“I have been really patient with you,” he said at last, his voice low. “I have watched you move through this household for weeks. The documents, the steward, the arrangements that appear before I ask for them.” A pause. “No one does this without a ledger. Show me yours.”
“I told you I keep no ledger,” you said.
“Everyone keeps a ledger.” The words came sharper now. “Whether they admit it or not.”
You set the brush down on the vanity and folded your hands in your lap, and looked at his reflection. The candle shifted, and for a moment the light caught him differently in the mirror. The closeness of him. The space between you that had narrowed without either of you naming it.
“You are angry,” you said. “Not because you think I want something from you. You are angry because you cannot determine what it is, and that distinction is troubling you more than you would like to admit.”
His grip tightened slightly on the chair, his frown deepened. “Do not tell me what troubles me.”
“Then tell me yourself.” You said. “You came here and opened that door without knocking. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
“What you have offered me,” he said, and this time the control thinned, sharpened into something colder, “is the manner of a woman who wants something. The oldest trick there is. Every woman I have met wanted things. Every woman in this castle wants things. You-” and here something almost contemptuous entered his voice, directed less at you than at his own inability to solve you “-stand there with your quiet gestures and your useful information and expect me to believe it costs you nothing, that you want nothing from me.”
“I told you I expect nothing from you,” you said, for the second time in your acquaintance “Which is not the same as wanting nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, his gaze dipped, catching on the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the line of your neck in the candlelight, before returning to your reflection with more force than before.
“Then what do you want,” he said lowly, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You watched him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The way he held himself still, as if movement might betray him. The closeness of him, the warmth of it at your back.
“To see you for what you truly are,” you said, now turning around to look up at him. “When no one is performing fear at you.”
The room went quiet.
He did not move at once. His hands remained on the chair, though you felt the subtle shift in them, the restraint in it. His breathing changed, barely, but enough to notice. His gaze stayed on yours, searching now in a way it had not before.
Then he straightened. His hands lifted from the chair with care, as if he had to think about the motion before making it. He held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through it. Then he turned and left.
The door closed with a loud thud behind him.
You looked back at your reflection in the glass. The room holding a trace of him still, something unsettled in the air. You reached for the brush and finished what you had started.
A man like Aerion did not adjust. He did not take pressure and reshape himself around it. His world ran on confirmation, on power answered with submission, on a rhythm that reassured him of his place in it. You had been interfering with that rhythm since the morning you arrived. Quietly, consistently, without giving him anything he knew how to answer.
A disruption like that never passed without consequence.
STEP 5. Survive the First Test of Teeth.
Before any bond forms, there is a test. A feint of violence, a warning, a measure of what you are made of. Not always meant to hurt, but whether to see of you will break or bite back. If you do, is over.
You held this thought in the quiet of your morning as you dressed carefully and went about your day.
The argument started in the corridor outside his study, late in the afternoon, when the light came through the western windows, catching dust in the air, turning it gold. You had passed him with the usual moderate acknowledgment, not ignoring him, not seeking him, the same distance you had maintained for weeks, and he had stopped walking.
“You were in my father's solar this morning,” he said.
“I was,” you said. “He asked my opinion on a correspondence from the Arbor.”
“He asked your opinion on that matter,” Something tightened in his face. “Instead of asking me?”
“He did.”
“You have been very busy these days,” he said, “Making yourself useful, to my father, to every corner of this household except the one that is actually your concern.”
“You are my concern,” you said. “Which is precisely why I do not sit waiting for you to need something."
“I do not need anything from you.”
“No,” you agreed. “You have made that very clear last time we discussed. And yet here we are, having this conversation, which you initiated.”
He turned and walked into his study. Not an invitation, but not a dismissal either, and you followed because the conversation was unfinished.
“You think you are very clever,” he said, moving behind his desk, putting wood and distance between you, like it might help him sort what he could not name.
“I think I am.” you said defiantly.
“You think,” he said, and the voice had dropped into its most dangerous register. “That you can arrange yourself into something that suits you, move pieces across a board you were not invited to play on, smile at my father in his solar, look at me like that, and that none of it will have a cost.”
“I have never believed anything is without cost.” you said.
“Then if you are so clever, you should have calculated more carefully.” He stepped past you, toward the door. “You will remain in this room until I say otherwise.” The words came out with anger and the door shut behind him.
You stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then you moved to his chair, behind his desk, and sat in it, and looked at the documents arranged across the surface, and began, with the unhurried attention, to read them.
Three days later, in the great hall. You had not sought Ser Duncan out specifically. You had spoken with him before, briefly, like with most people in the Keep, and found him to be earnest, possessing more native intelligence than his manner suggested. He was easy to be around. You were in the middle of an unremarkable conversation about the road conditions north of King's Landing, he had travelled them recently, and you had asked a practical question. You felt the shift before you saw him.
A hand settled at your waist. Firm, claiming, meant to be seen, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. Ser Duncan's expression went still, not quite discomfort and not quite confusion.
“My wife,” Aerion said. “I was looking for you.”
Duncan inclined his head and stepped back. You kept your expression exactly as it had been. Aerion’s gaze lingered on you, then flicked once toward the knight, measuring, assembling something he did not like. The hall had gone quiet.
“Is this a game to you,” he said under his breath. An accusation that had the shape of a question.
“No,” you said.
“Then what is it.” He moved in front of you. “What are you doing with the hedge knight-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Are you provoking me, deliberately.”
“I was having a conversation about road conditions,”
“Do not.” His voice dropped further. “Do not use that voice with me.”
“Which voice would you prefer then? One where I lie?”
“You know,” he said quietly, to you, only to you. “What he did to me.”
“I know what happened at Ashford,” you said, equally quietly. “As does most of the kingdom-”
The struck came fast. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, in front of the hall and the fire and Ser Duncan's suddenly rigid stillness. The back of his hand across your cheek with a force that turned your head and produced a sound that silenced the nearest conversations.
You straightened. You did not touch your face. You did not look at Duncan, who you could feel in your peripheral vision. You looked at Aerion, directly, steadily, with the same expression you had worn in the study, and you said nothing at all.
His jaw was tight and the hall was watching it all. He gripped your wrist, hard, the mark already beginning, and turned toward the corridor, and you went with him because the scene that would result from not going would cost you more.
In your chambers, he released you without a word and left. The door shut and the lock clicked.
You sat by the window. The light had shifted, pale now, moving slowly across the stone. You looked at your wrist, at the faint marks forming. You were not afraid and you were not angry, so you waited with patience.
Maekar went to Aerion that same evening, of course he did. No one told you outright, but you knew before a word reached you. The servant who came to open your chamber door avoided your eyes, her hands slower than usual on the latch. Raised voices, you guessed. Maekar did not shout often, but when he did, it carried. Aerion would have been made to stand there and take it. For the insult. For making a spectacle of his own wife. For stepping, once again, where he had been warned not to. You could almost hear it. The sharp edge of Maekar’s restraint, the threat beneath it.
You let out a slow breath. This would not help. It would tighten something in Aerion, push him further into himself before it loosened anything at all.
He did not return that night, or the next.
On the third, you woke to the sound of your door.
The room was dark, the fire long since reduced to coals and a faint red glow. The kind of hour when even the castle seemed to pause, caught between one watch and the next. You lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds that followed the door, unsteady footsteps, the sounds of a man navigating a familiar space with less precision than usual.
You had smelled the wine, thick and sour on the air, and something else beneath it, cheap perfume and sweat. You had passed enough doorways in this city to know it came from a brothel.
He moved through the dark toward the bed with care that bordered on effort. Not quite stumbling, but close. You lay still with your eyes not quite closed and your breathing steady and you watched him through your lashes.
He stopped at the bedside. For a moment, he only looked at you.
He was less put together than you had ever seen him, his hair dishevelled, collar open, his clothes carrying the evidence of hours spent in places this castle was not and had not bothered to hide it well. His gaze moved over you, slower than usual, lingering in places he would have ignored in daylight. There was anger in it. That much you knew. But there was something else tangled into it, something the drink had loosened.
Then his hand shot out and closed around your throat.
The force of it drove the breath from you before you could think. His grip was sure, fingers settling with a familiarity that made it worse. The ceiling tilted as your body reacted, instinct rising fast and sharp. His face was above yours, close, and it was not the face of a man in full command of himself. His eyes were bright, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with the dark. His grip tightened.
You felt the tightness clearly, the pressure at your windpipe, the pulse hammering under his hand. The animal instinct toward struggle that rose in you like a tide and that you identified and still you did not move.
And then, quietly, helplessly, from somewhere underneath the shock and the constriction and the absolute clarity of your own danger, you laughed. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Not shaped for him, not meant for anything at all. It simply came, as if your body had found something in the moment that did not fit the rest of it. Simply absurd and honest and almost intimate in its desperation.
The sound of it, barely audible, stopped him completely.
His hand did not leave your throat, but it stopped tightening. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through whatever had driven him here.
“What are you-” he said. It came out raw, his voice rough, stripped of its usual control. “What are you doing, what are you doing to me.”
You said nothing. You held his eyes in the dark and did not struggle, you did not look away.
“I hate you,” he said. The words came out flat, almost tired, like a confession.“I hate what you do. I hate that I cannot-.” His voice broke across the unfinished sentence. “I cannot find the edges of you. I cannot-.”
His grip loosened, fractionally, and then fractionally more.
Something in his face gave way. The control slipped, not all at once, but enough. His shoulders dipped, the tension draining in uneven pieces. Something beneath the surface rising without permission. His forehead dropped, his weight shifted, and then, with the slow, helpless gravity of exhaustion, he leaned against your chest, his hands still loosely at your throat, his body giving what his pride would not. Choked sobs forming on the back of his throat as his shoulders trembled.
You lay still beneath him. The room held its silence. No voices in the corridor, no movement beyond the walls. Only the weight of him, and the strange, unguarded vulnerability he had not allowed himself before.
Carefully, you lifted your hand. Slow and measured. The way one moves around something that might startle.
He felt the motion before you completed it.
He pulled back at once. Your hand knocked aside, not gently, but not the way he had struck you before either, with less force and more reflex. He was off the bed and standing before you had fully processed the movement, and the reassembly was happening in real time, you could watch it, the walls going up stone by stone, the expression reorganizing, the posture recovering its usual architecture.
He did not look at you as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and left.
You lay in the dark for a long time after the door closed. Your throat ached. When you touched it, you could feel where his fingers had pressed, the marks already forming under the skin. You let your hand fall back to the bed. You had survived the teeth.
There is a particular kind of silence that follows a storm.
It is not peace, peace settles. This waits, it hangs over what is left, thin and watchful, as if the ground itself is deciding whether anything will take root again. You lived in that silence for six days. You ate in it, walked the corridors in it, spoke when required and otherwise let it sit around you, like weather that refused to move on.
Aerion was never where you were. Not once, not even by accident.
You noticed the pattern the way you noticed everything else. He left rooms when you entered them, not with obvious avoidance, but with quiet efficiency, but avoiding something nonetheless, something that he had not yet decided how to face. The corridors he had habitually used became corridors he did not use. The hours he had kept became hours he abandoned.
Like he was afraid of you. Not in the way people feared harm. In the way they feared being seen too clearly.
STEP 6. Allow Contact on Its Terms.
The first touch is not taken, it is allowed. A still hand. No pressure. No attempt to hold or redirect or claim. The creature must choose the contact, or the contact means nothing. It is the most fragile moment in the entire sequence the one where everything that has been built can collapse in a single wrong movement. Patience here is not strategy. It is something closer to faith, the belief that what has been established is enough to bear weight, if the weight is placed gently enough.
You dressed with care that seventh night, with a specific kind of nightgown your hair loose again, and went to him.
His chambers were deeper in the keep than yours, further from the outer walls, further from the sounds of the city, the kind of rooms that held heat and shadow in equal measure. The door was heavy. The light beneath it was the particular amber of firelight rather than candle, which meant he was awake and the hour was not the reason.
You did not knock.
The room was larger than you had expected, and sparser. There were maps on one wall, detailed ones, and a writing table covered with papers that had the disordered quality of work abandoned mid-thought. A shelf of books, several displaced at a specific angle with care. On a low table near the window, a cup and a flagon, mostly empty. The fire was high, built up more than the room's warmth required, the kind of fire you build when you want something to look at.
He was standing before it.
He turned when you entered, and the firelight caught his face in a way that daylight had never been permitted to. His eyes carried the particular redness that came not from drink but from something that had happened before the drink. His shoulders, which were always exact, held themselves with an effortful maintenance, but it took effort to keep it that way.
You closed the door behind you. The latch caught with a sound that was very small in the quiet.
“You should not be here,” he said.
“Probably,” you agreed. You did not move further into the room yet. You stood near the door and looked at him across the firelit space between you and said “What is wrong.”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned back to the fire. The set of his shoulders said the conversation was over, but the fact that he had not told you to leave said something else.
You crossed the room.
Slowly, without purpose written into the movement. You stopped beside him. Not close enough to require acknowledgment, not far enough to be a withdrawal, and you looked at the fire.
Neither of you spoke.
The fire crackled, wood settled with a low crack, and you waited.
A minute passed, then another. The fire shifted, settling lower in the grate, and in the new configuration of light you saw it, brief, barely visible. A single track of tears, catching firelight, at the corner of his jaw.
You did not look at it directly.
“Aerion,” you said.
“My father-.” he began, and then stopped, like the words had caught on something.
You let the silence hold.
“He saw,” he said with flatness. “The marks on your neck. He saw them. Someone spoke of what happened at the hall too.” His jaw tightened. “He made himself very clear.”
“How clear,” you said.
“In all his wisdom, has threatened me, again, to send me into exile.” The word sat between you. Heavy enough on its own. “He called it a last chance. He has called it that before.” Something crossed his voice that was not quite bitterness. “The words had begun to lose their meaning, but it felt too serious now”
You turned to look at him then.
He was still facing the fire, but the profile of him had changed. The structure of his expression had begun to crack. Not enough for others to notice but enough for you. He looked, in the firelight, less like the man who had locked you in his study and struck you in the great hall and more like something earlier than that, rawer and less certain and considerably more alone.
You reached out. Slowly, with the deliberateness you had promised yourself, no force, no urgency, no claim. Your hand found his and held it with the lightness of something offered rather than taken.
He looked down at it.
“I should have covered the marks better,” you said. “I misjudged the consequence. That was my error, and I am sorry for it.”
“That is not-.” He stopped; his hand had not moved. “That is not what this is about.”
And he pulled away fast. Almost startled by it. With the sudden, electric motion of something that has allowed contact and immediately regretted the allowing. He stepped back, something sharp and unsteady in his eyes.
“Do not,” he said, and the word came out wrong, cracked across the middle of it. “Do not do that. Do not stand there and apologize and take my hand and look at me like-.” He stopped again, breath uneven. “Like there is something worth-.” He stopped again. His hands had closed into fists at his sides and he was breathing with effort. “You do not know what I am.”
“I know what you have done,” you said.
“Then you know enough.” He turned away. “You know I hurt people. You know I cannot-.” His voice fractured. He pressed on through it. “I cannot stop myself… there is something wrong with me. There has always been something wrong with me and everyone who has come close enough to see it leaves or breaks. And you are here, in this room, at this hour, and I do not-.” He stopped.
The fire was the only sound.
“I am a beast,” he said, very quietly. Tears running free down his cheeks. “That is what I am. That is all I am.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You are a man,” you said, “who has been told a story about himself for so long that he has stopped questioning whether it is the only story available.”
“It is not a story. It is evidence of everything I have done.”
“Evidence can be read in more than one direction,” you said.
“Do not make me into something I am not.”
“I am not making you into anything.” You held his gaze. “I am telling you that what you are is not to be fixed. That the thing you have been, it is not the only version of you that exists. And that-.” You paused, because the next words required accuracy, and accuracy required care. “You matter to me. Not the prince, not the name. You. What is underneath all of this. That matters to me.”
The room was absolutely still.
He looked at you with an expression you had no entry for in the vocabulary you had built of him, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he has been handed something he does not know how to hold and is not certain he can afford to drop.
Then something gave way.
Not loudly. Not all at once. His breath shifted. His shoulders dropped. Whatever he had been holding together slipped. His breathing changed. You did not move toward him, but you did not need to.
He crossed the remaining distance himself without thinking about it, and then his forehead was against your shoulder and his hands were at your sides without grip, without force, simply present, and he was not making a sound but you could feel the shaking of him and the wetness against the fabric of your nightgown and the weight of him.
You stood very still.
