grazie ragazzi

But then came the unwelcome noise. It wasn't a gentle chime but rather a rhythmic, digital intrusion that felt like a tiny jackhammer against your skull.

You groaned, the sound muffled by your pillow, and flailed a hand toward the bedside table. Your fingers brushed against cold glass, and you squinted as the aggressive blue light of your phone screen seared your retinas.

"Gods be good," you croaked, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit.

The digital clock read 3:14 AM.

At this hour, there were only three reasonable possibilities: a telemarketer with a serious death wish, Kiera having a breakdown over a last minute deadline for a class, or your mother forgetting the eight hour time difference between your home and King's Landing.

However, as your vision deblurred and the dancing spots of light settled, a name crystallized on the screen.

Daeron Targaryen.

Your heart did a strange, uncoordinated little somersault, partly from the shock of the name, and partly from the immediate, gnawing dread that settled in your chest after the mention of the Targaryen name at this hour.

You had become incredibly familiar with Daeron in the past few months.

You were practically a fixture in the Targaryen household by now. Your days were regularly spent bonding with his youngest brother and looking after the rest of his family. In general you were the one keeping things in check.

But with Daeron it was different. It had always been different.

Daeron was a professional at not letting you babysit him, like you did with the others. He was kind but awfully weary, and possessed a talent for finding the bottom of a bottle faster than anyone you’d ever met.

You swiped the green button, bracing yourself for the unexpectable. "Hello?"

A heavy, shaky breath exhaled on the other end. "Y/N."

He said your name like a parched man stumbling upon a desert spring. It was a prayer, a sigh, and a confession all in one, but it was also incredibly slurred.

He was definitely drunk, you immedieatly concluded.

He dragged the syllabells of your name for a second too long, vibrating with the unmistakable aftermath of high-quality wine or knowing the dive bars Daeron frequented, low-quality ale.

"Daeron," you sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose. "It’s three in the morning. Where are you?"

"You have such a beautiful voice," he murmured, completely ignoring the question. You could almost hear the lopsided, sleepy grin on his face.

"Have I ever told you that? It’s like... like silk. But, you know, the soft kind. Not the kind that makes your skin all itchy."

"You’re poetic when you’re wasted, Daeron. It’s a gift really," you snorted, leaning back against your headboard and staring into the darkness of your room.

"Now, focus." You half guided, half commanded. "Look around. Are you safe? Are you in a ditch?"

"And a beautiful face," he continued, his voice dropping an octave into a conspiratorial whisper. "I love when you wear your hair in that one particular... the twisty thing. With the clip. You look like a painting. A very tired, very pretty painting."

You felt a treacherous warmth creep up your neck at his words, which you promptly ignored and pushed aside.

"Daeron!" you snapped, using the 'babysitter voice', the one that came out when Egg lied to you about the homework Maellon had assigned him.

"Oh! Y/N! It’s you!" he exclaimed suddenly, sounding genuinely delighted and utterly surprised as if he hadn't been the one talking to you all this time.

"Yes, it’s me. Now, for the third time: where exactly are you?"

There was a long, thoughtful silence. You heard the distant sound of a cat screeching somewhere beside him and the low rumble of a car engine several streets away.

"I’m not entirely sure," he admitted cheerfully. "But the ground is very firm. I think it's reliable ground."

"Look at your surroundings, Daeron. Give me a landmark. A sign — anything." You attempted to guide him, as a very clear vision of him curled up in some forgotten corner of Flea Bottom, grimy and full of dust formed in your head.

"Um... there’s stones. And... like houses. Old ones” he muttered, his words beginning to melt into one another. "Oh, wait. There’s a dragon. A huge, red, ugly beast on the wall. He’s looking at me, Y/N. I think he’s judging my life decisions."

Your tension snapped, replaced by a wave of humor and relief. You almost chuckled.

You knew that mural. It was a piece of street art in a narrow alleyway just off the main square in Flea Bottom. It was less than ten minutes from a bar you sometimes frequented.

He wasn't in a ditch, and he wasn't about to stumble into the Blackwater Bay. Which was good.

"Okay. Stay there Daeron. Do not move. I’m calling Valarr, and he’s going to come pick you up. Okay?” Your voice left no room for argument.

"No! No, no, no!" Daeron’s voice rose to a desperate, whiny pitch that was almost comical. "Don’t call Valarr! He’ll give me the look. You know which one I'm talking about. The 'I’m the perfect heir and you’re just a disgrace look. It hurts my feelings, Y/N. It really does."

"Daeron, you’re drunk, you’re outside in the middle of the night, and you need to get home," you chided softly, feeling that familiar tug of pity.

He was a grown man, but in moments like this, he was as fragile as the glass he’d been emptying all night.

"'M not a child," he grumbled.

"You’re currently sitting on a curb in the middle of the street, talking nonsense, so I’m going to have to disagree," you countered. You sighed, the cold air of the room finally making you shiver. "I’m calling him, Daeron."