You did not put your arms around him. You did not make any movement that could be felt as claiming. You simply held yourself and let him use it, and the fire burned lower as he came apart quietly against your shoulder without asking permission and without being asked to stop.
You did not know how long it lasted. Long enough.
You raised your hand slowly, slowly enough that he could have pulled away again, enough to be refused, and brought your fingers to his hair.
It was shorter than it looked. Silver-pale and fine, the kind of hair that carried light rather than colour, and beneath your fingertips it was softer than you had anticipated. You drew your hand through it once, carefully, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, where the hair ended and the skin began, warm and taut over the column of his spine.
He did not move away.
He leans into your touch involuntarily, as if starved for contact. His eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him at the simple gesture. It's a chink in his armour, a crack in the façade he has built around himself. He hates how good it feels, how desperately he craves your gentleness, like something that had been starved for so long it had forgotten the word for hunger until the smell of food arrived. He hates that it's you, a woman he has dismissed as a nuisance, a distraction.
You kept your hand still at the nape of his neck and waited until the tension in him eased, just a little, then you took his hand. He did not resist the guiding.
That told you more than anything else had. Aerion Brightflame, who resisted everything, who turned even small things into contests, let himself be guided across the room, no argument, no pause. Just the quiet, spent compliance of someone who had nothing left to push with.
You lay down and he lay beside you.
For a moment he remained on his back, staring upward, and you could feel the effort in him, his composure still running even now, still attempting to impose order on something that had moved past the reach of order.
Then, slowly, as if testing each inch of the movement, allowing himself permission one fraction at a time, he moved closer. His head found your chest. His arms came around your waist, and the grip that followed was not gentle exactly, it had too much need in it for gentleness, but it was not aggression either, it was anchoring.
“Don't mistake this for weakness,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere above you, studying something very far away. “Or tenderness.” A pause. “I merely refuse to let my father's words haunt me alone tonight.”
“All right,” you said.
You brought one hand up to his hair again. The same movement, slow, unhurried, from crown to nape and back, repeated with the consistency of something that asked nothing in return. Your other hand rested against his back, barely any pressure at all.
The fire had burned low and the room was mostly shadow.
“If you much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he murmured into your chest, his voice rough but stripped of its usual edge, “I'll deny it until my last breath.” His arms tightened slightly, involuntarily. “Stay with me tonight… please.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” you said.
As the night went on, Aerion slowly succumbed to sleep. Something about being held, about your gentle touch, brought a peace he had rarely known. He did not dream of dragons or conquests, for once. His sleep was free of the constant restlessness that usually plagued him. He burrowed into your chest, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth, of your presence.
You lay awake longer than he did. Not from discomfort, too much to process, lying in the dark with their thoughts arranged in rows like objects after a flood.
His breathing had changed, his weight against you had changed. The man who had come apart was now simply sleeping. With his face against your chest and his silver hair tickling your collarbone and his arms loosely maintaining their hold even in sleep, the grip eased to something that felt closer to a choice rather than necessity.
You ran your hand through his hair one more time, very slowly. He made a small sound, low and entirely unconscious, and pressed closer.
You looked at the ceiling for a long time and eventually, sleep took you too.
The room was in the grey-dark of late night, not yet dawn, but the black had thinned to something softer. His breathing had changed again; he was watching you.
His breath caught as he took in the sight of you, soft, vulnerable, beautiful in the unguarded way of sleeping things. A strange warmth curled in his chest, foreign and unsettling. He hesitated. His fingers twitched toward your hair, as if to brush a stray lock from your face, then stopped. He scowled at himself, at this weakness. But the scowl faltered when his gaze lingered on the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted closer, draping an arm over your waist as if claiming you, not with arrogance, but with something dangerously close to possessiveness. His lips pressed against your temple in a fleeting, uncharacteristically tender kiss.
You opened your eyes. The ceiling was grey above you. Beside you, or rather, around you, Aerion had stilled, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant to do.
“Is something wrong?” you asked quietly.
He cleared his throat, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at your proximity.
“Are you comfortable?”he asked.
“Yes,” you said. You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Are you?”
He gave a noncommittal hum, not meeting your gaze. The truth was he had slept better than he had in years, but he was not about to say so. That would imply weakness. He shifted slightly, the arm around your waist drawing you a fraction closer without him seeming to notice. His fingers continued their circles, almost absentmindedly, as though he were lost in thought and the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered.
The grey outside the window had begun its slow migration toward something lighter. The fire was entirely cold now, the room held only the warmth of the bed, of proximity, of the particular heat that accumulates between two bodies in the hours before dawn.
Then awareness settled in him fully. Of the closeness. Of the precise arrangement of you against him, the warmth of your body, the thin fabric of your sleeping gown, the way the hem had shifted in the night to lie differently against your skin. His hand tensed briefly.
He swallowed.
You felt it, the shift that moved through him, the awareness sharpening into something specific, something that did not belong entirely to the vulnerability of the preceding hours. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you with an expression caught precisely between irritation and something he could not arrange into anything controllable, frustrated by the evidence of his own body, by the want that had surfaced without authorization.
You could feel it, the warmth of him. The unmistakable pressure of his want against your hip, present and unambiguous, and the particular tension of a man who has noticed you noticing and does not know what to do with it.
Neither of you spoke.
His hand, which had stilled, began very slowly, as though testing whether the motion would be stopped, to move again. Not the idle circles of before. Something more deliberate, more aware of itself, tracing the line of fabric against skin, as if testing whether the moment would break.
You did not stop him.
Not passive, there was nothing passive in the attention you were giving to this moment, to his breathing, to the fractional shifts of his weight and the warmth of his mouth near your temple and the press of him against your hip that had not diminished. But still in the way you had always been still near him, present, available, making no demand and offering no resistance, letting the space between you be defined by what he chose to do with it.
He exhaled.
“You are-.” he began, and stopped, his jaw tightened. He tried again, and the words he found were not the ones he had started with, “This changes nothing.”
“I know,” you said.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do,” you said.
His hand moved again with less hesitation, no longer tentative, something with more intention behind it, and his body followed, shifting against you with the weight of a man who has been resisting something for weeks and has arrived, at last, at the particular exhaustion of wanting and the decision to stop pretending otherwise.
His mouth found your throat, the same throat he had gripped days ago in the dark. You brought your hand to his hair, fingers threading through silver.
Aerion exhales slowly, a controlled breath that does nothing to conceal the tension wound through his jaw, his shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his hands. He's beautiful in his conflict, you think. Unbearably so. That sharp face, that proud mouth, carved for cruelty or for this, and tonight the line between them seems very thin.
He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking with yours again. He looks almost pained, his pride warring with the desire that's quickly consuming him. He wants you. Gods, he wants you so much it hurts, and he hates that he can't bring himself to deny it any longer. He hates how powerless he feels at your touch, how he craves more despite his better judgment. His breathing is ragged as he leans over you, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Stop me. Say... say no.” The words come rough, almost like a plea.
You looked at him for one long moment, you take in the conflict laid bare for the first time, the stubborn pride, the hunger he can no longer hide, the exhaustion of holding both apart.
Then you kissed him first.
He kisses you back like a man drowning who has finally stopped fighting the current. His hands come up to grip your face, not gently, and the sound that escapes his throat is low, rough, barely human. The careful prince, the controlled and calculating Aerion Targaryen, dissolves in the space between one breath and the next. What replaces him is something rawer. Hungrier. Something he's kept caged behind violet eyes and cutting remarks for far too long.
The kiss deepens without hesitation, consuming. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of desperate precision, tasting, claiming, as if he's cataloguing every detail through touch alone. You feel the heat of him, radiating off his skin like fever, like fire, like something that has been burning in secret for too long and has finally found air.
His hands roam your body with a feverish desperation, as if trying to memorize every curve, every gasp, every shudder beneath his touch. His kisses trail from your lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin, marking you as his, branding you in the only way he knows how. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how badly he aches for you. He's lost in the sensation, in the fire between you both, consumed by it. He's not gentle about it. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive point where your shoulder meets your throat. He wants to mark you, to make you scream his name, to make sure there's no doubt in your mind or anyone else's of who you belong to.
His free hand slides under your nightgown, his fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, demanding, as if he's making up for every minute he's denied himself this pleasure. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace higher, teasing, taunting, every brush of skin against skin sending sparks through you. His lips return to yours, swallowing your gasp as his touch grows bolder, more deliberate. He plays with your breasts, kneading them and pinching at your nipples until you arch into him, your back lifting from the mattress like a prayer. His hands clutch at you, clinging as if you're the only solid thing in the world. He's panting now, his control frayed to the breaking point.
“Gods,” he breathes against your collarbone, “I've been waiting-.” He cuts himself off and bites down instead of finishing the sentence, leaving a bruise.
He buries his face in that spot on your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his lips roaming feverishly as if he can't get enough. Then he kisses down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, wet marks down your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. His hands slide up your legs, his touch rough but reverent, the touch of a man who has never let himself experience something so wholly, so completely. He moves with the focus of someone who has thought about this, who has imagined and resented and wanted in equal measure.
He pauses for a moment, looking up at you, the desire in his eyes burning hotly as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.
“Gods, woman...” His voice comes out low, cracked at the edges. “You look exquisite.”
Your hand goes to his hair, gripping it, silver-pale between your fingers, and you guide him where the ache pulses hottest. He goes willingly, like a man possessed, his lips tracing a path to the very heart of you. He worships at your altar, exploring you with a fervour that borders on madness, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes against your folds, lapping at the slick heat of you with a thoroughness that makes your thighs tremble. He kisses your core the way he kissed your mouth, thoroughly, hungrily, as if he intends to ruin you for anything else.
He slides one finger inside you, curling, exploring, while his tongue continues its work, finding the rhythm that makes your hips roll helplessly toward him. Then two fingers, stretching you slowly, his pace maddening, his silver head moving between your thighs while his free hand pins your hip to the mattress. He teases. He draws it out with the patience of a man who has denied himself too long and now intends to take his time about the undoing. Every time you feel yourself cresting toward the edge, he eases back, withdrawing just enough, slowing just enough, his eyes flicking up to watch your face with something that looks almost like satisfaction.
The third time he pulls back from the precipice, you take a fistful of his hair and drag him up.
“Now,” you tell him. “Take me now.”
A feral smirk curls his lips at your demand. He rises up over you, his chest heaving, his entire body taut with anticipation. He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, you taste yourself on his tongue, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your face as if to brand the moment into your memory.
“As my lady commands,” he growls against your mouth.
He shifts his hips, pressing himself against your entrance. Then, with one sharp thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in every way possible. The moment he's sheathed inside you, a ragged groan tears from his throat, half pleasure, half disbelief. His forehead drops against yours, his breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your hips as if he fears you'll vanish.
“Gods,” he chokes out. “You feel so- warm. So tight.”
He's barely coherent. That, more than anything, undoes you.
His hips roll against yours in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper, more possessive than the last. He watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, as if this is the only thing that's ever truly mattered. His eyes, those violet eyes that have looked at you with contempt and hunger and everything in between by now, are dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't look away. He watches you as if watching you is a compulsion he can no longer afford to deny.
“Look at me,” he rasps, when your eyes begin to close. “Don't you dare-.”
And you do, you hold his gaze.
His jaw tightens. Something moves across his expression that he doesn't have the composure left to conceal, something raw and frightened and ferocious all at once. His strokes deepen; his grip hardens.
Then he flips you, without warning, rolling you onto your stomach with the ease of a man accustomed to taking what he wants. The mattress shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips and drag you up to meet him. One palm presses flat between your shoulder blades for a half-second, then slides up, fingers winding into your hair, pressing your face into the pillow.
His lips find your ear, his voice low and rough as he whispers, “I won't be gentle, sweetling.”
It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise.
“I don't want you to,” you answer.
The sound he makes at that is almost feral, something ripped from somewhere deep in his chest that he would never willingly give you in daylight. His fingers dig into your hips as he takes you with a force that borders on brutality, each thrust deeper, harder, driven by pure unrestrained need. His lips drag across your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin to stifle his groan as he loses himself in the heat of you. He releases your hair so both hands can grip your hips, holding you in place, as if he fears you might slip away if he doesn't, his fingers leaving half-moon marks you will feel for days.
His pace is relentless. Desperate. Driven by a hunger that has been building since the first moment he looked at you and hated that he wanted to keep looking.
“I can't-.” you gasp, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight.
“Come for me,” he growls, the words bitten off, rough and low. “Come on- I want to feel you. All of you.”
And you do, you shatter. Your whole body arches into it, trembling beneath him, clenching around him, and you hear his sharp, broken exhale, feel the way his rhythm stutters.
His release hits him like a storm, violent, consuming, unstoppable. His body tenses, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spills inside you with a ragged groan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a moment, he just breathes against your skin, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks.
Then, slowly, he collapses over your back. His weight settles, heavy, present, real. His lips move against one of the bruises he's left on your shoulder. Then another. Not in apology, Aerion Targaryen does not apologize. But in something. Acknowledgment, perhaps.
Neither of you speaks.
His arm slides around you, not tenderly, but with a kind of quiet insistence, as if placing himself between you and something invisible. You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast, still. Then slower. Then slower still.
The silence stretches. It does not demand anything from either of you. His breathing deepens, but his grip does not loosen. You close your eyes.
Sleep comes for you both like a tide, not gentle, not kind, but inevitable. The way all true things are.
STEP 7. Never Cage What You Cannot Break.
A beast is not tamed by taking away its fangs. That only makes it weaker, and weakness is not the same thing as trust. It is tamed, if it ever is, by giving it a reason not to use them. It stays because it chooses to. It stays… because it chooses to.
The manse Maekar had given you sat at the edge of a quieter part of the city, near enough to court to satisfy obligation and far enough to breathe in peace. It was smaller than the Red Keep, less grand, but that suited the both of you. No one had said so out loud, yet it was clear enough. The walls were warm stone. The windows faced east and caught the morning light instead of shutting it out. Lavender grew along the outer walk, planted by someone before your time, and it had survived the winter with a stubbornness that felt almost personal.
Inside, signs of a shared life had gathered in slow, ordinary ways. His books beside yours on the shelf. Your embroidery frame positioned near the best window, which he had moved without comment one afternoon when he noticed the light falling wrong. A second cup on the table by the fire, already poured.
None of it was dramatic, all of it mattered to you.
You settled deeper into the chair, adjusting your weight carefully. The pregnancy sat heavy in your lap, in your lower back, in the way you rose slowly from chairs and descended stairs with one hand trailing the wall. Seven months had left their mark. Your belly was full and round beneath the loose linen of your gown, warm to the touch, occasionally shifting with the insistence of someone who had not yet been born but already had opinions on its own.
You pressed a hand briefly to your side where the movement was. A flutter, a press. I know, you thought at it. I know you're there.
The fire crackled. Across the room, Aerion sat at the writing table with his back half-turned to you, working through correspondence with the focused quiet of a man who had learned, slowly, imperfectly, to channel his energy into something productive rather than destructive. Candles burned at either side of the table. His silver hair, longer now, caught their light and held it.
He had not spoken in some time. Neither had you.
The silence was not tense. That distinction still struck you sometimes, even now, the difference between his silences then and his silences now. Before, quiet had been the space between provocations, the held breath before a storm. Now it was simply the room at rest, two people existing in the same warmth, without the need to perform that fact.
Your needle moved through the embroidery. A branch. Leaves in pale green thread, stitched slowly because you no longer rushed things that deserved to be unhurried. You had learned that too, somewhere along the way, though you weren't certain when. Perhaps it had been a lesson you taught yourself while teaching him.
“You've been rubbing your back for the better part of an hour.”
His voice came without him turning. Your hand had drifted there without you noticing. You lowered it. “I'm fine.”
“I didn't say you weren't.”
You went back to the embroidery and the scratch of his quill resumed.
You looked at the back of his head for a moment, at the set of his shoulders, the long line of his spine. He was still proud in his posture. That had not changed, nor would it. But there was something different in it now. Less like a man braced for attack. More like a man who had simply grown comfortable inside his own frame.
Maekar had expressed quiet satisfaction, the last time you had attended court. Not in words, the prince was not a man for words where a look would suffice. But satisfaction nonetheless. You had understood it without needing it explained. So had Aerion, which had caused a complicated expression to move across his face, something between pride and the ghost of old resentment, before easing into something closer to acceptance.
He was still Aerion. He could still cut with a word when he chose to. His patience was a thing learned rather than natural, and it occasionally showed its seams. Two weeks prior, at a supper that had run overlong, he had said something to Lord Peake's second son that had made the table go briefly silent. But he had stopped there, he had not pursued it. He had reached instead for his wine and redirected the conversation with a deliberateness you recognized, because you had practiced that deliberateness in front of him, repeatedly, until he understood what it looked like.