"Fine," he huffed, sounding like a disgruntled toddler. "Call the golden Boy. But... on one condition only.”

You closed your eyes, bracing for the inevitable. "And what would that be?"

"I am going to take you out," he said, his voice suddenly gaining a shred of misplaced confidence. "On a date. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever I can stand up without the world spinning like a carousel."

You let out a short, surprised puff of a laugh, leaning forward. "Yeah... no."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" He sounded genuinely offended, as if you’d just insulted his entire lineage. "I’m a catch! I have... hair! And a car I’m.. ocassionally allowed to drive!" You almost laughed at that. Almost.

"Daeron, I work for your father. I spend eight hours a day making sure your little brother doesn't transform into a wildling or run off to Dorne. I don't think either of them would be thrilled to find out I’m dating… well you."

"Who cares?" he slurred, his bravado fading into a mumble. "They’re just a bunch of... they don't see... you're the only one who..." His voice trailed off, words slurring into one incoherent blur.

"Daeron?" you called out, your brow furrowing. "Daeron, are you still there? Please don't be dead." Your voice was vaguely filled with panic.

The only response was a rhythmic, heavy sound, the unmistakable snoring of a man who had reached his limit and decided that the pavement of Flea Bottom was as good a bed as any.

"Gods be good," you muttered, hanging up. He really was unbelievable.

You quickly dialed Valarr. He picked up on the third ring, sounding remarkably awake but deeply annoyed. After you gave him Daeron's location and apologized profusely, he sighed and promised to retrieve "the family embarrassment."

"Text me when he's inside," you insisted.

"I will, Y/N. Go back to sleep. You have to deal with Egg tomorrow."

You tossed the phone back onto the nightstand and collapsed into your pillows, but sleep didn't return as easily as it usually did. The silence of the room felt much heavier now.

Drunk words are sober thoughts.

The phrase echoed in the back of your mind, a persistent little annoying ghost.

You had spent months meticulously maintaining a professional distance, treating Daeron with the kind of fond exasperation one might show a stray dog.

You weren't supposed to think about the way his tired eyes lit up when you walked into a room, or the fact that beneath the scent of whiskey, he always smelled faintly of old books and rain.

Your phone buzzed.

Valarr

Package secured. He’s snoring in the backseat. Thanks for the heads up.

You let out a long breath, your heartbeat finally slowing. Peace returned to the room, but as you finally drifted back into dreams, the image of a messy-haired blonde boy with a sad, crooked smile followed you all the way down.

It was just the alcohol talking, you told yourself. But as you fell asleep, you couldn't help but wonder what he would say when he was sober. If he remembered — that was.

—

The second time it happened, the sun was streaming through the high, arched windows of the Targaryen kitchen, turning the marble countertops into polished mirrors. The air smelled sharply of citrus and the faint sweet scent of the new vanilla candles you insisted on burning.

You were currently engaged in a battle of wills with a particularly stubborn lemon.

"King Viserys Targaryen took to wife..." Egg’s voice droned from across the island. He was slumped over his History of Westeros workbook, scratching at his buzzed blonde hair. "...Aemma Arryn."

He paused, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. You gave the lemon one last, brutal squeeze, the juice stinging a small papercut on your thumb.

"They had one daughter," Egg continued, his eyes suddenly lighting up with the triumph of a remembered fact. "But after she died, he took another — younger one. Alicent Hightower, am I right?"

"Spot on." you hummed, offering him a small, encouraging smile as you wiped your hands on your apron.

You tried not to think too hard about the messy, recursive nature of his family tree. It was enough to give anyone a headache, let alone a ten year old.

"Alright, I’m done!" Egg proclaimed with the dramatic finality of a judge passing a sentence. He slammed his notebook shut with a satisfying thwack and hopped off his stool, scurrying over to your side.

"Are you sure?" You arched an eyebrow, reaching for the sugar canister. "One hundred percent sure? Because if I find out you skipped the Blackfyre rebellions again, there will be no extra cookies later."

Egg looked at you with wide, innocent eyes. "I’m not lying... this time. It’s done. Cross my heart."

You were about to press him for proof when the heavy oak door swung open and in walked Daeron.

To your surprise, he didn't look like the walking ghost who had called you at 3 AM two weeks prior. His golden silver hair was brushed back, and while a few strands remained defiantly ruffled, he looked... healthy. Decent even, you dared venture.

He was wearing a simple dark shirt that made his purple eyes pop and casual trousers that actually fit him.

"Oh, hello," he said, and his voice was clear, devoid of the gravelly slur from his drunken escapade. His eyes lit up the moment they landed on you, and a small genuine smile tugged at his lips.

"Egg," he added with a casual nod to his brother as he moved toward the fridge.

Egg didn’t respond. Instead, he narrowed his eyes tracking Daeron’s every move like a miniature hawk.