He was not fixed, he was better. There was a meaningful difference.
The fire shifted, throwing new shadows. You set down the embroidery and pressed your palm flat against the side of your stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. The child moved again, long, slow, like something turning in a dream. You breathed around it.
The scratch of the quill stopped.
You did not look up immediately. You felt, rather than saw, the moment his attention shifted, the feeling of being observed by Aerion, which you had long since learned to recognize. It was different now too.
You looked up.
When you looked up, he had already turned in his chair. He was watching you with those violet eyes of his, pale in the candlelight, and there was something in his face he had learned to hide less well over time. Not because he had grown careless. Because keeping it hidden had begun to cost him too much, and he had finally decided, with the quiet certainty he brought to every important thing, that it was no longer worth the price.
Then he rose from the table.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the way a man walks when he has already made up his mind. When he stopped in front of you, his gaze dropped from your face to your hands, then to the rounded curve beneath the linen. Then he knelt.
Not in surrender. Not in show. One knee to the floor, steady and deliberate, bringing himself level with what he meant to honour. He reached out, and his hand, the same hand that had once gripped and demanded and taken, settled with impossible gentleness against the side of your stomach.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the fullest part of you.
He stayed there a moment, forehead resting lightly against you, his hand curved around the life you carried. His breathing evened out. His eyes were closed. He did not speak at once, and you did not ask him to.
Then, very quietly, without lifting his head, he said, “I love you.”
You looked down at the top of his silver head, at the broad line of his shoulders bent in a shape that was not quite defeat and not quite humility, but close enough to make your throat tighten. You thought of the man who had once watched you across a banquet table with cold, assessing eyes and found nothing in you worth his attention. You thought of all the months between then and now. The arguments. The patience. The slow, stubborn work of remaining.
You reached down and touched his face gently. He looked up at you. The candlelight made his eyes very bright.
You held his gaze and said, simply, “I love you as well.”
No strategy in it. Just the truth, spoken in the same quiet room where you had spent months learning each other's silences.
He turned his face and pressed one more kiss to your stomach, almost habitual, as if he had already developed the instinct, then rose slowly and settled himself on the arm of your chair. His hand remained at your side, warm and present. You returned to your embroidery. His shoulder rested against yours, and he did not move away.
The fire burned low. The night spread softly around the manse.
Later, when he had drifted into sleep beside you and his breathing had gone slow and even, you lay awake in the dark and thought about the whole path that had brought you here.
Seven steps, written out with the clean, measured certainty of someone who understood that hearts, even difficult ones, had their own structure. You had approached him with respect for what it was, patience for what it could become, and no illusions about the process between.
But somewhere in the long careful middle of it, something had shifted that no guide could have anticipated, or perhaps the guide had always known it and simply not named it. The method had worked. But the method had not been the point.
The point was that he had changed.
Not because you had fixed him. Not because you had caged him or diminished him or stripped away the things that made him difficult. He was still proud. Still sharp. Still capable of the particular cold cruelty that had earned him his reputation, though he used it less now, and never against you.
He had changed because he had chosen to. Because somewhere in the accumulated weight of all those quiet days and careful moments, something in him had found a reason.
And he, Aerion Targaryen, the Bright Prince, the man they called Brightflame for the way he burned, had stayed too.
His hand rested over yours in the dark, light and warm and present.
The beast doesn't need its fangs removed, you thought, closing your eyes. It just needs something worth protecting more than it needs to bite.
Sleep came, slow and complete, and took you both with it.
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SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I don’t even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerion—but specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciated
“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”
You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?
The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”
You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there.
You bristle instantly.
“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”
“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”
You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”
My love.
His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?
“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”
Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him.
“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”
You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.
“You should know already,” you hiss.
“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”
You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away.
You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react.
They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—
—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband.
Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.
A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.
It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.
“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”
Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.
“The Lannister girl?”
You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”
To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.
You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”
Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.
You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.
The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently.
“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”
“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”
You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.
“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”
“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”
You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.
He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache.
“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”
“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.
“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”
You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.
Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut.
“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”
“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.
“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”
You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn.
“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”
“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?
Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall.
“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”
“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”
“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”
Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”
“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”
“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair.
“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”
Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”
“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”
Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.
His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.
“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.
You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours.
“It does not matter.”
“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”
You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood.
“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.
“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”
You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not.
Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”
“No one.”
“Who has frightened you, then?”
You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”
Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.”
His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.
You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.
“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”
“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.
“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”
“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.
“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”
“I did not know that,” you whisper.
“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”
“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.
“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”
Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”
“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”
This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.
“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.
“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.
A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.
“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”
Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”
Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”
You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”
“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”
You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.
The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.
Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.
“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”
You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?”
Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”
“Do not mock me,” you mutter.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“Terribly,” he admits.
You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.
“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”
“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”
Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.
“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.
You blink. “Well, yes.”
You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.
“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”
Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”
“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”
You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”
“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?”
You eye him warily. “What?”
“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”
Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.
“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.”
Something in your chest twists painfully.
“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”
“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”
“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.”
“You are insufferable, is what you are.”
He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”
“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.
“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.
You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.
You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”
He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”
“I will poison you if you do.”
His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”
You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.
Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.
“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.
Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”
“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”
You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.
“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”
“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.
Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”
“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”
“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”
Your chest aches. Loathsome man.
“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.
“And I you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Sleep, ñuha jorrāelagon. No one shall ever touch you while I draw breath.”
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pinterest board | inspo tag & asks | ao3┊baelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 90k┊next update: 29.03.26┊rated: t.
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pinterest board | inspo tag & asks | ao3┊baelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 90k┊next update: 29.03.26┊rated: t.
— summary: as maekar’s eldest daughter, you are a trophy to every man of the realm. and for that, one evening your husband’s protective streak turns into a cruel accusation that escalates into a heated argument. you’ve mastered the art of the silent treatment, and for a man who treats you like his entire religion, one day of being ignored is enough to drive him to the brink of insanity.
— pairing: valarr targaryen x wife!targaryen!reader
— word count: 5.4k
— content: +18 (minors dni!), targcest, light sexual content, established marriage, childhood friends to lovers, jealous & possesive!valarr, a bit of angst, period-typical sexism, marital arguments, emotional tension, hurt/comfort, a LOT of worship and sweet romance bc he is so in love, silent treatment until he can't take it anymore (he's so pathetic).
For as long as memory held its flickering torch, the eyes of men had been fixed upon you.
You were a creature grown accustomed to the weight of their collective gaze—a heavy cloak you wore wherever your feet led. Some looked with shadow of loathing, others with the rigid mask of respect; some with the sharp edge of envy, and many more with the burning, unwashed hunger of desire.
It had begun as simple smiles blooming in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, back when you were but a child clutching your father’s hand. Even then, the Lords of the Court possessed no shame; they would boldly petition for your hand to grace their sons’ beds, or, more obscenely, their own.
As the years stretched your limbs, the courtesies grew deeper than necessity required. The compliments became overwrought, smelling of false summerwine. Their eyes would linger upon the curve of your smile or the silk of your bodice a heartbeat longer than was seemly. They looked at you through a glass of unreality, forcing their kindness and sharpening their flattery, all to carve a place in your favor. They hoped, perhaps, to ensnare your heart and bind you to them in the sight of the Seven.
By right of blood, you were the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen—his firstborn, a flawless alloy of his steel and your mother’s grace. You were a vision of royalty in its highest splendor: hair of spun silver and a smile that dazzled like sunlight on Blackwater Bay. You moved with the terrifying confidence of one who knew exactly who, and what, she was.
You were a Dragon Princess, as beautiful and volatile as the wildfire burning in your veins.
That was a sin the world would never forgive. Nor would they ever permit you to forget it.
The lesson was learned early and with bitterness: men did not see you. They cared little for the contents of your soul or the mettle of your character. They saw only your name, your blood, and the power of your heritage. You were not a woman to them; you were a ledger of utility.
For that, your life had been spent parrying unwanted advances and shivering through uncomfortable dalliances. Your father had grown weary of swatting away marriage pacts like persistent flies. He had even gone so far as to backhand your younger brother, Aerion, when the Prince had dared to claim you as his own by right of birth.
To the realm, you were a trophy to be hoisted. A prize to be corrupted, to be flowered and bedded, a vessel to carry their legacy under the prestige of your name.
To everyone, that is, except for Valarr.
Your sweet cousin had always been the perfect counterpoint to your own existence, for you understood one another with a clarity that defied words. You were two bright spirits the world sought to quench.
He did not look at you as a ladder to the Iron Throne, nor did he squint to measure the span of your waist or the fullness of your breast to judge your worth as a broodmare. He looked at you because, since you were children racing through the gardens, you were the only one who could read the silences hidden behind his shy, quiet smile. You were patient with him when the court was not; you were his confidante, his shield, and above all, his most faithful ally.
You had covered for one another’s mischief, mending the echoes of broken treasures and whispering secrets as you snuck into the Dragonpit. There, amidst the towering, hollow skulls of the ancient dragons, you would play at being Old Valyria reborn, pretending the stone husks still breathed fire at your command.
When the betrothal was finally cried out, the court hailed it as the ‘Perfect Union’ to secure the succession. With the King’s blessing and your fathers’ consent, the pact was sealed. They saw it as a masterful stroke of politics; for the two of you, it was the first true breath of relief you had ever taken.
For you loved him, and Valarr had loved you since his heart first learned to beat. To him, you had appeared like a Valyrian goddess—radiant, laughing, and full of life. As the years turned, he had found himself a devotee at your altar, a prince kneeling before his own religion. He had always been there to shield you from the grasping hands of men who took advantage of your girlhood innocence.
“I don’t like how they treat you, cousin,” he would grumble, squeezing your hand in his, hidden in the shadows behind a enormous dragon skull. Naturally, that was where you both felt safest, under the dark, fierce gaze of the hollow eye pits of the dragons in their lair. “As if you were some kind of property they could claim.”
Valarr was your guardian. And now that you were his wife, the silver prince had grown more territorial, his devotion sharpening into a protective jealousy that burned as fierce as any dragon’s breath.
That evening, at some royal feast in the Red Keep, the weary pantomime played out once more. You were draped in a gown of breathtaking scarlet and black—the colors of your House—mirroring the doublet Valarr wore.
ogether, you were a vision of dragonblood manifest, your silver tresses woven with threads of beaten gold that glimmered under the fire of the lamps. Your face remained serene, a mask of pale porcelain that the lords of the realm, in their infinite dullness, so often misread.
“Your sweetness is truly exquisite, Princess,” a Lord claims, his flattery oiling the air for the third time within the hour. He pressed closer than etiquette deemed holy, mistaking your silence for the soft bloom of shyness. But as Maekar’s daughter, shyness was a stranger to you. “Surely a woman of your... temperament would find respite from the rigors of the capital. My lands in the south are far warmer, and much more welcoming.”
You do not stir or grow desperate. You merely take another slow sip of your sweet red wine, dangerously calm. You sense Valarr’s presence before you hear his boots on the stone, and so you let him handle the intrusion. You let him mark his territory.
Your husband slides to your side with the natural elegance of one born to wear a crown. He has been occupied in conversation with his father—much to his chagrin, for he detests leaving you alone in halls so thick with that kind of men.
And Valarr, much like his father Baelor, is a man of precise words and measured gestures.
“Lord Tyrell,” he says, his voice so soft it feels like a caress, though his beautiful two-colored eyes hold the dull glint of an ice floe. “My wife already has all the warmth she could ever need here. The Targaryen fire requires no southern sun to burn fiercely.”
Valarr places a hand to rest gently on the small of your back, drawing you flush against him.
It is a subtle gesture to the prying eyes of the court, but to you, it is absolutely everything. The heat radiating from his palm and the delicate graze of his fingers against the silk of your gown at the curve of your waist are enough to make the insult—which has begun to climb your throat—dissolve into a lover’s sigh.
Though, you wish you could have that Lord’s eyes served on a platter for the way he undresses you with his gaze.
“Of course, my Prince,” the portly Lord stammers, recoiling before Valarr’s intimidating stare. “I was only looking after... the Princess’s well-being.”
“There is no need. I am here to ensure my wife's well-being, my Lord,” Valarr concludes with a courtly smile that does not reach his eyes. His fingers tighten at your waist, dipping dangerously toward the curve of your backside as you lean against his chest, looking down upon the other man with disdain.
When the Lord takes his leave, babbling your titles in farewell, Valarr does not step away. He leans close to you, pretending to adjust one of your ruby necklaces at your chest, letting his breath brush against your face and his fingertips gently caress the contour of your bosom, pressed together by the tight neckline.
“They are being especially persistent tonight,” he whispers, frustration lashing his tongue. Finally, that perfect calm fractures a mere millimeter, revealing the possessive zeal that simmers beneath his skin. “I wonder if I should remind them every hour that you are wed to me.”
Your hands travel up his chest, tracing a soft path of soothing caresses until they find the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking to anchor his rising temper.
You offer him a tight, strained smile, still tasting the bitterness of the situation; you loathe the way any other man dares to look at you, for in your heart, only your husband holds the right to such intimacy.
Your fingers toy with the ornaments shaped like crimson dragon scales upon his shoulders, and you gaze up at him with big, adoring eyes.
“They all know it, my love. I am yours...”
But Valarr does not relax. He does not release that heavy, searing exhale—as hot as the breath of a dragon—that usually signals his surrender to your charms or the sound of your seductive voice confessing your devotion. That you are his.
Instead, his hand moves from your chest, sliding slowly up the column of your throat until it reaches your chin. He tilts it upward, holding you firm, forcing you to look only at him.
“Then you should stop encouraging them, wife,” he accuses in a husky rasp. He leans down, tilting his head to claim your mouth in a sharp, brief kiss that leaves the faint sound of parting lips as he pulls away, never breaking eye contact.
The phrase falls between you like a lump of stone, cooling the air that a moment ago was burning with the heat of his closeness.
Your hands stiffen on his shoulders as you search for any hint of jest in his gaze, that he is just teasing you, but you see only eyes darkened by wounded pride—a temperament he rarely unveils.
“Encouraging them?” you repeat, your voice a mere thread of incredulity. You cling to the hope that this is some cruel play on words. “Valarr, I have scarcely opened my lips. I have remained as motionless as a statue of Baelor the Blessed.”
“And that is precisely the invitation,” he retorts, taking a long step back, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders as the distance grows between you. “You stand there with a serenity that looks like submission, permitting them to circle you like vultures over a jewel. You should rebuff them at once, reject them with the strength of your lineage before they dare to breathe your very air.”
You feel the sting of injustice prick your chest. Valarr, better than anyone, knows the crushing weight of crowns.
“You know I can not do that, much as I wish to cut out their tongues and pluck out their eyes,” you hiss like an angered viper, lowering your tone so no prying ear might catch the fissure in the perfect marriage—your first true quarrel in months. “I am the firstborn of Prince Maekar. If I humiliate Lord Tyrell or any other bannerman before the entire court for a mere ill-intentioned compliment, I invite a political war that neither your father nor mine desires.” You tilt your head slightly beneath his gaze, which now sparks with anger. “Do you wish for me to be the cause of a dispute between the Reach and the Crown?”
“I prefer a thousand political disputes to the sight of other men stripping you with their eyes while you smile at them with courtesy,” he snaps back at you, the bitterness in his voice palpable, his words measured to wound.
You shake your head in disbelief, the movement causing your silver tresses to shimmer like cold moonlight against your shoulders. A dry, hollow laugh escapes your throat, though there is no mirat in it—only a sharp, stinging disappointment.
This time, you take a deliberate step back, increasing the distance between you until the warmth of his body no longer reaches your own. You look at him as if he were a stranger wearing the face of the man you love.
“Valarr, this is madness,” you breathe, your voice trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of your incredulity.
His hands retreat behind his back, hidden away as if he’s afraid of what they might do—not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing urge to reach for you and end this distance. He locks them together, his fingers digging into his own skin, clenching into fists so tight that the knuckles turn a ghostly, bloodless white.
It is a physical struggle, a silent war he wages against his own nature—his lifelong instinct to be close to you, the instinctive urge to reach out and touch you.
By hiding his hands away from you, he denies himself the comfort of your touch, choosing instead to let his wounded pride dictate the space between you.
“At times I wonder...” he adds, his voice dropping to a tone of refined cruelty born of an agonizing insecurity. You can tell he's hesitating for a moment before deciding to succumb to his rage and hurl out more poison. “I wonder if you secretly crave the attention. If the daughter of Prince Maekar requires the adoration of the world to feel like a queen for a fleeting moment, even at the cost of her husband's patience.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, a physical weight that seems to drown out the screech of the fiddles, the roar of drunken laughter, and the rhythmic swirl of the dancers.
It cuts deeper than any insult from some nameless Lord; Valarr is accusing you of common vanity when your entire life has been a battle to survive the scrutiny of a world that views you as nothing more than a prize to be won.
You hold his gaze, your breath hitching as genuine offense turns to a cold, hard coal in your chest, but you don't let the tears fall.
The ancient, inherited fire of your blood finally flickers to life behind your violet eyes.
“You have known me since I was a child of three, Valarr,” you say, with a coldness that rivals his own. “If you truly believe I enjoy being a piece of meat on display... then you do not know me at all.”
And then, you wait for just a moment. You wait for his expression to soften, for guilt to cloud his beautiful eyes, and for his hand to seek yours with that touch of regret that always follows this rare moments of tension.
You wait for him to ask your pardon, to pull you against his chest and whisper that love drives him mad, that his insecurities, his own fears, are to blame for his sharpened tongue.
But Valarr does not move.
He maintains his impeccable, princely posture, his chin high and his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a point just above your head. His lips, which have so often whispere promises of eternal devotion, are pressed into a thin, bitter line. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.
He simply steps aside.
Without a single word, Valarr moves to the right, clearing the path and leaving you the space to depart. It is the most galling gesture of all: a calculated indifference, a silent invitation for you to retire if you are not prepared to accept his terms. Never before has he let you go while you were angry. Always, without fail, he found a way to hold you until the storm passed.
You feel the knot of indignation tighten in your throat.
“Very well. This is how it will be, t–then,” you mumble reluctantly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Valarr echoes, dropping his gaze to the floor, still visibly simmering.
You gather the heavy skirts of your scarlet gown with fingers trembling from rage and you walk past him, keeping your back as straight as a dragon-bone spear, and begin to walk toward the exit of the Great Hall.
You feel the weight of the gold threads in your braids, and above all, you feel the weight of everyone's eyes upon you.
Even from a distance, your father can sense that you are visually agitated and very upset, considering that pout you're holding on your lips. His frown deepens when he glances at your husband standing behind you, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor, clearly forcing himself not to gaze at you, for his act of indignation would likely crumble into a thousand pieces.
Then, Maekar shares a knowing glance with Baelor, who is sitting next to him, as he too realizes that something has happened between their firstborns.
Now, without Valarr by your side as a shield, the gazes feel even more invasive, more ravenous. You can sense Lord Tyrell watching you from afar with a crooked smirk, noting the sudden distance set between your husband and you. So, you hurry to get out of the place, not even bothering to give excuses to your family.
Valarr had hurt you in the deepest way, doubting your loyalty and integrity just because the rest of the world didn't know how to be decent. Every time you thought about it, about the way he had accused you and looked at you, as if he didn't know you, as if you had been a stranger, you grew increasingly furious.
The seconds turned into minutes, which felt like hours. You abruptly took off your jewelry, letting the rubies fall onto the dressing table with a loud clatter. You let your hair down, letting your silvery locks cascade over your bare shoulders like a fountain.
Finally, as you are settling down for a good night's sleep, relaxing in your spacious bed and solitude, the sound of the door creaking open interrupts your peace.
There is no rush in his movements, Valarr walks in with his characteristic serenity, which now irritates you so much that you are unable to even so much as glance at him.
“Maekar was looking for you,” he informs you, his voice unusually monotone, as he begins to take off his cloak. “I told him you were not feeling yourself.”
You lay motionless beneath the satin sheets, your gaze locked on the shadows cast by the burning embers across the ceiling, imagining that they are dragons.
His words hover in the space of the room, unacknowledged. You offer no expression of gratitude, no hum of acceptance, neither even the faintest gesture of your head in his direction.
For you, Valarr is not there that night. In his place, there is only a stranger who wears his face, one who has had the audacity to question the core of your very soul.
You can hear the sound of leather sliding on wood as he begins to take off his doublet. The following is a heavy silence, charged with the weight of all that has not been said.
Valarr takes his time, moving with that regal slowness that you would usually find charming, and that, on any other day, would have you already crawling up his bare back with kisses and caresses, but now seems like a desperate tactic to get your attention.
It's really pathetic, you think.
He steps to the edge of the bed and you sense the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he sits down to untie his boots.
“You could have waited for me at least,” he is bold enough to keep talking, even when he can clearly see that you are still fuming, bursting the ice again and uttering your name in that gentle tone of his. At least that much has not changed on this catastrophic day.
Indeed, his tone has lost the harshness he displayed in the Great Hall, turning into something closer to a resigned lament. Pathetic.
“I had to make up excuses for my father and yours. It's not like us to put on such a display of disharmony in front of them and the King.”
Once again, you don't respond. Instead, you close your eyes, concentrating on the cadence of your own breathing and then, roll overyourself to turn your back on him.
If he doesn't approve of your polite silence, then you will give him an entire ocean of it.
Valarr sighs, a long, weary sound that betrays his own frustration. He finishes undressing and, after blowing out the last two candles, slips under the bedcovers beside you.
Typically, the instant your bodies lie side by side in the darkness and comfort of your quarters, he would reach for you, wrap an arm around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and whisper how much he loves you, emphasizing his words with sweet kisses upon your skin that would often lead to passionate lovemaking.
But this time, despite sharing the same bed, the distance between you seems to be unbridgeable.
Valarr lies on his back, very close but not touching you. You can feel the warmth emanating from his body, that warmth that has always makes you feel at home. Your skin tingles, betraying you, yearning for his touch, but your sense of pride—the same pride you inherited from your father, so fierce and intense—keeps you cold and distant.
“You're not even going to look at m–me?” Valarr asks into the suffocating darkness of the bedchamber, his voice cracks with the weight of despair.
There is a trace of bewilderment in his gentle voice. The situation is terrifyingly foreign to him as well; you have always been the one to reach out and smooth things over with patience. He has grown accustomed to your mercy, leaning on it like a crutch he never realized he needed.
But not now.
“There is a tournament tomorrow. We are expected to be in the royal pavilion, together. We cannot afford this... this whim.”
A whim?, you think, and rage boils in your gut like the fire-breath of a dragon.
You don't give him the luxury of a reaction to his provocation. You simply adjust your pillow with a sharp movement before lying perfectly still again.
At that you feel him grow tense beside you.
Your husband is not a man of violent outbursts, but indifference is the only force that can shatter his composure.
For the first time, he is facing the abyss of your indifference, and the overwhelming loneliness of that void is beginning to drown him.
“V–very well,” he finally declares, and this time his voice rings with wounded emotion, despite his efforts to conceal it with a veil of coldness. “Good night.”
The echo of the crowd's cheers reaches your terrace, celebrating every lance broken, every fallen rider. Normally, you would be the star of the royal pavilion, seated at Valarr's side, but today you have chosen the cozy comfort of your own bedchamber.
Earlier that morning, you had sent a message to the king and your father, as concise as it was unconvincing: you were not feeling well, a vague discomfort kept you bedridden. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But since your whole family already knows that something has been going on between you and your husband, they decided to let it slide.
You can just imagine Valarr, looking perfect and stoic on the outside, but burning with humiliation and solitude on the inside, forced to answer all the questions about the absence of his wife, his other half, who isn't there to hand him the favor of her silk when it's his turn to ride.
The sunset bathes the big bedchamber into a bloody shade of orange as the door is flung open. This time, there is no trace of finesse or restraint.
Valarr comes in like a force of nature then. He has already stripped away the cold plates of his armor, but he still wears the dark, sweat-stained gambeson—the thick, quilted tunic of black leather and wool that served as his last line of defense. It clings to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, damp from the grueling effort of the tourney, mapping out the frantic rhythm of his breathing.
His dark hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead from the sweat and effort he put into the tourney, and that one platinum streak of his, the one that makes you go feral just by the sight of it, is all ruffled up. His two-colored eyes, normally as calm as a peaceful lake, burn with a fury you've hardly ever seen before.
He looks handsome like that, you must admit, all fired up and sassy.
He tosses his gauntlets onto a nearby table with a loud bang that makes you sit up in the bed, your fingers instantly clamping shut the book you were so absorbed in reading.
“Not a single word,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous as he storms across the room towards you. “Not a single glance all day. You left me alone in front of the court, in front of my father, like a fool who can’t even run his own household.”
You remain where you are, sitting with a graceful languor and purposeful poise on the vastness of the bed, surrounded by the soft disorder of the silk sheets. You haven't moved to acknowledge him, nor have you displayed any reaction to the agitation he exudes. Instead, you remain leaning against the cushions, your back straight and your scarlet silk nightgown sliding dangerously down the curve of your shoulder, revealing the smoothness of your skin as a kind of silent provocation.
You look devastatingly beautiful, a vision of heaven that contrasts cruelly with the miserable state in which he has returned to you. Your silvery hair flows down over your chest, simultaneously covering and revealing the delicate curves of your figure, as you hold your book with an elegance that is almost hurtful.
That nightgown is his favorite, you both know it. You are keenly aware of the effect you have on him. You know that while he has been away playing the perfect prince, you have been here preparing to be his downfall.
You gradually raise your gaze, and lock your violet eyes onto his with unnerving calmness. At least you grant him that today: the privilege of looking you in the eyes.
“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Valarr,” you reply reluctantly, stretching out your other hand to put your wine cup down on one of the nightstands and crawling out the bed to stand up. “Didn’t you want me to stop attracting attention? Didn’t you want me to hide myself away? Well, here you have it. I’ve hidden myself away from the world. And from you.”
You stand up with a measured nonchalance that only serves to fuel the fire of his rage. You move with the fluid grace of a predatory creature, walking calmly and intentionally avoiding his menacing figure, passing so close that he can smell the scent of your skin, but without allowing him even the slightest touch.
You head toward the balcony, and that's where you pull off your masterstroke. As you walk away from him, the orange, bloody light of sunset filters through the open doors, turning the thin scarlet silk of your nightgown into an nearly transparent veil.
Valarr stands rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat, as the sinful clarity of your body's shape is displayed before his eyes: the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and the curve of your arse, all outlined by the glow of the dying sun as it pierces the thin fabric.
You lean on the stone railing, watching the horizon where the sun sinks like a glowing ruby into the Black Waters. The night wind begins to dance with the hem of your dress, clinging to your thighs and leaving precious little to the imagination.
And you know he's right behind you, following in your own footsteps with the patient determination of a predator. You feel the heat of his body against yours, smell the scent of sweat exuding from his skin, a fragrance that is purely masculine and dominant, making your insides knot with desire.
His warm hands catch you by the waist and pull you forcefully against his chest. You let out a breathless gasp as his face digs into the crook of your neck, and his hot, hungry lips kiss the sensitive skin just below your ear.
You try to call out his name, to scold him, to remind him that you are still upset about his awful behavior from yesterday. “Valarr...”
“You think this is a fucking game?” he grunts, his voice rumbling down your spine. “You think you can just disappear and leave my mind to rot, imagining every man in this kingdom coveting my woman?”
“You pushed me away,” your voice weakens as one of his hands rises impatiently, cupping your breast over the thin fabric of your nightgown, holding your body close to his. “You doubted me, Valarr. My loyalty. My dignity. In front of all those people. In front of my own father. Do you know how humiliating it feels?”
He sighs heavily into your neck, placing one last kiss on your skin before spinning you around in his arms so abruptly that it knocks the wind out of you.
Instinctively, your hands reach for his shoulders to hold on to him, and he supports you with his own hands, fitting the curve of your waist, incapable of letting you go now that he has captured you.
Seeing the way you're looking at him, he sighs once more, ducking down to push his forehead onto your chest, closing his eyes as his face nuzzles between your breasts. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him and ensuring that you can't even consider moving away.
“Forgive me,” he pleads then, his voice cracking just slightly, his lips spelling out the words into your skin. “Forgive me—my love, please. I am just a stupid, jealous fool. I was out there all day, feeling like I was suffocating because you weren’t there. I am—I am so tired of your silence. I can't do it—”
He physically swoons when he feels your hand running through his hair, your fingers tangling in that lock of silver hair you love so much, smoothing it back into place.
The prince lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead still pressed against youe body, leaning into the touch of your fingers as if he’s a man dying of thirst and you are the only well in the desert.
“I can't do it,” he repeats, his voice a muffled, raw rasp against your chest. “I can not live without your gaze upon me. Without your touch, your voice. Don't go back into that silence, p–please. Come back to me...”
You look down at him, your own anger beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating pull of the devotion he’s offering.
“I am right here, Valarr,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking the seal of that icy silence. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. “I forgive you”
“Thank you,” he breathes out, his voice choked with emotion before claiming your lips with his, and kissing you as if it were the first time he’d been able to kiss you in years away from you. He kisses you again and again and again. “Thank you...”
“I believe you are exaggerating now, darling,” you tell him, struggling to contain a giggle at the way he is clinging to your body, his hands sliding down to palm your arse and squish you closer to him, kissing your flushed cheeks.
But Valarr doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression so hauntingly solemn it makes the breath catch in your throat.
“I am not exaggerating, my heartfire,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly earnest register. He looks like a man who has just survived a war. “It has been twenty-six hours and fourteen minutes since you last looked at me with anything other than loathing. Twenty-six hours since I last heard you speak my name.”
He leans his forehead against yours affectionately, letting out a sigh of relief now that he has you in his arms again, feeling the pressure of your breasts on his chest.
“Twenty-six hours, Valarr?” you tease, your heart softening completely as you realize the depth of his devotion.
“And fifteen minutes now,” he corrects immediately, his voice devoid of any humor, lowering sheepishly.
A bright, genuine and sweet burst of laughter escapes you, the sound ringing out like silver bells across the terrace and shattering the last of the tension. You lean back against his loving arms, your body shaking with amusement as you realize just how deeply you’ve unraveled your husband.
You feel the heat radiating from his skin as a deep, crimson flush creeps up his neck and floods his cheeks.
Groaning in a mixture of embarrassment and relief, he hides his blushing face in the crook of your neck, seeking refuge from your teasing gaze.
- Summary: Y/N Targaryen is dragged to the Ashford tourney to get her out from under Aerion’s obsession, only for Valarr to publicly ask for her favor and spark a feud that erupts into a brawl in the royal pavilion.
- Pairing: cousin!reader/Valarr Targaryen
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (There’s no explicit content until Part 3. However, Aerion appears earlier in the story, and there are implications about things he may have done to the reader character.)
Ashford Meadow did not smell like spring the way songs pretended it did. It smelled like trampled grass beaten into pulp by thousands of boots, like horse sweat baked into leather tack, like roasting meat turned too often over too-hot coals because nobody wanted to be the cook who disappointed a lord. It smelled like cheap perfume drifting out of a line of bright tents where men with coin went looking for distraction, and like fresh sawdust scattered over patches of mud that had already lost the fight. The air was loud with it too, a constant, messy sound that had no discipline and no shame: hawkers calling, children shrieking, ale sloshing, metal ringing when someone bumped a suit of armor, laughter that came too quick and died too quick. If you closed your eyes, it was chaos. If you opened them, it was color arranged into something almost orderly: banners and streamers, painted shields on poles, pavilions set like small kingdoms in rows. Lord Ashford had turned a meadow into a city and expected everyone to pretend it was permanent.
Your father refused to pretend.
Maekar Targaryen rode in like he was arriving at a battlefield inspection, not a celebration for a girl’s thirteenth nameday. His horse moved steady under him, and he sat the saddle with the same brutal economy he sat a chair, as if comfort was a childish thing other men chased. You kept pace at his side with the rest of the royal party, heat pressing under your collar and at the back of your neck, your hair pinned up and already threatening to come loose from the ride. It was an insult, being dressed for court in a place that wanted dust and sweat, but the insult wasn’t new. The insult was that you were here at all, because Aerion had made such a long, whining sport of it that Maekar had chosen the simplest solution: bring you, let him stop complaining, and in the process, maybe give you something beyond the walls of Summerhall to look at for once.
Aerion rode a half-length behind, as if he wanted the world to see him but also wanted to be close enough to lean in and poison anything you might enjoy. He wore his bright arrogance like a cloak, all pale hair and polished fittings, and the kind of smile that promised he would ruin a thing just to prove he could. Every time you shifted in your saddle, you felt him watching, not with affection and not even with desire in the clean way singers lied about, but with that possessive fixation he’d nursed since you were children, the one that turned him stupid when Maekar told him no and turned him cruel when he could not have what he decided belonged to him.