Daeron feeling the weight of the stare, paused with his hand on the refrigerator handle. He looked back at his little brother, who was currently shaking his head with a slow, deliberate intensity that clearly translated to — don’t you dare.

Daeron rolled his eyes, a silent "piss off" directed at the ten-year-old, and shut the fridge door without taking anything out.

He opted instead to lean against the counter right next to where you were stirring the lemonade. "So... you made lemonade.” he noted, raising his brows in a polite manner.

His presence was suddenly very large in the room. He wasn't crowding you, but the scent of him, this time of clean laundry and a hint of peppermint seemed to overcrowd and replace the lemon scent entirely.

"I did," you replied, focusing very intently on the sugar dissolving in the jug. "It’s Egg’s favorite."

Daeron looked at the pitcher, then at Egg who was still glaring at him with enough heat to melt steel.

"Could I have some?" Daeron asked innocently, his tone shifting into something uncharacteristically soft.

"Um yeah sure, there's plen—"

"No." Egg’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass. He lunged forward, grabbing his own glass and pulling it closer to his chest as if Daeron were some sort ofcommon thief.

"No?" Daeron repeated, giving his youngest brother an incredulous look. "It’s a jug of juice Aegon. Not the crown jewel."

"No." Egg parroted, his chin tilted up defiantly.

Daeron let out a loud, frustrated scoff. "Fine. Keep your sour water." He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly which was somehow more unnerving than his bickering. "What are you doing after your shift?"

The question hit you like an unexpected blow. You felt Egg’s gaze burn into the side of your head, and for a frantic second you considered pretending you’d suddenly gone deaf and not heard his question.

"Well... I have a few things to—"

"Come to see this play with me," Daeron interrupted, not wasting a second and leaning in a fraction closer. "It’s an open-air performance in the Godswood tonight. The weather is perfect for it. No crowds, just the trees and the stage and..."

His eyes were so bright, so full of a rare hopeful energy you hadn’t seen in a long time that you felt a genuine pang of guilt in your chest. For a split second, the idea of sitting in the cool evening air next to him, away from textbooks and sticky countertops, laughing at some stupid play sounded like absolute heaven.

Then you looked at Egg. Who seemed absolutely bewildered by the idea, his mouth slightly agape as he processed his brother’s audacity.

"I’m sorry Daeron…” you spoke quietly, scratching the back of your head and looking anywhere but at his violet expectant gaze. "I’m sorry but I really can’t."

"Wha— why not?" he pressed, his shoulders dropping just an inch. "It’s just a play. I promise I won’t do anything suspicious."

Before you could formulate a polite excuse about laundry or sleep, Egg swooped in like your tiny savior.

"Because brother," Egg said, his nose pointed toward the ceiling in a perfect imitation of his father’s sternest expression, "she has already agreed to take me and Tanselle to the cinema."

Daeron blinked, thrown off his rhythm. "Well... then I’ll just come along. I like movies." He reasoned.

"No space." Egg countered instantly, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Kiera and Duncan are coming too. The car is full."

The silence that followed was heavy with Daeron's defeat. He looked at you, seeking some kind of desperate loophole, but you just gave him a helpless apologetic shrug.

"Maybe next time?” you offered, though the words fell hollow even to your own ears.

"Right. Next time," Daeron muttered, the light in his eyes dimming as he pushed off the counter. He turned and headed for the door, his posture returning to that slightly slumped weary gait you knew so well. You couldn't help the guilt suddenly festering in your chest.

As the door clicked shut Egg let out a long, triumphant breath and took a huge theatrical gulp of his lemonade.

"He's so annoying sometimes.” Egg grumbled, wiping a sugar mustache from his lip.

"He was just being nice Egg," you reasoned softly, eyes still stuck on the door where Daeron had just disappeared through.

"He was being weird," Egg corrected. "Now, can we go over the Dance of the Dragons? I think I forgot who killed who."

You sighed and picked up the notebook but your mind stayed on the Godswood. You found yourself wondering if the play was a tragedy or a comedy and why, for some unknown reason the rejection felt like it belonged to the former.

—

The third time it happened, it was your own words backfiring at you.

“I am Daeron Targaryen’s girlfriend.” The words had left your lips in a haste. A swift lie in hopes of getting through the reception lady.

—

“Excuse me?” Daeron walked up to the reception. The hospital air reeked of cheap coffee and antiseptic as he padded through the lobby.

The lady working there had her hair tied into a ponytail and was aggressively chewing gum. She looked up with an annoyed sigh.

However when her gaze landed on Daeron her demeanor immediately changed. “Yes?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, in a much better mood. He internally cringed at the shift.

“Do you happen to know if there’s an ice machine anywhere?” He wondered leaning against the counter politely.

“Yeah it’s there opposite the hallway your girlfriend just came through.”

Daeron was about to thank her but he froze in his tracks. His what?

For a moment he simply stood there, utterly dumbfounded. All he could hear were those two words.

Your girlfriend.