Then Valarr came alongside, the shift in the air around you as immediate as shade.
He did not crowd you. He never did. He just moved close enough that Aerion’s casual reach, the way his hand sometimes drifted toward your reins or your sleeve like he owned the right to touch, suddenly had somewhere to crash. Valarr’s presence was a barrier made of manners and blood and the fact that, for all Aerion’s swagger, Valarr was Baelor’s son and carried himself like it. Not soft. Not weak. Just… controlled, as if he’d learned early that power did not need to shout.
“You’re staring,” Valarr said under his breath, not looking at you when he spoke, eyes forward on the sprawling field ahead. He sounded mildly amused, which in a Targaryen boy was almost suspicious.
“I’m taking account,” you answered, because you refused to give anyone the satisfaction of calling it awe.
“Taking account of the smell?” he murmured. “Or the fact half the Reach has decided this is an acceptable way to spend coin.”
“You can smell the Reach from here,” you said. “Perfume and pride.”
Valarr’s mouth quirked, quick and restrained. “That’s an unkind summary.”
“It’s accurate.”
He glanced at you then, just a flicker. His eyes were steady, the kind that could look at a situation and not flinch. “Try not to look like you want to set the whole meadow on fire. It will draw attention.”
“Attention is what everyone here is paying for,” you said, and you hated that it came out harsher than you meant, because you could feel Aerion behind you, could feel him listening for any crack he could shove a blade into.
Valarr’s gaze moved past you, casually, as if checking the spacing of the riders. “He’s in a mood,” he said, as if you needed the report.
“He’s always in a mood,” you replied.
From ahead, Maekar’s voice cut back without him turning his head. “Enough.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The word landed like a hand on the back of your neck, reminding you where you were and what your father expected: composure, restraint, obedience to the shape of the family even when the family felt like a cage. You straightened automatically, reins adjusted, posture corrected. You had been trained to do that long before you understood why you needed it.
They brought the royal party through a lane that stewards had cleared with frantic energy, men shouting for smallfolk to move and bow and pretend they hadn’t been standing there first. The crowd pressed in anyway, hungry for spectacle. Faces turned, dirty hands waved, children craned to see pale hair and dragon sigils. Some looked at Maekar with fear. Some looked at Aerion with fascination. A few looked at you with the specific interest people had in noblewomen, the kind that measured you for stories you didn’t ask to be part of. You kept your chin level and your expression calm, the way you’d been taught, even as your skin prickled under their attention.
Lord Ashford’s welcome waited near the larger pavilions, where the grass had been hammered flatter and the banners flew higher. The Ashford sigil snapped in the wind like it wanted to be noticed by gods. Lord Ashford himself bowed low, sweating through his finery, doing that careful dance men did around dragons: reverence mixed with calculation. His wife hovered behind him like a shadow in embroidered cloth, and beyond them, you saw girls, a cluster of them, all dressed bright, all trying to look thrilled and not terrified. One of them was the nameday girl, Lady Ashford’s daughter, thirteen and clearly overwhelmed by what her father had built in her honor. She looked like a doll placed too close to a hearth. Her smile shook.
“Your Grace,” Lord Ashford said, voice thick with sincerity he had purchased. “Prince Baelor. Prince Maekar. Princes… my lords. Princess Y/N.” His eyes landed on you, and you felt the assessment, the quick calculation of your place in the web of this gathering, what use you might be as a compliment or a pawn. “You honor my house.”
Baelor Targaryen dismounted with the ease of a man who did not carry his authority like armor because he did not fear anyone would forget it. He smiled at Lord Ashford in a way that made the man’s shoulders loosen, as if he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Baelor’s presence did that. It was infuriating, almost, how simple he made peace look.
“Your hospitality honors us,” Baelor replied, warm and measured. “And your daughter. A thirteenth nameday should be remembered kindly.”
Maekar swung down next, sharper, the movement efficient, as if lingering was indulgence. He gave Lord Ashford a nod that was not quite a greeting and not quite a dismissal. “The lists look well set,” he said, because Maekar could compliment a structure and ignore the sentiment behind it.
Lord Ashford brightened at that anyway, starving for approval. “We’ve done our best. Five champions for my daughter, as tradition asks. Challengers will ride to take their places if they’re unhorsed. The queen of love and beauty will have her defenders, and the realm will have its sport.” His gaze flicked to Baelor again, hopeful, because if Baelor approved, the story would spread.
“And the melee?” Aerion asked, sliding into the conversation like a knife into soft fruit. He smiled at Lord Ashford with false charm. “Will there be enough men brave enough to bleed for a girl’s smile?”
Lord Ashford laughed too loudly. “Plenty, my prince. Plenty.”
Aerion’s eyes cut to you, bright and cruel. “Good,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll see who deserves to be called a knight.”
Valarr had dismounted close enough that you felt him at your shoulder. Not touching you. Just there, as if he understood that your brother’s words were not aimed at Lord Ashford at all.
Baelor’s gaze moved briefly to Aerion, a quiet warning in the look. “We will see who remembers what knighthood means,” he said, tone still gentle, but the meaning clear enough.
Aerion’s smile did not falter. It never did, not when he was being corrected. He simply bowed his head a fraction, mock-deferential. “As you say, uncle.”
Maekar’s attention snapped toward you then, quick as a whip. “You will stay near our pavilion,” he said, voice low enough that only you and those closest could hear. “You will not wander. You will not be drawn into anyone’s games.”
You met his eyes. They were hard, but not unfeeling. Maekar loved like a man who did not trust love to save anyone, so he used rules instead. “I understand.”
Aerion laughed softly, as if it was the funniest thing in the world that you had to be instructed like a child. “She understands,” he echoed, and his gaze lingered on you, proprietary, poisonous.
Valarr spoke before you did, easy as breath. “She’s not here for your entertainment, Aerion.”
It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was just a sentence said with calm certainty, and you felt the small shift in the air as Aerion’s attention snapped fully onto Valarr. Like a hound catching scent.
“You didn’t,” Valarr replied, and his tone stayed polite enough to pass in front of strangers. “You rarely do.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. Baelor’s expression stayed pleasant, but his eyes held warning now, the kind of warning that said not here, not now.
Aerion leaned closer in his saddle, voice pitched for the family alone. “Careful,” he said to Valarr, sweet as honey. “You forget your place.”
Valarr did not flinch. “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t.”
The moment could have snapped into something uglier, right there in front of Ashford’s banners and all those eager eyes, but Baelor placed a hand lightly on Maekar’s arm, a silent reminder that spectacle fed on Targaryen temper. Then Baelor turned back to Lord Ashford, smile returning like nothing had happened, and the world obligingly followed his lead.
They were led toward the royal pavilions, a cluster of tents that looked like a small fortress dressed in silk. Inside, the shade was a relief, though the air was still warm and heavy with the scent of oiled leather and crushed herbs. Servants moved quickly, setting basins, offering watered wine, arranging chairs as if furniture could protect royalty from discomfort. You let them fuss without reacting, because reacting invited comment. Outside, the noise of the meadow rolled on, unbothered by dragon blood.
When you stepped back out after washing the dust from your hands, the lists were visible from a slight rise, long and fenced, with stands built for lords and ladies. Knights moved like bright insects below, armor flashing, horses tossing their heads. Squiring boys ran with lances and buckets and cloths, sweating through their tunics, faces alight with excitement or fear. Banners lifted and dipped in the breeze, each sigil a claim, each color a declaration. This was pageantry, yes. It was also a marketplace of pride, and pride was often the first thing that got men killed.
You watched as a hedge knight passed near the outer line, taller than most, moving awkwardly in gear that didn’t quite fit like it was borrowed or inherited. His shield was plain compared to the rest, and he carried himself with a wariness that made him look older than his face suggested. He had the air of someone who had been told “no” his whole life and was foolish enough to try anyway. A boy trailed him, small, watchful, too keen-eyed for his size, glancing at everything like he was memorizing the world. They were nobody, which made them interesting in a place where everyone else was desperate to be somebody.
“Don’t,” Valarr said, and you realized he’d followed your gaze.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start collecting strays,” he replied, dry.
You looked at him then, eyebrow lifting. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Valarr’s expression softened for a heartbeat, something almost fond under all that control. “I think you’re bored,” he said. “And when you’re bored, you look for patterns. You look for people who don’t fit. Then you feel responsible for them.”
“That’s an assumption.”
“It’s an observation,” he corrected.
Before you could answer, Aerion’s voice slid in from behind you, too close. “Talking about responsibility?” he asked, amused. “That’s rich.”
You didn’t turn immediately. You hated giving him reaction. When you did look back, Aerion was smiling like he’d just been invited into a conversation he’d been eavesdropping on for sport, his eyes bright with that restless malice that always seemed hungry. “Enjoying the view?” he continued. “Or are you staring at the smallfolk like they’re a curiosity?”
“I’m staring at the lists,” you said evenly.
Aerion’s gaze flicked over you, slow. “You stare at everything like you’re judging it. It’s unattractive.”
Valarr’s voice cut in, mild. “And yet you keep looking.”
Aerion’s smile thinned. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the heat of him, the faint scent of wine already on his breath even though the day had barely begun. “You think you’re clever,” he said to Valarr. “Because Father likes you. Because Uncle smiles at you. Because you’re Baelor’s pretty son who gets to pretend he’s a hero.”
Valarr’s posture didn’t change, but you saw the subtle tightening at his jaw. “I don’t pretend.”
Aerion leaned in a fraction more, voice soft enough that it was almost intimate, almost a secret. “If you keep inserting yourself between me and what’s mine, you’ll learn what pretending costs.”
Your stomach went cold, not with fear exactly, but with the familiar recognition of Aerion’s logic: everything was a contest, everything was possession, and anyone who resisted him was an enemy. You didn’t look away. You refused to give him that victory.
“She’s not yours,” Valarr said, and there was steel under the quiet now.
Aerion’s eyes slid to you, possessive and delighted all at once, like he enjoyed hearing your life spoken about as if you weren’t standing right there. “She is Targaryen,” he said. “She is blood. She is family. That means she belongs to the House, and the House decides.”
“The House already decided,” you said, voice steady, and you watched the smallest flicker cross his face at that reminder. Maekar’s refusal was a wound Aerion never stopped picking at.
Aerion’s smile returned, dangerous. “Father decided,” he corrected. “For now.”
From the pavilion, Maekar’s voice snapped out, hard. “Aerion.”
Aerion straightened as if he’d been yanked by a leash. He took a step back, all innocence in his posture, and called back, “Yes, Father?”
Maekar emerged into the light, eyes like hammered iron. He looked from Aerion to Valarr to you in one sweep, reading the shape of the tension without needing to be told. “You will behave,” he said to Aerion, each word deliberate. “You will not shame your uncle here. You will not start trouble in another man’s hall.”
Aerion bowed his head. “I would never.”
Maekar’s stare did not soften. “Your ‘never’ is unreliable.”
That earned a quick laugh from somewhere behind, and you saw Baelor step out, expression composed but eyes sharp with quiet disappointment. “The tourney is meant to honor Lord Ashford’s daughter,” Baelor said, tone calm. “Let it do that. Let it be… simple, for a day.”
Aerion’s gaze flicked to Baelor, and for a heartbeat you saw something like resentment, because Baelor was everything Aerion wasn’t: respected without needing to be feared. “Simple,” Aerion echoed, polite. “Of course, uncle.”
Baelor’s gaze moved to you then, a silent check-in, and you found yourself holding his eyes for a moment. There was kindness there. Also caution. Baelor knew what Aerion was. Baelor also knew what it cost to fight a fire in public.
“Come,” Maekar said to you, and the command was gentler than it sounded, because it was a rescue disguised as authority. “You will sit with us in the stands. You will watch. You will learn something, if you can.”
You followed without argument, because arguing would only feed Aerion’s appetite for spectacle. As you moved toward the stands, Valarr fell into step beside you, not crowding, not touching, just steady at your shoulder like a quiet promise that you would not be alone in this crowd.
“You didn’t have to say it,” you murmured, eyes forward.
Valarr’s voice stayed low. “Yes, I did.”
“What are you trying to be?” you asked, not teasing, not quite. Something else, edged with exhaustion. “My shield?”
Valarr glanced at you, and his expression softened again, brief and real. “No,” he said. “Just… present.”
It was such a simple word. Present. As if that could be enough against Aerion’s obsession and the way noble families chewed their own. And maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing ever was. Still, when you sat in the shaded stands and the first lances were carried out, when the crowd roared itself hoarse and the meadow turned its attention fully to sport, you felt Valarr’s calm beside you like a hand on the back of your mind, steadying you.
Below, the champions rode out in their bright arrogance, five defenders for a child’s honor, and challengers lined up to take their places if they fell, because that was the game Lord Ashford had chosen. A game of replacement. A game of men proving themselves by knocking each other into the dirt for the sake of a girl who looked too small for the weight of all those eyes. The queen of love and beauty sat stiff in her seat, smiling like her cheeks hurt, while her father beamed as if he’d purchased glory itself.
Aerion leaned back in his chair beside Maekar, looking relaxed, looking amused, looking like a prince at ease. You knew better. You could feel his attention shift and circle, always hunting for the next thing to ruin. The sunlight caught on his pale hair, made him look almost angelic if you didn’t know what was under it.
Valarr sat a little farther down, close enough that you could speak without raising your voice, far enough that it wouldn’t look like a declaration to the whole stand. He watched the lists with focus, but every so often his gaze flicked toward you, quick and checking, like he was making sure you were still steady.
The horn blew. The crowd surged to its feet. Hooves thundered. Wood cracked. A man went down hard, armor biting into earth, and the roar that followed was hungry, delighted, thoughtless.
You watched, hands folded in your lap, and told yourself you were here to learn something, like Maekar demanded.
What you learned, quickly, was that Ashford Meadow was not just a tourney.
It was a stage.
And you were not here as an audience member. You were here as part of the show, whether you liked it or not.
The next day evening at Ashford Meadow was its own beast, dressed up in torchlight and music to make people forget what it cost to build a city out of canvas and pride. The air cooled just enough to feel merciful against skin that had baked all day under sun and scrutiny, but the ground still held the heat like a grudge. Torches lined the paths between pavilions and the lists, their flames snapping in the wind and throwing everything into gold and shadow, so armor glimmered like moving stars and faces looked carved a little harsher than they had at noon. The crowd sounded different at night too. The daytime roar had been bright and frantic, all appetite and noise. Now it was heavier, drunker, meaner around the edges. Men laughed with their mouths full. Women whispered behind sleeves. Boys ran half-wild until a steward cuffed them back into place. Somewhere a lute tried its best over the constant clatter of tankards and boots. The tourney was still a tourney, still horses and lances and the thrill of watching someone fall, but the evening wrapped it in celebration so it could pretend it was only sport.
This time you sat with Lord Ashford’s daughter as if you belonged beside her, as if you were simply another girl keeping another girl company, not a Targaryen placed there like a ribbon on a prize. She was dressed in something pale and expensive that looked too fine for the meadow’s grit, her hair braided with tiny ribbons that had loosened through the day. Thirteen was a cruel age to be displayed. Old enough to be told she was a lady, young enough that her hands still fidgeted in her lap when she thought no one was watching. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and the attention. Every time the crowd rose and cheered, she flinched like the sound might hit her.
“You’re quiet,” she said after a while, voice small but determined, as if quiet was something she could accuse you of to make herself feel braver. She glanced at you and then quickly looked away again, respectful and nervous in the way girls were taught to be around dragons.
“I’m watching,” you answered. You kept your tone even, gentle enough not to frighten her further, because she wasn’t your enemy and you were not in the mood to make one out of a child. “You’re allowed to be quiet too. It’s your nameday, not your trial.”
That earned a weak little smile, the kind that lived for a breath and then vanished when she remembered the stands and the banners and the men willing to crack ribs for the idea of honoring her. “It feels like a trial,” she admitted. “Everyone keeps saying how lucky I am.”
Lucky. You looked out over the lists where men in polished steel tested lances and checked girths, where squires hurried like ants, where blood had already darkened patches of sand despite the fresh scattering meant to hide it. “People call it luck when they don’t want to think about the parts that are unpleasant.”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Is it unpleasant for you?”
You could have lied. It would have been easy. A pretty lie would have kept her comfortable. Instead you chose something gentler than truth but not false. “It’s loud,” you said. “And everyone has an opinion. That’s tiring.”
She nodded quickly, grateful for something she could agree with. “My father says it’s an honor. He says it’s what a good lord does for his daughter.”