“My girlfriend?” he repeated dumbly, the phrase slipping out before he could stop it.

The woman behind the desk had already begun blowing a small bubble with her gum, her attention drifting somewhere over his shoulder as if the conversation bored her now that she had already answered his question.

She popped it lazily. “Um, yeah.”

Her eyes flicked back to him with mild confusion, like she couldn’t understand why he was still standing there.

“The girl with the messy hair and wrinkled clothes,” she added, gesturing vaguely down the corridor with a pen. “She came through about twenty minutes ago.”

Messy hair? Wrinkled clothes?

A strange warmth crept slowly up Daeron’s neck.

She was talking about you.

For a moment he simply stared at the counter, the polished surface reflecting the pale hospital lights.

He could see the faint outline of himself there — tall, slightly hunched forward, one hand still resting on the edge of the desk.

You had said that.

You had said that.

His heart lurched in his chest in a way that felt embarrassingly boyish.

Not just nervous and not just surprised.

But the sort of wild, impossible flutter he thought he had grown out of years ago —— the kind boys felt when a girl smiled at them across a classroom or brushed their hand by accident.

My girlfriend. Gods.

“Is she not your girlfriend?” The receptionist’s voice snapped through his thoughts with a sharp edge of impatience.

Daeron blinked. “Oh—”

He cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how long he had been standing there like a starstruck idiot.

“Yes.”

The word came out a little too quickly.

“Yes… yes, she is.” It was a lie. Or rather — it was continuing your lie.

And yet the moment the words left his mouth something warm and reckless bloomed in his chest.

Because for a split second, in the strange suspended quiet of the hospital hallway, it felt almost real.

The receptionist gave a short nod, clearly uninterested in whatever internal crisis he had just endured.

“Mhm. Right.”

She was already looking down at her computer again.

Daeron lingered there another moment before finally stepping away from the counter.

His head felt oddly light.

You said I was your boyfriend.

The thought returned again and again, circling through his mind like something fragile he didn’t dare examine too closely.

You could have said anything. You could have claimed to be a cousin or a friend or a distant relative.

Instead you had chosen the one lie that placed you beside him.

Not beside Aerion, not beside Valarr — not even Maekar, whose name carried enough weight to open almost any door.

You had chosen him.

Daeron scrubbed a hand slowly through his hair, pushing the soft golden strands back from his face as he walked down the corridor.

Gods. His face was warm. He felt like a green boy once again.

If anyone from the family saw him like this they would never let him live it down.

Aerion would laugh himself sick and mock him. Maekar would stare at him with that terrifyingly perceptive expression and say something blunt and humiliatingly accurate.

And Aegon — Aegon would strangle him.

You had probably said it without thinking. Just a convenient lie to get past the desk. You likely hadn’t even considered the implications.

But Daeron’s mind, traitorous thing that it was, refused to leave the thought alone. The ice and the disgruntled lady at the desk were long forgotten. Instead the only picture in his mind was — you.

His stomach flipped. Seven hells.

You were going to be the death of him.

Which is how you found yourself in your current position.

Curled in one of the garden chairs in the backyard, scribbling furiously across the pages of your notebook while the warm spring air drifted lazily through the estate gardens.

The Targaryen property was absurdly large the kind of place that felt more like a small park than a private residence.

Tall trees bordered the garden, their new leaves glowing soft green under the afternoon sun. Flowerbeds had burst into color almost overnight — pale roses, lavender bushes, little clusters of yellow wildflowers that had pushed through the soil like they owned the place. Birds chirped somewhere overhead.

And the patio which was large enough to host a small wedding, had become your unofficial office.

You sat cross-legged in the chair, dressed comfortably in soft grey sweats and an oversized shirt. Your hair had been hastily twisted into a bun that had long since begun falling apart.

Your pen rested between your teeth as you stared thoughtfully at the half-finished notes in your notebook.

Across the yard Aegon ran in wild circles. He had a wooden sword clutched in one hand and a ridiculous cardboard shield strapped to his arm, shouting something incomprehensible about dragons and battles as he attempted what could only loosely be described as a cartwheel.

You winced. “Try not to break your neck!” you called out instinctively.

Aegon wobbled mid-cartwheel, collapsed sideways into the grass, and immediately sprang back up like nothing had happened.

You shook your head fondly, returning to your notes. Just as you began scribbling down another idea the back door creaked open.

You glanced up lazily. Stepping out onto the patio, shielding his eyes from the sun like some sort of offended vampire was — Daeron. He looked characteristically disheveled.

His pale hair was a soft tangled mess, falling into his face in sleepy waves. He wore loose dark pajama pants and a wrinkled T-shirt that looked like it had been slept in, probably for several days.

And it was three in the afternoon. Perks of being both a college dropout and a Targaryen you supposed.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your mouth.

“Well hello there, sleeping beauty.” You teased, your pen tapped idly against the notebook as you watched him shuffle toward the patio table like a man being dragged unwillingly into daylight.

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and collapsed into the chair opposite you with dramatic exhaustion.

The sunlight hit his face immediately. He squinted hard, violet eyes narrowing as if personally offended by the existence of the sun.

“…you look like you’ve just crawled out of a cave,” you added lightly.

He grunted in response.

You studied him a little more carefully then.

The faint shadows under his eyes and the slight tension in his shoulders. The way he leaned back in the chair like gravity itself had suddenly doubled.

Your expression softened. “…is it the dreams again?” Your voice was quieter now.

He didn’t look at you. Instead his gaze drifted across the lawn toward Aegon, who was now valiantly battling an imaginary enemy near the rose bushes.

Daeron yawned — long and tired.Then he nodded.

You swallowed slightly. The notebook rested against your chest now, long forgotten.

You had learned over the past few weeks that the dreams were not something he liked discussing. Not with anyone. Not even you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked gently.

He shook his head. “No.” His voice was quiet but firm.

“Not this time.”

For a brief second his eyes flicked toward you and he gave you a small grateful smile.

You nodded, accepting it immediately. You had learned that too — pushing would get you nowhere.

Instead you reached for your notebook again and flipped it open. A comfortable quiet settled between you — only broken by Aegon’s occasional war cries from the lawn.

“So…” Daeron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His fingers drummed awkwardly against the surface.

“Do I finally get a date with my girlfriend?”

Your pen froze mid-word.

“…What?”

You blinked at him slowly. Girlfriend? What was he talking about?

For a second your brain simply refused to process the sentence.

And then it clicked and your stomach dropped as your eyes widened.

“Wait.” You sat up straighter, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“Do you know about the reception?”

He didn’t answer but he laughed and that was more than enough to answer your question. It was soft at first but the moment he saw the horror creeping across your face it grew louder.

There was even a mischievous crinkle in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh my god.” You slapped a hand over your face. “How do you know about the bloody reception?!” You screeched.

Daeron leaned back in his chair looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“The receptionist told me.” He explained with a proud look in his eye.

“Of course she did.” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face.

“Unbelievable.” You muttered under your breath, face burning with embarrassment.

“I quite liked it actually.” He admitted and your heart did an involuntary leap, but you quickly covered it with casualness.

“Yeah I bet you would.”

“For the record,” he continued lazily, “you could have picked someone else.”

You shot him a look. “Oh please. Who else was I supposed to say? Aerion?”

He made a face. “Fair.”

“Valarr? He already came in with Kiera, having two girlfriends would be kind of weird… even for a Targaryen.” You added and he snorted.

“You have a point.”

“Exactly.” You pointed your pen at him.

At some point Aegon had begun galloping across the yard pretending to be a dragon rider.

Neither of you noticed but the laughter eventually faded and the gentle calm settled in again.

Daeron cleared his throat quietly. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the table.

“So…” he said again, slightly more hesitant this time.

“What do you say?” He glanced up at you expectantly.

“Just you and me, nothing fancy. Maybe dinner..” he shrugged lightly. “Coffee if that feels less… terrifying.” He gave you a sheepish smile.

Your stomach twisted because the way he was looking at you — so careful and so hopeful. Trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t nervous, when the nervous tremor in his hand gave him away.

“I—”

The word caught in your throat. You looked down at your notebook in shame.

“I can’t Daeron.”

The silence that followed felt incredibly heavy. “I’m sorry, but I can’t...”

He slumped back in his chair as a long sigh slipped out of him.

“Why?” The question came quietly, his brows furrowed in irritation. “Just… why?”His eyes flicked toward you again.

“Just give me a reason and I promise I’ll let it go.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Do you not like me?”

You opened your mouth immediately.

“Daeron—”

“Do you think I’m ugly?”

You stared at him.

“What?”

“I mean I know I’m not the most handsome looking but—”

“Daeron.”

You leaned forward, cutting him off firmly. “You know that’s not the problem.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze had dropped to the table now. The sunlight caught in his hair, turning the pale strands almost silver.

You hesitated — then finally said the thing you had been avoiding since that first day.

“It’s the drinking.” The words landed quieter than you had intended. But they hit.

He stilled in his seat.

“I’m serious,” you continued quietly “you drink yourself into oblivion half the week.”

His jaw tightened, because he knew — you were only speaking the truth.

“You disappear for days, and no one knows where you are, no one knows if you’re even alive. You could be in a ditch or the bottom of Blackwater Bay for all we know.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. Which somehow made it worse.

“And you don’t even try to get better.” You looked back at him.

“I like you,” you admitted softly. “I really, really do.” His head lifted slightly at that and you could see the hopeful spark return to his eyes.

“But I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself.” Your fingers tightened around your pen.

“I’ve done that before.”The words slipped out before you could stop them and you swallowed nervously.