“A good lord does many things,” you replied, and you didn’t let your gaze drift toward the royal seating when you said it, even though you could feel the weight of it the way you could feel a storm brewing. “Some of them are for his daughter. Some are for himself.”
She stared at her hands for a moment as if she didn’t know what to do with that. Then, like a child reaching for safety, she changed the subject. “Will the princes ride again tonight?”
Your eyes lifted, and there, in the torchlit mess of banners and helmets, Valarr’s shield was visible near the far side of the lists, its colors clean, its shape familiar in the chaos. He was preparing with a calm focus that set him apart from the knights who strutted and preened for the stands. There was no showiness in him. Just intent, like the act mattered and the watching mattered and he would not cheapen it for applause. You felt your attention settle on him without asking permission from yourself.
“Valarr will,” you said softly, because she had asked and because you did not want to say Aerion’s name out loud tonight if you could help it.
Her face brightened. “Prince Valarr seems… kind,” she said, as if kindness was a rumor she hoped was true.
“He can be,” you answered, and that was as close to praise as you ever allowed yourself in public.
A trumpet sounded, dragging the crowd back into one mind. The chatter thinned into anticipation. The fighters moved into position. You felt the girl beside you straighten like a doll propped up by invisible hands. She was trying to look like what she had been told she should be, a lady presiding over her own celebration with grace. You understood the performance better than she did, and that made something in your chest tighten, not with pity exactly, but with recognition.
Across the way, the royal seating sat higher, heavier, draped in privilege like cloth. Baelor was there, composed as ever, watching with that quiet attention that made men behave when they remembered he could see them. Maekar sat stiff beside him, shoulders set like stone, eyes scanning everything as if he expected threat to crawl out of the crowd. Aerion lounged like he owned the stands, like the realm had been built for him to sneer at, his silver hair catching torchlight, his mouth curved in a smile that never reached his eyes.
Then Valarr rode out.
The crowd loved him the way crowds loved princes who looked like the songs. He was handsome in armor, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he carried himself, not arrogant, not timid, simply steady. His horse moved under him with practiced ease. His helm dipped in acknowledgment of the stands, not theatrical, not hungry. When he took his place, lance angled, shield set, he looked like he belonged to the lists in a way that made other men look like they were borrowing the role.
His opponent rode out too, a knight with a proud sigil and a heavier swagger, the sort that fed on the crowd’s reaction. They saluted. The herald shouted names that the wind half stole. The crowd rose, pressed forward, hungry as always.
You watched Valarr’s posture, the little shifts that meant control, the way his knees hugged the saddle, the way his shoulders stayed loose enough to move. You had seen enough training in castle yards to know when someone was competent and when someone was merely brave. Valarr was both. That was a dangerous combination in Westeros, because it made people expect things of you.
The trumpet blew.
They charged.
Hooves hammered the ground hard enough you felt it in your ribs. Lances lowered. The world narrowed to two riders and the thin line between them, and then the impact came like a crack of thunder. Wood splintered. The opponent’s lance shattered against Valarr’s shield, pieces flying like sparks. Valarr’s lance hit clean, not cruelly, not wildly, but with precision, and the other knight reeled in his saddle. He fought to stay up, pride refusing to fall, but the force took him anyway. He went down hard, armor clanging, the crowd roaring like it had been starving.
The nameday girl gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh,” she breathed, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to truly fall.
You didn’t move. You kept your hands in your lap. Your gaze stayed on Valarr as he reined in, circled once, controlled his horse like he controlled everything else, then turned toward the stands. He lifted his helm enough that you saw his face, flushed from exertion, eyes bright with the heat of the tilt, but still… him. He looked up toward the royal seating first, because duty demanded it, because Baelor was there. Then his gaze shifted.
It found you.
Not by accident. Not as a sweep. It landed on you with intention, and for a heartbeat the noise dimmed in your head the way it did when something became suddenly, very personal.
Valarr raised his voice. He didn’t shout, not like a man trying to make himself a spectacle. He spoke like a prince who expected to be heard. “Princess Y/N,” he called, and the words carried across the lists, across the stands, cutting through the cheering in a way that made faces turn. “Will you grant me your favor?”
You felt it immediately, the way a crowd reacts when it smells a story. Hundreds of heads shifted, like a field of grain bending to wind. Whispers sparked into life. The nameday girl beside you went very still, eyes wide, like she had been struck by the thrill of being next to scandal.
Your heart did not race. It dropped, heavy and cold, because you understood what that request meant in your family. It wasn’t only romance. It was alignment. It was a public declaration that could be twisted into politics by morning. It was Valarr placing himself between you and Aerion in a way so visible that even the stupidest lordling in the Reach would notice.
And because the gods hated quiet, you felt Aerion’s reaction like heat at your back even though he was far across the lists.
He sat up from his lazy sprawl as if yanked by invisible hands. His smile vanished. His face tightened into something dark and ugly. The torchlight made his eyes look almost black. For a moment he looked younger, not in innocence, but in the raw, petulant fury of a boy who had been denied a toy and had never been taught to accept it.
Maekar moved before Aerion could. Your father’s hand clamped down on Aerion’s forearm, not gentle, not subtle. It was the grip of a man stopping a dog from lunging. You saw Aerion’s body tense against it, saw the twitch at his jaw, the pulse in his throat. Maekar leaned in and said something you couldn’t hear, but you didn’t need the words. Whatever it was, it dragged Aerion back into his seat by force of will alone.
Aerion still tried to rise.
Maekar’s grip tightened.
Aerion’s mouth moved, and you could read it even from here. Mine.
You swallowed once. The air felt too thin.
Beside you, the nameday girl whispered, voice trembling with excitement and fear. “He asked you. In front of everyone.”
“Yes,” you said, and your voice came out calmer than you felt. Calm was a weapon you had been forced to learn early.
“What will you do?” she asked, and you could hear the awe in it. As if choice was a gift and not a trap.
You looked at Valarr. He waited, horse steady, posture composed, not begging, not pressuring, simply offering you a moment where you could accept or refuse and the whole realm would interpret it either way. His eyes didn’t flick toward Aerion. He didn’t perform courage at your brother’s expense. He didn’t do it to bait him. He did it because he meant it.
Across the royal seating, Baelor’s gaze locked onto Valarr. It was not anger. It was not approval either. It was a look that said: you have done something brave and complicated, and we will speak of it when there are no crowds to feed on it. Baelor did not move, did not make a scene, but the warning in his eyes was clear enough that even Valarr, shining in victory, must have felt it.
Your fingers moved before your mind finished arguing. You reached up and touched the ribbon braided into your hair, a narrow strip of fabric the color of dark wine, chosen because it suited you, because you liked it, because you had been stubborn enough to keep it when a handmaid suggested something brighter. You drew it free slowly, deliberately, letting the crowd see that you were not panicking, not rushing, not being dragged into anything. The act felt strange in your own hands, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with kisses and everything to do with being seen.
The nameday girl let out a tiny sound, almost a squeak, as if she couldn’t bear the suspense.
You stood, because you refused to be small while you did this, and because standing made you visible in a way that said you were not hiding behind anyone’s permission. You stepped forward to the edge of the stand, the torches throwing heat against your face, the wind tugging at loose strands of hair. You held the ribbon in your hand, felt the roughness of it against your palm, then lifted it high enough for Valarr to see.
“For your next ride,” you called back, and your voice carried, clear and even. You kept the words simple because anything too poetic would sound like surrender. “And for your honor, if you remember what it is.”
A ripple went through the crowd, a sound like a wave pulling back before it crashes. Valarr’s expression shifted, just slightly, as if something in him eased and tightened at the same time. He raised a hand, palm open, a gesture of respect more than triumph. One of the squires ran forward to collect the favor, and Valarr took it with care, winding it around his lance with a steadiness that looked almost reverent.
The nameday girl turned to you, eyes shining. “That was perfect,” she breathed, as if she had witnessed some great romance in a song.
It wasn’t romance that made your stomach knot. It was the fact you could feel Aerion’s stare from across the meadow like a blade pressed to skin.
Aerion did not look away. He leaned forward in his seat now, Maekar’s hand still iron on his arm, and spoke to your father in a hiss you couldn’t hear, but the way Maekar’s face went even harder told you enough. Aerion’s fury wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It had weight. It had memory. It had the kind of entitlement that didn’t burn out quickly.
Valarr turned his horse, rode the circuit of the lists, accepted the crowd’s roar with polite distance. When he passed beneath the royal seating, he lifted his lance slightly, ribbon fluttering in the torchlight like a wound dressed in silk. He did not look at Aerion. He did not give him the satisfaction. He looked at Baelor, briefly, and there was something like apology in the angle of his head. Baelor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest nod that did not soothe or forgive, only acknowledged: Later.
Maekar finally released Aerion’s arm, but only because Aerion sat still enough to pretend he was under control. Your brother’s smile returned, slow and sickly sweet, the kind he wore when he was planning something and wanted everyone to think he wasn’t. He lifted his cup, took a long drink, and never once stopped watching you.
The nameday girl tugged at your sleeve, tentative. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that Prince Aerion will challenge him?”
You looked down at her, at the innocent curiosity and fear braided together in her expression. You could have lied again. You could have protected her from understanding what princes did when they were crossed.
Instead you said, quietly, “If he does, it won’t be noble.”
The trumpet sounded again. Another match called. The crowd’s attention shifted, because people were fickle and violence was easy to love when it wasn’t your life on the line. You sat back down, smoothing your skirts, posture composed. Inside, you felt the consequences stacking like stones.
On the sand below, Valarr rode on with your favor tied to his lance, bright against the dark. In the stands above, Aerion sat with his anger leashed but not tamed. Maekar watched like a man calculating the cost of tomorrow. Baelor stayed calm, because Baelor always stayed calm, but his gaze did not soften when it drifted back to his son.
And you, sitting beside a frightened girl in a borrowed city of tents, understood exactly what had just happened.
Valarr had asked for your favor in public.
You had given it.
Now the realm would do what it always did with Targaryens.
It would turn it into a problem.
The royal pavilion at Ashford looked civilized only if you kept your eyes on the cloth and the gold thread and ignored the fact it was still a tent pitched in a churned-up meadow, held together by pegs and the fragile agreement that men with swords would behave. Torches burned in iron brackets, their smoke caught under the canopy until it found a seam to escape through, so the air tasted faintly of pitch and spiced wine. Music drifted in from outside, muffled by canvas and distance, a steady thrum meant to soothe and entertain, but inside the pavilion the sound was mostly voices. Lords laughing too loudly. Knights boasting about bruises. Stewards moving like shadows between benches with platters of roasted fowl and trenchers soaking through with grease. It was celebration the way court always did it, pretending feasting could wash blood off the day, pretending the realm was not a constant negotiation of ego and threat.
Maekar had already removed his daughter from it hours ago, as if he could fold you up and put you away where Aerion could not reach. He had ushered you off with your ladies and instructions and that hard look that allowed no argument, and for once, no one had tried to stop him. Not because they respected your rest, but because they respected the temper of the man escorting you. Even Aerion, simmering all evening, had not snapped at the moment. He had only watched you go with that too-bright smile, like a man watching a door close and making plans for the next time it opened.
Now, with the princess gone, the pavilion felt smaller.
Baelor sat at the center table like he belonged to the seat of a king even when there was no crown present, his posture composed, his expression pleasant enough to make the Ashfords believe their hospitality had succeeded. He spoke when spoken to, drank sparingly, listened more than he talked, and in the spaces between conversation his eyes kept moving, quietly taking measure. He was waiting for the moment he could pull Valarr aside and speak privately, not as a prince to a prince, but as a father to his son. He had given Valarr that look after the favor was accepted. The look had said: you have stepped into something dangerous, and you do not get to pretend you didn’t.
Valarr stood a little apart from the densest knot of revelers, helm gone, hair slightly damp at the temples from heat and exertion, still in his tourney clothes but with his gloves removed as if he needed bare hands to remind himself he was not made of armor. He accepted congratulations with polite restraint, nodded at lords whose names he did not care about, tolerated the way knights slapped his shoulder as if victory gave them permission to touch royal blood. He did not boast. He did not bask. He looked like a man who had done what he came to do and was already thinking about consequences.
Aerion had been thinking about consequences since the moment Valarr asked for the favor, and unlike Valarr, he looked as if he enjoyed the idea.
He drifted through the pavilion with a cup in his hand, the motion smooth and easy, the expression on his face almost charming if you were the sort of person who believed charm was the same thing as decency. He laughed at the right moments. He said the right shallow compliments to the right shallow men. He let the Ashfords feel honored that a prince was gracing their celebration with attention, and in return they fed him more wine and more praise because they were too proud and too foolish to recognize when they were being used as scenery.
Maekar watched him like a man watching a spark near dry straw.
“Drink slower,” Maekar said at one point, voice low, not a suggestion.
Aerion lifted his cup in a mock salute. “I’m enjoying myself. Lord Ashford has gone to such effort. It would be rude not to.”
“It would be wiser,” Maekar replied.
Aerion’s smile did not slip, but his eyes slid toward Valarr, where he stood with that infuriating calm. “Wisdom is so rarely rewarded,” Aerion murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, “Besides, it’s only wine. Not poison.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Not everything that ruins a man comes in a vial.”
Aerion laughed softly, as if his father had told a quaint joke, and took another sip anyway.
Baelor’s patience lasted longer than most men’s because Baelor had learned how to swallow irritation and call it diplomacy, but even diplomacy had its limit when you watched your son and your nephew circle each other like blades. He waited for a lull, for a moment when the Ashfords were distracted by their own guests, and then he rose. It was not dramatic. He simply stood, and the pavilion’s noise shifted slightly, instinctively making space. He moved toward Valarr with that quiet authority that made men step back without realizing they were obeying.
Valarr saw him coming and straightened, ready, eyes attentive.
Aerion saw him too, and quickened his pace as if he could not bear the thought of Baelor speaking to Valarr without him there to poison it.
“Cousin,” Aerion said brightly, slipping into the space before Baelor could reach his son. “You were magnificent today. Truly. A clean hit. Very pretty.”
Valarr’s expression held. “Thank you.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked down, deliberately, to where the ribbon favor was tied to Valarr’s lance resting against a support near the pavilion wall, kept there like a trophy. “And bold,” Aerion added, voice light. “Asking for favors. It’s almost romantic.”
Baelor’s gaze focused. “Aerion.”
Aerion turned that smile on him immediately, innocent. “Uncle. I’m praising him.”
“Praise is not the same as bait,” Baelor replied, calm but flat.
Aerion lifted his hands a fraction. “No bait. Only admiration.” His eyes went back to Valarr, and the admiration curdled into something thin and cruel. “You should be careful, though. Some favors come with… expectations.”
Valarr’s tone stayed polite. “I know what I’m doing.”
Aerion hummed, like he found that amusing. “Do you? Because from where I stand, it looks like you’ve chosen to involve yourself in something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Maekar’s chair scraped back. The sound cut through a nearby conversation like a knife. “Aerion,” he said, the warning heavier now.
Aerion did not look at him. “I’m speaking to my cousin,” he said, and he made “cousin” sound like a claim.
Valarr’s gaze held steady on Aerion. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
Aerion’s smile widened. “Plainly. Fine.” He leaned in slightly, just enough to make it intimate, just enough to make it feel like a private insult delivered in public. “You wanted her attention. You wanted to look noble in front of the whole meadow. So you asked for her favor like a gallant knight from a song.”
Valarr’s voice remained even. “And she granted it.”
Aerion’s eyes glittered. “She shouldn’t have.”
Baelor stepped closer, placing himself between them by half a pace. His tone was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. “This is not the place.”
Aerion’s smile turned toward Baelor again, almost affectionate. “It never is, is it? There’s always some better time. Some private chamber. Some later.” He looked back at Valarr. “Tell me, did it make you feel important? Wearing her ribbon? Pretending you’re her shield?”
Valarr’s jaw flexed once. The only sign, small and human, that the words were landing where Aerion wanted them to land.
Maekar’s voice cut in again, hard. “Enough.”
Aerion’s eyes slid to his father at last, lazy and defiant. “I’m only speaking truth.”
“You’re only speaking,” Maekar said. “And you’re doing it too much.”
Aerion’s lips parted in a grin. “So commanding.” Then, without looking away from Maekar, he spoke to Valarr anyway, voice sweetened with contempt. “You know what’s funny? You think you’re protecting her. But you’re not. You’re simply making yourself a target.”
Valarr’s composure held by a thread you could almost see. “Stop.”