Daeron’s eyes softened immediately. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Destroying myself?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation and your honesty seemed to surprise him.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

“I don’t know how to stop.” The admission was so quiet you almost missed it. Your chest tightened at his words.

Daeron rubbed a hand over his face tiredly.“I wake up and my head feels like it’s splitting open, or I’m terrified of things only I can see.” He let out a humorless laugh. “And the only thing that makes it better is drinking again.”

“Then get help.” Your words were so blunt his surprised gaze immediately flickered to you.

“…Would you go on a date with me if I did?”

Your heart twisted and you sighed “That’s not why you should do it.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now. “But would you?” He still wondered.

You held his gaze for a long moment “Maybe.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it wasn’t a no either — which encouraged him somehow.

And for the first time all afternoon he found himself smiling.

—

The fourth time it happened was entirely accidental. And in your humble opinion, deeply unfair.

You had not come to the Targaryen house that day expecting to be ambushed. Yet somehow that was exactly what had occurred.

You had originally stopped by just to visit Aegon, since you weren’t on babysitting duties that day. You had decided to check in, maybe play a board game or drink tea in the kitchen while you prepared a snack for Egg.

Instead when you had stepped through the front door Daella and Rhae had descended on you like two extremely determined teenage girls. And you immediately realized — there was no escape.

“Oh perfect! We were just about to ask Aegon where you are!” Daella screeched excitedly quickly taking your bag from your shoulder as Rhae jumped with excitement.

You barely had time to take off your shoes before they were dragging you upstairs to their room.

“Sit.” You opened your mouth to protest as they all but shoved you into their chambers.

“And don’t argue.”

“We just came home from the mall and we bought all of this new stuff we need to try out!” Daella gestured as your eyes landed on the two enormous Sephora bags sitting in the corner of the room.

That had been roughly two hours ago.

Which is how you now found yourself sitting in the middle of the girls’ enormous bedroom like some kind of experimental doll.

The room itself looked like something out of a movie set. A massive vanity mirror lined with glowing bulbs illuminated the entire space in soft golden light.

Makeup brushes, palettes, curling irons, hair sprays, powders, creams, and bottles of things you could not even begin to identify were scattered across the surface like the aftermath of a cosmetic hurricane.

Some faint pop song played from a small JBL speaker on the dresser.

You sat in the middle of it all wearing an expression somewhere between amusement and mild terror.

Rhae stood directly in front of you, holding a sleek little bottle like it contained liquid gold.

“Close your eyes.” You obeyed and squinted as a cool mist hit your face.

“Charlotte Tilbury setting spray,” she announced proudly.

You blinked as she waved the cloud toward you like some kind of makeup priestess sealing a ritual.

Meanwhile behind you, Daella was carefully twisting sections of your hair onto a curling rod with the concentration of a surgeon.

“You have really good hair,” she murmured approvingly.

“Thank you?” you replied politely, though you had absolutely no idea what she was doing back there.

In the mirror your reflection stared back at you looking… suspiciously expensive.

Your skin looked smooth enough to belong on a porcelain doll. Your eyelashes were longer than seemed biologically possible. And your cheeks glowed faintly like you had just run through a field of roses.

You suspected the products on your face probably cost more than your monthly groceries.

“…I mean it’s absolutely ridiculous,” Rhae was saying while touching up your blush with a tiny brush.

“Why would he ever want to go out with her?” She wondered as if it were the most suspicious thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.

“Right!” Daella chimed in from behind you. “They’re so incompatible it’s horrible!”

You nodded slowly. “Mhm.” You had absolutely no idea who they were talking about.

At first you had genuinely tried to follow the conversation — but somewhere around the third “no wait that was Alyssa’s ex not Elia’s ex” you had completely lost the plot.

“Honestly it’s a disaster,” Rhae sighed dramatically, then she leaned closer to the mirror inspecting your face. “Oh no.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What is it? Is my hair burning?” Your hand instinctively went to reach for the back of your head but Daella slapped it away.

“The concealer looks cakey.” She whined.

You stared at your reflection. Your skin looked absolutely flawless. It looked like you had been airbrushed by a professional.

“Rhae it’s perfect—”

But she was already frowning deeply like a disappointed artist.

“No it’s not.”

“It absolutely is.”

“No it’s—”

A polite knock interrupted the argument and the door opened.

Daeron’s head of golden hair poked through the tiny opening. He paused immediately — as if debating if he wanted to take part in any of this.

“Seven hells.” He wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a Sephora in here.”

“DAERON!” Daella gasped.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” Rhae added, waving both hands at him like he was a stray animal wandering into sacred territory. “We’re having a girls day!”

Daeron looked mildly offended. “I live here.” He deadpanned.

You quietly noticed how for the first time in weeks he seemed— not disheveled. Which was particularly unusual for him.

He had a healthy glow in his cheeks and his skin didn’t look like it hadn’t seen daylight in years. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and there weren’t dark circles under them.

“You’re still not supposed to be here.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then his gaze landed on you and he completely froze.

You sat there in the giant vanity chair, your makeup glowing under the lights, hair styled neatly over your shoulders.

You gave him a sheepish little smile. “Is it really that bad?” you attempted to jest.

He did not answer. He was still standing in the doorway utterly dumbstruck.

Rhae snapped her fingers in front of his face — no reaction.

Daella waved a hand dramatically. “Hello? Earth to Daeron!” She mimicked but still nothing.

“Are you deaf or something?” Rhae squinted at him.

Daeron finally blinked and then suddenly straightened.

“No, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, as if realizing how foolish he had been.

“It’s perfect.”

“I mean— you’re perfect.”

“I mean—”

He gestured vaguely at the air like he had lost control of the common tongue.

The girls exchanged identical looks — and immediately burst into giggles.

You felt your face heat up instantly.

“Okay well,” Daella said sweetly, clearly enjoying this far too much, “I think Y/N ought to go somewhere nice when she’s so prettied up.”

Rhae nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Obviously!”

Both of them slowly turned toward their brother, raising their eyebrows expectantly.

Daeron noticed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason.” Rhae said innocently “None at all.”Daella added.

He sighed then looked back at you.

“Would you maybe want to…” he started carefully. “…go for a stroll by Blackwater Bay?” He cleared his throat. “Maybe grab a bite?”

The girls practically vibrated behind you.

You smiled softly. “I— I’d love to.”

Daeron’s face brightened instantly, almost believing your words.

But then you winced — because you knew what was going to follow. “But I’ve already agreed to go to this new bar with Kiera and Tanselle tonight.”

His expression fell instantly. “Oh.” The poor boy looked like a kicked puppy.

You hurried to add. “But maybe another time?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, masking his disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” He gave you a weak smile.

“No problem.” Then after a slightly awkward pause he gestured vaguely toward the hallway.

“I was actually just… looking for Aegon.”

“He escaped earlier,” Daella pointed.

“Smart child…” he muttered before backing toward the door. “Anyway I’ll… leave you to the Sephora.” And with that he disappeared, the door shut closed behind him.

As soon as he was gone the girls exploded.

“Oh may the Seven look down upon us.”

“He has the biggest crush on you.” They both exclaimed loudly.

Your eyes widened immediately “What?!”

“Yes he does!”

“Did you not see his face?”

“He literally forgot how to speak!”

You shook your head rapidly, denying their accusations. “No he didn’t!”

“He said you were perfect!”

“He says stupid things all the time!” You countered as they collapsed onto the bed laughing.

You buried your burning face in your hands. “That means nothing!” God you felt like you were a teenage girl all over again and not a university student.

“Sure,” Rhae said between giggles, rolling her eyes. “Totally nothing.”

Daella grinned.

“He’s been wandering around the house for weeks looking like a kicked puppy whenever you’re not here.”

“That is NOT true!” Your eyes widened.

They looked at each other and then burst into another round of laughter.

You pointed at them accusingly. “You two are just delusional.”

“Mhm.”

“Completely.”

“Absolutely.”

They were still giggling.

And despite your determined denial you couldn’t quite stop yourself from smiling.

After a peaceful silence filled only with occasional giggles from them they returned to finish their handiwork.

“No I mean… Daeron has seriously changed since you’re here with us.” Rhae spoke, but this time there was no banter in her voice.

“Yeah… he’s actually been eating and sleeping normally again. He even goes to rehab twice a week.” Daella revealed and it felt like they were letting you in on some grand scheme. Not discussing Daeron’s weekly habits.

“Oh.” you let out dumbly. Though you couldn’t deny the warmth that had filled you at the revelation. He was doing better then.

“Oh she says.” Rhae snorted. “It’s because of you silly! Do you know how many times father has attempted to refine him..”

“And all it takes is one smile from you…” Daella giggled treacherously.

“I… no that’s not true.. he’s finally just come to his senses.” You reasoned and they hummed in response— clearly not believing your words for a single moment.

—

The fifth and final time it happened, the world was all but melting. And with it all your resolve too.

It was mid-July in King’s Landing, and the city felt like it was being held under a magnifying glass. The air was a thick, shimmering curtain of heat that turned every movement into a chore.

Inside your apartment, the only thing standing between you and total physical dissolution was an old electric fan that rattled on your counter, valiantly pushing lukewarm air around the room.

You were dressed in nothing but he lightest clothing you could muster. You wore a pair of linen shorts so short they were more of a suggestion than a garment, and an oversized threadbare t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, the cotton sticking damply to the small of your back. Your hair was piled into a chaotic, bird’s-nest bun held together by a single claw clip and sheer willpower.

You were hunched over the sink, aggressively cracking an ice tray to harvest cubes for a desperately needed iced coffee when the doorbell unexpectedly rang.

You froze as an ice cube skittered across the floor. Who could it be? Kiera had keys and she would've texted you if she was planning on coming. The delivery man usually just shouted from the street and you were pretty sure you hadn't ordered anything.