Aerion blinked, as if surprised. “Stop what?”
“Stop talking about her like she’s an object,” Valarr said, and his voice had cooled, turning into something that did not ask. “Stop using her name like it’s a weapon.”
Aerion’s smile faded into something colder. “She is my blood.”
“She is her own,” Valarr answered, and that was where he made his mistake, because Aerion did not hate being corrected. He hated being denied.
Aerion’s cup tipped slightly in his hand, wine sloshing. He set it down with exaggerated care, as if he didn’t want to waste a drop. Then he stepped in close enough that only the people nearest would hear, and his voice softened into a whisper that carried anyway because the pavilion had begun to listen.
“She would have been mine,” Aerion said, and there was no charm left in it now. “Father stole that from me. And you.” His gaze flicked down and back up, quick and filthy in its implication. “You think you can take what was meant to be mine because you’re Baelor’s son and the realm claps for you? You think you can reach into my family and pull out what you want?”
Valarr’s nostrils flared. “You’re not entitled to her.”
Aerion’s mouth curled. “Entitled.” He tasted the word like it was ridiculous. “I’m a prince. Dragon blood decides entitlement.”
Baelor’s voice cut in, low, controlled. “Aerion. Step back.”
Aerion did not step back. He turned his face toward Baelor and smiled again, the smile he used when he wanted to wound politely. “Will you stop me, uncle?”
Baelor’s eyes hardened. “Yes.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped back to Valarr, and he chose the blade that would slip under the armor of restraint. “You want to play her champion,” he said softly. “Tell me, did she look at you the way she looks at me when she’s frightened?”
Valarr moved before he finished the thought.
It was not a dramatic lunge. It was a single step, quick and controlled, and his hand shot out and seized Aerion by the front of his tunic, hauling him forward hard enough that Aerion’s shoulders jolted. The pavilion sucked in a breath. A couple of lords rose halfway from their seats, eyes wide, like they were watching a bear step into a feast. Maekar’s chair scraped again, and this time he was on his feet fully.
Valarr’s voice was low, shaking with fury he had kept caged all day. “You will not speak of her like that.”
Aerion’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, not with fear, but with delighted surprise, because this was what he wanted. This was always what he wanted: proof that he could make another man lose control. He smiled, close enough now that his breath hit Valarr’s face. “There it is,” he whispered. “The pretty prince breaks.”
Valarr’s fist drove forward.
It was a clean punch, a straight line, not wild, not sloppy. It caught Aerion on the mouth, snapping his head to the side. Blood specked immediately, bright in torchlight. Aerion staggered a half-step, then laughed, actually laughed, the sound wet and vicious.
“Oh,” Aerion said, touching his lip with his tongue. “So it’s like that.”
He hit back.
Aerion was not as skilled as he believed himself to be, but he was fast, and anger made men stupid and strong in equal measure. His fist clipped Valarr’s cheekbone, a crack that made Valarr’s head jerk. Valarr’s response was immediate. He drove Aerion backward, hands on his shoulders, forcing him toward a support pole, and Aerion slammed into it hard enough that the canvas above shuddered. Tankards rattled on tables. Someone shouted. Someone else laughed nervously like they couldn’t believe it was real.
“Valarr!” Baelor barked, and the single use of his son’s name like that, loud and stern, cut through the pavilion like a whip. It did not stop Valarr’s motion, but it reached him, because Baelor’s voice was not something he ignored lightly.
Maekar surged forward at the same time, but the Kingsguard were faster. Two white cloaks moved like they’d been waiting for this moment all evening, because they probably had. One seized Valarr around the torso from behind, hauling him back with brute strength. Another stepped between Aerion and everyone else, arm across Aerion’s chest, blocking him. Aerion tried to shove past anyway, spitting blood and fury, and the Kingsguard slammed him back with a hard forearm that made the pavilion go quiet in shock at the audacity of stopping a prince like a misbehaving boy.
Aerion’s eyes went wild. “Get off me!” he snapped. “I’ll have you flogged!”
The Kingsguard did not release him. “Your Grace,” one of them said, voice flat with practiced disrespect disguised as duty, “you will stand down.”
Aerion twisted, trying to reach around him to strike Valarr again, and Valarr strained against the man holding him, muscles corded, breathing hard, face flushed with rage and shame. For a moment it looked like the Kingsguard might not be enough, not because they were weak, but because princes were stupid when their pride was bleeding.
Baelor stepped forward into the space between them, and the pavilion’s attention snapped to him like a hooked line.
“That is enough,” Baelor said, not loud, not theatrical, but absolute. The warmth had drained out of his voice. What remained was command. “Release my son.”
The Kingsguard holding Valarr hesitated, then loosened his grip but did not fully let go, hands still ready. Valarr stood rigid, chest heaving, eyes locked on Aerion with a fury he had not shown anyone before. A bruise was already darkening along his cheekbone where Aerion had struck him.
Baelor’s gaze moved to Aerion, and the disappointment in it was heavy, almost worse than anger. “You will return to your seat,” Baelor said. “You will wash your mouth. You will speak to no one until you can remember you are not the center of the realm.”
Aerion laughed, short and sharp, and blood flicked from his lip. “And what about him?” he snapped, nodding toward Valarr. “Your precious son. He struck a dragon.”
Baelor did not blink. “He struck a man who deserved it.”
The pavilion went so quiet you could hear the torches crackle.
Maekar’s head turned slowly toward Baelor, surprise flickering across his stern expression. He had expected Baelor to condemn violence on principle. Baelor had chosen, instead, to condemn the cause.
Aerion stared at Baelor as if he had never seen him before, as if he couldn’t understand how kindness could contain steel. “So that’s it,” Aerion breathed, voice tight. “You choose him?”
Baelor’s reply was calm and lethal in its simplicity. “I choose what is right.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped to Maekar, looking for support, for permission, for someone to confirm he was the wronged party. Maekar’s expression was granite. “You embarrassed yourself,” Maekar said. “Again.”
Aerion’s mouth twisted. “He attacked me.”
“You provoked him,” Maekar answered, and every word sounded like it hurt to say because it meant admitting what Aerion was. “You always do.”
Aerion’s breathing was fast, nostrils flaring, and for a second you could see the boy under the cruelty, the boy who had never been told no without turning it into a war. Then the cruelty slid back over his face like a mask.
“This isn’t finished,” Aerion said softly, eyes on Valarr now, promising. “You think you can touch what I want and not pay for it.”
Valarr’s voice was hoarse. “She’s not what you want. She’s who you want to own.”
Aerion smiled, bloody and bright. “Same thing.”
Baelor’s hand lifted, a small gesture, and the Kingsguard tightened again, guiding Aerion away despite his resistance. Maekar watched him go with an expression that looked like fatigue and fury had finally fused into something permanent. Lords and knights pretended not to stare, pretended this was not the most interesting thing that had happened all night, but their eyes followed every step, greedy for a story they could repeat over fires for years.
When Aerion was gone from immediate reach, Baelor turned to Valarr. His voice dropped, private but still edged with authority. “Come with me.”
Valarr’s anger had not vanished, but it had shifted. Now there was shame in it too, because he had lost control in public, because he had given Aerion exactly what he wanted: a scene. He nodded once, jaw tight, and followed Baelor deeper into the pavilion where the light was dimmer and the air tasted less like wine.
Maekar stayed where he was for a moment, staring after them, hands clenched at his sides. Then he exhaled through his nose like a man trying not to become a storm and turned to the Kingsguard still stationed nearby.
“Double the watch,” Maekar said quietly. “On the girl’s quarters. On Aerion. On everyone. Tonight.”
The Kingsguard inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Maekar’s eyes tracked the pavilion entrance, the torchlit gap in the canvas where the noise of celebration still drifted in as if nothing had happened. “This meadow is full of drunk men and sharp tongues,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “And my son thinks he can set fires without getting burned.”
Outside, the music kept playing. Cups kept clinking. Laughter kept rising into the night.
Inside, blood dried on Aerion’s mouth, a bruise darkened on Valarr’s face, and Baelor Targaryen took his son away to speak words that would not be gentle, because gentleness did not stop men like Aerion.
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— summary: as maekar’s eldest daughter, you are a trophy to every man of the realm. and for that, one evening your husband’s protective streak turns into a cruel accusation that escalates into a heated argument. you’ve mastered the art of the silent treatment, and for a man who treats you like his entire religion, one day of being ignored is enough to drive him to the brink of insanity.
— pairing: valarr targaryen x wife!targaryen!reader
— word count: 5.4k
— content: +18 (minors dni!), targcest, light sexual content, established marriage, childhood friends to lovers, jealous & possesive!valarr, a bit of angst, period-typical sexism, marital arguments, emotional tension, hurt/comfort, a LOT of worship and sweet romance bc he is so in love, silent treatment until he can't take it anymore (he's so pathetic).
For as long as memory held its flickering torch, the eyes of men had been fixed upon you.
You were a creature grown accustomed to the weight of their collective gaze—a heavy cloak you wore wherever your feet led. Some looked with shadow of loathing, others with the rigid mask of respect; some with the sharp edge of envy, and many more with the burning, unwashed hunger of desire.
It had begun as simple smiles blooming in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, back when you were but a child clutching your father’s hand. Even then, the Lords of the Court possessed no shame; they would boldly petition for your hand to grace their sons’ beds, or, more obscenely, their own.
As the years stretched your limbs, the courtesies grew deeper than necessity required. The compliments became overwrought, smelling of false summerwine. Their eyes would linger upon the curve of your smile or the silk of your bodice a heartbeat longer than was seemly. They looked at you through a glass of unreality, forcing their kindness and sharpening their flattery, all to carve a place in your favor. They hoped, perhaps, to ensnare your heart and bind you to them in the sight of the Seven.
By right of blood, you were the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen—his firstborn, a flawless alloy of his steel and your mother’s grace. You were a vision of royalty in its highest splendor: hair of spun silver and a smile that dazzled like sunlight on Blackwater Bay. You moved with the terrifying confidence of one who knew exactly who, and what, she was.
You were a Dragon Princess, as beautiful and volatile as the wildfire burning in your veins.
That was a sin the world would never forgive. Nor would they ever permit you to forget it.
The lesson was learned early and with bitterness: men did not see you. They cared little for the contents of your soul or the mettle of your character. They saw only your name, your blood, and the power of your heritage. You were not a woman to them; you were a ledger of utility.
For that, your life had been spent parrying unwanted advances and shivering through uncomfortable dalliances. Your father had grown weary of swatting away marriage pacts like persistent flies. He had even gone so far as to backhand your younger brother, Aerion, when the Prince had dared to claim you as his own by right of birth.
To the realm, you were a trophy to be hoisted. A prize to be corrupted, to be flowered and bedded, a vessel to carry their legacy under the prestige of your name.
To everyone, that is, except for Valarr.
Your sweet cousin had always been the perfect counterpoint to your own existence, for you understood one another with a clarity that defied words. You were two bright spirits the world sought to quench.
He did not look at you as a ladder to the Iron Throne, nor did he squint to measure the span of your waist or the fullness of your breast to judge your worth as a broodmare. He looked at you because, since you were children racing through the gardens, you were the only one who could read the silences hidden behind his shy, quiet smile. You were patient with him when the court was not; you were his confidante, his shield, and above all, his most faithful ally.
You had covered for one another’s mischief, mending the echoes of broken treasures and whispering secrets as you snuck into the Dragonpit. There, amidst the towering, hollow skulls of the ancient dragons, you would play at being Old Valyria reborn, pretending the stone husks still breathed fire at your command.
When the betrothal was finally cried out, the court hailed it as the ‘Perfect Union’ to secure the succession. With the King’s blessing and your fathers’ consent, the pact was sealed. They saw it as a masterful stroke of politics; for the two of you, it was the first true breath of relief you had ever taken.
For you loved him, and Valarr had loved you since his heart first learned to beat. To him, you had appeared like a Valyrian goddess—radiant, laughing, and full of life. As the years turned, he had found himself a devotee at your altar, a prince kneeling before his own religion. He had always been there to shield you from the grasping hands of men who took advantage of your girlhood innocence.
“I don’t like how they treat you, cousin,” he would grumble, squeezing your hand in his, hidden in the shadows behind a enormous dragon skull. Naturally, that was where you both felt safest, under the dark, fierce gaze of the hollow eye pits of the dragons in their lair. “As if you were some kind of property they could claim.”
Valarr was your guardian. And now that you were his wife, the silver prince had grown more territorial, his devotion sharpening into a protective jealousy that burned as fierce as any dragon’s breath.
That evening, at some royal feast in the Red Keep, the weary pantomime played out once more. You were draped in a gown of breathtaking scarlet and black—the colors of your House—mirroring the doublet Valarr wore.
ogether, you were a vision of dragonblood manifest, your silver tresses woven with threads of beaten gold that glimmered under the fire of the lamps. Your face remained serene, a mask of pale porcelain that the lords of the realm, in their infinite dullness, so often misread.
“Your sweetness is truly exquisite, Princess,” a Lord claims, his flattery oiling the air for the third time within the hour. He pressed closer than etiquette deemed holy, mistaking your silence for the soft bloom of shyness. But as Maekar’s daughter, shyness was a stranger to you. “Surely a woman of your... temperament would find respite from the rigors of the capital. My lands in the south are far warmer, and much more welcoming.”
You do not stir or grow desperate. You merely take another slow sip of your sweet red wine, dangerously calm. You sense Valarr’s presence before you hear his boots on the stone, and so you let him handle the intrusion. You let him mark his territory.
Your husband slides to your side with the natural elegance of one born to wear a crown. He has been occupied in conversation with his father—much to his chagrin, for he detests leaving you alone in halls so thick with that kind of men.
And Valarr, much like his father Baelor, is a man of precise words and measured gestures.
“Lord Tyrell,” he says, his voice so soft it feels like a caress, though his beautiful two-colored eyes hold the dull glint of an ice floe. “My wife already has all the warmth she could ever need here. The Targaryen fire requires no southern sun to burn fiercely.”
Valarr places a hand to rest gently on the small of your back, drawing you flush against him.
It is a subtle gesture to the prying eyes of the court, but to you, it is absolutely everything. The heat radiating from his palm and the delicate graze of his fingers against the silk of your gown at the curve of your waist are enough to make the insult—which has begun to climb your throat—dissolve into a lover’s sigh.
Though, you wish you could have that Lord’s eyes served on a platter for the way he undresses you with his gaze.
“Of course, my Prince,” the portly Lord stammers, recoiling before Valarr’s intimidating stare. “I was only looking after... the Princess’s well-being.”
“There is no need. I am here to ensure my wife's well-being, my Lord,” Valarr concludes with a courtly smile that does not reach his eyes. His fingers tighten at your waist, dipping dangerously toward the curve of your backside as you lean against his chest, looking down upon the other man with disdain.
When the Lord takes his leave, babbling your titles in farewell, Valarr does not step away. He leans close to you, pretending to adjust one of your ruby necklaces at your chest, letting his breath brush against your face and his fingertips gently caress the contour of your bosom, pressed together by the tight neckline.
“They are being especially persistent tonight,” he whispers, frustration lashing his tongue. Finally, that perfect calm fractures a mere millimeter, revealing the possessive zeal that simmers beneath his skin. “I wonder if I should remind them every hour that you are wed to me.”
Your hands travel up his chest, tracing a soft path of soothing caresses until they find the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking to anchor his rising temper.
You offer him a tight, strained smile, still tasting the bitterness of the situation; you loathe the way any other man dares to look at you, for in your heart, only your husband holds the right to such intimacy.
Your fingers toy with the ornaments shaped like crimson dragon scales upon his shoulders, and you gaze up at him with big, adoring eyes.
“They all know it, my love. I am yours...”
But Valarr does not relax. He does not release that heavy, searing exhale—as hot as the breath of a dragon—that usually signals his surrender to your charms or the sound of your seductive voice confessing your devotion. That you are his.
Instead, his hand moves from your chest, sliding slowly up the column of your throat until it reaches your chin. He tilts it upward, holding you firm, forcing you to look only at him.
“Then you should stop encouraging them, wife,” he accuses in a husky rasp. He leans down, tilting his head to claim your mouth in a sharp, brief kiss that leaves the faint sound of parting lips as he pulls away, never breaking eye contact.
The phrase falls between you like a lump of stone, cooling the air that a moment ago was burning with the heat of his closeness.
Your hands stiffen on his shoulders as you search for any hint of jest in his gaze, that he is just teasing you, but you see only eyes darkened by wounded pride—a temperament he rarely unveils.
“Encouraging them?” you repeat, your voice a mere thread of incredulity. You cling to the hope that this is some cruel play on words. “Valarr, I have scarcely opened my lips. I have remained as motionless as a statue of Baelor the Blessed.”
“And that is precisely the invitation,” he retorts, taking a long step back, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders as the distance grows between you. “You stand there with a serenity that looks like submission, permitting them to circle you like vultures over a jewel. You should rebuff them at once, reject them with the strength of your lineage before they dare to breathe your very air.”
You feel the sting of injustice prick your chest. Valarr, better than anyone, knows the crushing weight of crowns.
“You know I can not do that, much as I wish to cut out their tongues and pluck out their eyes,” you hiss like an angered viper, lowering your tone so no prying ear might catch the fissure in the perfect marriage—your first true quarrel in months. “I am the firstborn of Prince Maekar. If I humiliate Lord Tyrell or any other bannerman before the entire court for a mere ill-intentioned compliment, I invite a political war that neither your father nor mine desires.” You tilt your head slightly beneath his gaze, which now sparks with anger. “Do you wish for me to be the cause of a dispute between the Reach and the Crown?”
“I prefer a thousand political disputes to the sight of other men stripping you with their eyes while you smile at them with courtesy,” he snaps back at you, the bitterness in his voice palpable, his words measured to wound.
You shake your head in disbelief, the movement causing your silver tresses to shimmer like cold moonlight against your shoulders. A dry, hollow laugh escapes your throat, though there is no mirat in it—only a sharp, stinging disappointment.
This time, you take a deliberate step back, increasing the distance between you until the warmth of his body no longer reaches your own. You look at him as if he were a stranger wearing the face of the man you love.
“Valarr, this is madness,” you breathe, your voice trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of your incredulity.
His hands retreat behind his back, hidden away as if he’s afraid of what they might do—not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing urge to reach for you and end this distance. He locks them together, his fingers digging into his own skin, clenching into fists so tight that the knuckles turn a ghostly, bloodless white.
It is a physical struggle, a silent war he wages against his own nature—his lifelong instinct to be close to you, the instinctive urge to reach out and touch you.
By hiding his hands away from you, he denies himself the comfort of your touch, choosing instead to let his wounded pride dictate the space between you.
“At times I wonder...” he adds, his voice dropping to a tone of refined cruelty born of an agonizing insecurity. You can tell he's hesitating for a moment before deciding to succumb to his rage and hurl out more poison. “I wonder if you secretly crave the attention. If the daughter of Prince Maekar requires the adoration of the world to feel like a queen for a fleeting moment, even at the cost of her husband's patience.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, a physical weight that seems to drown out the screech of the fiddles, the roar of drunken laughter, and the rhythmic swirl of the dancers.
It cuts deeper than any insult from some nameless Lord; Valarr is accusing you of common vanity when your entire life has been a battle to survive the scrutiny of a world that views you as nothing more than a prize to be won.
You hold his gaze, your breath hitching as genuine offense turns to a cold, hard coal in your chest, but you don't let the tears fall.
The ancient, inherited fire of your blood finally flickers to life behind your violet eyes.
“You have known me since I was a child of three, Valarr,” you say, with a coldness that rivals his own. “If you truly believe I enjoy being a piece of meat on display... then you do not know me at all.”
And then, you wait for just a moment. You wait for his expression to soften, for guilt to cloud his beautiful eyes, and for his hand to seek yours with that touch of regret that always follows this rare moments of tension.
You wait for him to ask your pardon, to pull you against his chest and whisper that love drives him mad, that his insecurities, his own fears, are to blame for his sharpened tongue.
But Valarr does not move.
He maintains his impeccable, princely posture, his chin high and his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a point just above your head. His lips, which have so often whispere promises of eternal devotion, are pressed into a thin, bitter line. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.
He simply steps aside.
Without a single word, Valarr moves to the right, clearing the path and leaving you the space to depart. It is the most galling gesture of all: a calculated indifference, a silent invitation for you to retire if you are not prepared to accept his terms. Never before has he let you go while you were angry. Always, without fail, he found a way to hold you until the storm passed.
You feel the knot of indignation tighten in your throat.
“Very well. This is how it will be, t–then,” you mumble reluctantly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Valarr echoes, dropping his gaze to the floor, still visibly simmering.
You gather the heavy skirts of your scarlet gown with fingers trembling from rage and you walk past him, keeping your back as straight as a dragon-bone spear, and begin to walk toward the exit of the Great Hall.
You feel the weight of the gold threads in your braids, and above all, you feel the weight of everyone's eyes upon you.
Even from a distance, your father can sense that you are visually agitated and very upset, considering that pout you're holding on your lips. His frown deepens when he glances at your husband standing behind you, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor, clearly forcing himself not to gaze at you, for his act of indignation would likely crumble into a thousand pieces.
Then, Maekar shares a knowing glance with Baelor, who is sitting next to him, as he too realizes that something has happened between their firstborns.
Now, without Valarr by your side as a shield, the gazes feel even more invasive, more ravenous. You can sense Lord Tyrell watching you from afar with a crooked smirk, noting the sudden distance set between your husband and you. So, you hurry to get out of the place, not even bothering to give excuses to your family.
Valarr had hurt you in the deepest way, doubting your loyalty and integrity just because the rest of the world didn't know how to be decent. Every time you thought about it, about the way he had accused you and looked at you, as if he didn't know you, as if you had been a stranger, you grew increasingly furious.
The seconds turned into minutes, which felt like hours. You abruptly took off your jewelry, letting the rubies fall onto the dressing table with a loud clatter. You let your hair down, letting your silvery locks cascade over your bare shoulders like a fountain.
Finally, as you are settling down for a good night's sleep, relaxing in your spacious bed and solitude, the sound of the door creaking open interrupts your peace.
There is no rush in his movements, Valarr walks in with his characteristic serenity, which now irritates you so much that you are unable to even so much as glance at him.
“Maekar was looking for you,” he informs you, his voice unusually monotone, as he begins to take off his cloak. “I told him you were not feeling yourself.”
You lay motionless beneath the satin sheets, your gaze locked on the shadows cast by the burning embers across the ceiling, imagining that they are dragons.
His words hover in the space of the room, unacknowledged. You offer no expression of gratitude, no hum of acceptance, neither even the faintest gesture of your head in his direction.
For you, Valarr is not there that night. In his place, there is only a stranger who wears his face, one who has had the audacity to question the core of your very soul.
You can hear the sound of leather sliding on wood as he begins to take off his doublet. The following is a heavy silence, charged with the weight of all that has not been said.
Valarr takes his time, moving with that regal slowness that you would usually find charming, and that, on any other day, would have you already crawling up his bare back with kisses and caresses, but now seems like a desperate tactic to get your attention.
It's really pathetic, you think.
He steps to the edge of the bed and you sense the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he sits down to untie his boots.
“You could have waited for me at least,” he is bold enough to keep talking, even when he can clearly see that you are still fuming, bursting the ice again and uttering your name in that gentle tone of his. At least that much has not changed on this catastrophic day.
Indeed, his tone has lost the harshness he displayed in the Great Hall, turning into something closer to a resigned lament. Pathetic.
“I had to make up excuses for my father and yours. It's not like us to put on such a display of disharmony in front of them and the King.”
Once again, you don't respond. Instead, you close your eyes, concentrating on the cadence of your own breathing and then, roll overyourself to turn your back on him.
If he doesn't approve of your polite silence, then you will give him an entire ocean of it.
Valarr sighs, a long, weary sound that betrays his own frustration. He finishes undressing and, after blowing out the last two candles, slips under the bedcovers beside you.
Typically, the instant your bodies lie side by side in the darkness and comfort of your quarters, he would reach for you, wrap an arm around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and whisper how much he loves you, emphasizing his words with sweet kisses upon your skin that would often lead to passionate lovemaking.
But this time, despite sharing the same bed, the distance between you seems to be unbridgeable.
Valarr lies on his back, very close but not touching you. You can feel the warmth emanating from his body, that warmth that has always makes you feel at home. Your skin tingles, betraying you, yearning for his touch, but your sense of pride—the same pride you inherited from your father, so fierce and intense—keeps you cold and distant.
“You're not even going to look at m–me?” Valarr asks into the suffocating darkness of the bedchamber, his voice cracks with the weight of despair.
There is a trace of bewilderment in his gentle voice. The situation is terrifyingly foreign to him as well; you have always been the one to reach out and smooth things over with patience. He has grown accustomed to your mercy, leaning on it like a crutch he never realized he needed.
But not now.
“There is a tournament tomorrow. We are expected to be in the royal pavilion, together. We cannot afford this... this whim.”
A whim?, you think, and rage boils in your gut like the fire-breath of a dragon.
You don't give him the luxury of a reaction to his provocation. You simply adjust your pillow with a sharp movement before lying perfectly still again.
At that you feel him grow tense beside you.
Your husband is not a man of violent outbursts, but indifference is the only force that can shatter his composure.
For the first time, he is facing the abyss of your indifference, and the overwhelming loneliness of that void is beginning to drown him.
“V–very well,” he finally declares, and this time his voice rings with wounded emotion, despite his efforts to conceal it with a veil of coldness. “Good night.”
The echo of the crowd's cheers reaches your terrace, celebrating every lance broken, every fallen rider. Normally, you would be the star of the royal pavilion, seated at Valarr's side, but today you have chosen the cozy comfort of your own bedchamber.
Earlier that morning, you had sent a message to the king and your father, as concise as it was unconvincing: you were not feeling well, a vague discomfort kept you bedridden. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But since your whole family already knows that something has been going on between you and your husband, they decided to let it slide.
You can just imagine Valarr, looking perfect and stoic on the outside, but burning with humiliation and solitude on the inside, forced to answer all the questions about the absence of his wife, his other half, who isn't there to hand him the favor of her silk when it's his turn to ride.
The sunset bathes the big bedchamber into a bloody shade of orange as the door is flung open. This time, there is no trace of finesse or restraint.
Valarr comes in like a force of nature then. He has already stripped away the cold plates of his armor, but he still wears the dark, sweat-stained gambeson—the thick, quilted tunic of black leather and wool that served as his last line of defense. It clings to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, damp from the grueling effort of the tourney, mapping out the frantic rhythm of his breathing.
His dark hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead from the sweat and effort he put into the tourney, and that one platinum streak of his, the one that makes you go feral just by the sight of it, is all ruffled up. His two-colored eyes, normally as calm as a peaceful lake, burn with a fury you've hardly ever seen before.
He looks handsome like that, you must admit, all fired up and sassy.
He tosses his gauntlets onto a nearby table with a loud bang that makes you sit up in the bed, your fingers instantly clamping shut the book you were so absorbed in reading.
“Not a single word,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous as he storms across the room towards you. “Not a single glance all day. You left me alone in front of the court, in front of my father, like a fool who can’t even run his own household.”
You remain where you are, sitting with a graceful languor and purposeful poise on the vastness of the bed, surrounded by the soft disorder of the silk sheets. You haven't moved to acknowledge him, nor have you displayed any reaction to the agitation he exudes. Instead, you remain leaning against the cushions, your back straight and your scarlet silk nightgown sliding dangerously down the curve of your shoulder, revealing the smoothness of your skin as a kind of silent provocation.
You look devastatingly beautiful, a vision of heaven that contrasts cruelly with the miserable state in which he has returned to you. Your silvery hair flows down over your chest, simultaneously covering and revealing the delicate curves of your figure, as you hold your book with an elegance that is almost hurtful.
That nightgown is his favorite, you both know it. You are keenly aware of the effect you have on him. You know that while he has been away playing the perfect prince, you have been here preparing to be his downfall.
You gradually raise your gaze, and lock your violet eyes onto his with unnerving calmness. At least you grant him that today: the privilege of looking you in the eyes.
“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Valarr,” you reply reluctantly, stretching out your other hand to put your wine cup down on one of the nightstands and crawling out the bed to stand up. “Didn’t you want me to stop attracting attention? Didn’t you want me to hide myself away? Well, here you have it. I’ve hidden myself away from the world. And from you.”
You stand up with a measured nonchalance that only serves to fuel the fire of his rage. You move with the fluid grace of a predatory creature, walking calmly and intentionally avoiding his menacing figure, passing so close that he can smell the scent of your skin, but without allowing him even the slightest touch.
You head toward the balcony, and that's where you pull off your masterstroke. As you walk away from him, the orange, bloody light of sunset filters through the open doors, turning the thin scarlet silk of your nightgown into an nearly transparent veil.
Valarr stands rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat, as the sinful clarity of your body's shape is displayed before his eyes: the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and the curve of your arse, all outlined by the glow of the dying sun as it pierces the thin fabric.
You lean on the stone railing, watching the horizon where the sun sinks like a glowing ruby into the Black Waters. The night wind begins to dance with the hem of your dress, clinging to your thighs and leaving precious little to the imagination.
And you know he's right behind you, following in your own footsteps with the patient determination of a predator. You feel the heat of his body against yours, smell the scent of sweat exuding from his skin, a fragrance that is purely masculine and dominant, making your insides knot with desire.
His warm hands catch you by the waist and pull you forcefully against his chest. You let out a breathless gasp as his face digs into the crook of your neck, and his hot, hungry lips kiss the sensitive skin just below your ear.
You try to call out his name, to scold him, to remind him that you are still upset about his awful behavior from yesterday. “Valarr...”
“You think this is a fucking game?” he grunts, his voice rumbling down your spine. “You think you can just disappear and leave my mind to rot, imagining every man in this kingdom coveting my woman?”
“You pushed me away,” your voice weakens as one of his hands rises impatiently, cupping your breast over the thin fabric of your nightgown, holding your body close to his. “You doubted me, Valarr. My loyalty. My dignity. In front of all those people. In front of my own father. Do you know how humiliating it feels?”
He sighs heavily into your neck, placing one last kiss on your skin before spinning you around in his arms so abruptly that it knocks the wind out of you.
Instinctively, your hands reach for his shoulders to hold on to him, and he supports you with his own hands, fitting the curve of your waist, incapable of letting you go now that he has captured you.
Seeing the way you're looking at him, he sighs once more, ducking down to push his forehead onto your chest, closing his eyes as his face nuzzles between your breasts. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him and ensuring that you can't even consider moving away.
“Forgive me,” he pleads then, his voice cracking just slightly, his lips spelling out the words into your skin. “Forgive me—my love, please. I am just a stupid, jealous fool. I was out there all day, feeling like I was suffocating because you weren’t there. I am—I am so tired of your silence. I can't do it—”
He physically swoons when he feels your hand running through his hair, your fingers tangling in that lock of silver hair you love so much, smoothing it back into place.
The prince lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead still pressed against youe body, leaning into the touch of your fingers as if he’s a man dying of thirst and you are the only well in the desert.
“I can't do it,” he repeats, his voice a muffled, raw rasp against your chest. “I can not live without your gaze upon me. Without your touch, your voice. Don't go back into that silence, p–please. Come back to me...”
You look down at him, your own anger beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating pull of the devotion he’s offering.
“I am right here, Valarr,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking the seal of that icy silence. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. “I forgive you”
“Thank you,” he breathes out, his voice choked with emotion before claiming your lips with his, and kissing you as if it were the first time he’d been able to kiss you in years away from you. He kisses you again and again and again. “Thank you...”
“I believe you are exaggerating now, darling,” you tell him, struggling to contain a giggle at the way he is clinging to your body, his hands sliding down to palm your arse and squish you closer to him, kissing your flushed cheeks.
But Valarr doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression so hauntingly solemn it makes the breath catch in your throat.
“I am not exaggerating, my heartfire,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly earnest register. He looks like a man who has just survived a war. “It has been twenty-six hours and fourteen minutes since you last looked at me with anything other than loathing. Twenty-six hours since I last heard you speak my name.”
He leans his forehead against yours affectionately, letting out a sigh of relief now that he has you in his arms again, feeling the pressure of your breasts on his chest.
“Twenty-six hours, Valarr?” you tease, your heart softening completely as you realize the depth of his devotion.
“And fifteen minutes now,” he corrects immediately, his voice devoid of any humor, lowering sheepishly.
A bright, genuine and sweet burst of laughter escapes you, the sound ringing out like silver bells across the terrace and shattering the last of the tension. You lean back against his loving arms, your body shaking with amusement as you realize just how deeply you’ve unraveled your husband.
You feel the heat radiating from his skin as a deep, crimson flush creeps up his neck and floods his cheeks.
Groaning in a mixture of embarrassment and relief, he hides his blushing face in the crook of your neck, seeking refuge from your teasing gaze.