You padded toward the door, slightly wary, your bare feet sticking to the hardwood, and slid the safety lock back with a metallic click.

When you pulled the door open you were hit with a smell akin to a flower field. A massive sprawling bouquet of summer blooms—wild peonies, deep blue delphiniums, and sunshine yellow lilies filled your entire field of vision. It was a riot of color so vibrant it made your heat-strained eyes ache.

"Oh Seven Hells... hi." The flowers shifted, revealing a pair of bright expectant eyes and that familiar, lopsided grin. Daeron.

"Hi," you breathed, the word caught in your throat.

He looked... incredible — better than you had ever seen him. The weary, haunted shadow that usually clung to his features had vanished. He was dressed in a crisp, white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms tanned by the summer sun. His silver-gold hair, usually a nest of drunken neglect, was neatly trimmed and swept back from his face. He looked clean. He looked whole. You could hardly believe it.

"I—this is, um... these are for you," he stammered, his voice steady despite the slight flush on his cheeks.

You reached out to take the arrangement, and as the weight of the flowers transferred to you, his fingers brushed against yours. The contact felt like a shock, a jolt of electricity that went straight to your pulse.

The scent of the lilies filled your entire apartment, drowning out the smell of stale city heat. "Daeron, gods... they’re beautiful," you whispered, burying your nose in the petals for a second to hide the way your hands were shaking.

You stepped back, setting the heavy vase-less bouquet on the hallway table so you could actually look at him.

Now that the flowers weren't a shield, his gaze swept over you. You saw the exact moment he realized how little you were wearing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darkening as they traced the curve of your bare legs and the soft line of your collarbone. For a second, the heat in the room seemed to spike by ten degrees.

"Listen," he started, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin tingle. He took a half-step into the apartment, closing the door behind him. "I know I have absolutely no right just to crash in like this… hell you have every single reason to throw me out." He began, nervously running his hands through his hair.

"But I really, really like you. And I know I’ve been a disaster. I know I’ve given you every reason to keep saying no."

He took a breath, his chest expanding under the thin linen. "But I listened to you. I've… I've been better. I went. I’m three months clean, Y/N. I haven't touched a drop since that afternoon on the patio. And gods, it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done." He admitted as he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist before he pulled it back clenching it into a fist. Willing his restraint to manifest.

"But every time I wanted to give up, I thought of you. I thought about how I wanted to be someone who deserved to stand in front of you and ask one more time. I’d do it all over again, every miserable withdrawal, if it meant you’d just give me one chan—"

You didn't let him finish.

The three months of suppressed longing, the midnight phone calls, the stolen glances in the kitchen it all surged forward at once. You stepped into his space, your hands flying up to cup his face.

His skin was warm, smelling of expensive soap and summer air. You pulled him down and crashed your lips against his. He let out a muffled sound of pure shock, his body turning to stone for a heartbeat. Then it was like the dam broke.

His arms wrapped around your waist with a sudden, bruising intensity, lifting you slightly off your feet as he pulled you flush against him. The thin fabric of his shirt was no barrier to the heat of his chest. His mouth was soft, far softer than you had imagined but his kiss was hungry and desperate, tasting of mint and pure unadulterated devotion.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, needing to anchor yourself as the world tilted. In that nothing matter — no Aegon, no Maekar, no complicated family situations. You would deal with that later.

Right not it was just you and Daeron and his lips chasing your own as if his life depended on it.

It was a collision of months of pent-up tension, a release that felt like finally reaching the surface after being underwater for a lifetime.

When you finally broke apart you stayed in the circle of his arms, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together. The only sound in your ears were your frantic breaths and both of your rapid heartbeats beating in sync.

"Gods..." Daeron’s voice was a wrecked hoarse whisper. He kept his eyes closed, his thumb tracing the hem of your short shorts against your hip, his touch reverent.

You let out a small, breathless giggle, the sound bubbling up from a place of pure relief. You were doomed — but in the best possible sense.

He opened his eyes then violet irises glazed with a mixture of passion and disbelief. He looked at you as if you were a miracle he hadn't quite figured out how to deserve.

"So..." he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "I take it you’ll go out with me? For real this time? No excuses about going out with Kiera or babysitting my brother?"

You looked at him — really looked at him, and saw the man he had fought the last three months so hard to become.

The "no" that had lived on your tongue for months suddenly dissolved into nothingness. Not even crossing your mind.

"Yes," you smiled, your heart feeling dangerously full. "Yes, Daeron Targaryen. I will go out with you."

His eyes were overwhelmed with love and relief as he simply let out a long, shaky exhale and leaned down to steal another kiss, slower this time as if he finally had all the time in the world.

As your lips interlaced once again — this time in a slower steadier manner, you found yourself utterly appreciative of that day you decided to listen to Kiera and take up a part time job.

Because it had led you exactly to this moment — into his arms.

©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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