“You—girl. Are you a whore?”

You raise your eyebrows from where you’re splayed out on a rock on the shores of Lys, basking in the warm sun. You’re the only one who comes to this edge of the island, so you can only presume the bored voice is addressing you. You let your head loll backward over the side of the rock, the tips of your hair brushing the crystalline water sloshing against the shore.

A man stands at the edge of the water, frowning down at it when it comes too close to his expensive leather boots. He is pretty, you decide—you can tell that much even peering at him upside down the way you are—but most who live on Lys are, so he’s nothing special. Pale hair, pale skin, violet eyes—you could find dozens of him at any pillow house in the city. 

“Do I look like a whore?” you hum, voice lilting with amusement when you see the way his expression twists in irritation. 

“I did not ask for wit,” he says sharply. “I asked for an answer.”

You roll onto your side instead of replying at once, propping yourself up on one elbow. The setting sun glints off the water, catching in his silver hair. He’s younger than you first thought—likely around your age—but his clothes are what catch your eye. They are not the sheer chiffon and smooth silks you’re accustomed to seeing boys draped in, but dark, expensive leathers. A Westerosi, maybe? There’s a sigil on the pommel of his sword, but you can’t make it out from a distance. 

His gaze drifts over you, curiosity plain in his expression before he masks it with indifference.

“You may come closer,” you say lazily, calling out his lapse. “If you wish to inspect me properly, that is.”

His eyes narrow, jaw tightening. “I have no wish to inspect you.”

“No?” you ask, kicking your feet idly as you tilt your head to the side. Your fingers drop to skim the warm waters of the Summer Sea, flicking the water uselessly in his direction, even though you know it won’t reach him. He still looks incensed by the mere attempt. “Then why ask?”

His mouth curls—not prettily. “Because I’ve been taught in Lys one does not stumble upon a woman alone without discovering she belongs to someone else.”

“Oh?” you echo, entertained, realizing he’s trying to insult you. “To someone else?”

He tilts his head the same way you did, mocking. “Or to everyone,” he drawls, smile sharp. “I prefer to know the nature of what stands before me.”

“And who do you suppose I belong to? One or everyone?” you ask lightly instead of letting the insult land, which only seems to irritate him more from the way he sneers. “Do you wish to be the one? Is that why you ask?”

He falters, and your lips quirk up in amusement. He doesn’t look like a boy accustomed to being mocked; he looks like one accustomed to being obeyed. You wonder how far you can press before he snaps. You haven't had much for entertainment since you were cast out to this idyllic paradise, so you have to make your own.

You rise to your feet at last, purple chiffon tumbling around you. It drapes from shoulder to ankle, sheer but layered, the violet deep enough to obscure what men desire most—modest for Lys, considering it covers more than what most girls in the pillow houses bother with. The fabric clings where the sea has kissed it, outlining the curve of your hips and the length of your thighs.

His gaze drops before he can help himself—to the low V-cut of your neck, and lower still. Then, as though he catches himself, his gaze snaps back up to your face, furious. You smile lightly as you drop off the rock into the shallow water, gentle waves brushing your ankles. You lock your hands behind your back as you make your way over to him; as you draw near, you finally make out the sigil on the pommel of his sword. 

A dragon prince, you realize, amused. So, the rumors you heard of a ship flying the banner of the three-headed dragon are true. You never thought you'd get the chance to play with a dragon—the prospect of being burned thrills you in a way that the soft, perfumed sons of Lys never have.

“You did not answer my question,” you note, leaning in just enough to let your breath ghost against his mouth. To his credit, he doesn’t react beyond his eyes narrowing and tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Do you wish for me to belong to you? Is that why you ask?”

“You,” he says tightly, “are very bold for someone who could be bought.”

“Everything in Lys can be bought,” you agree easily, “but not everything wishes to be. Unfortunately for you, you can’t afford my price.”

His eyes flash with indignation, but you continue before he can say anything.

“Tell me, Dragon Prince,” you begin, reaching out without asking permission. His hand snaps up to grab your wrist hard, but you only raise your eyebrows at him, fingers brushing the silver strand of hair that has fallen across his brow. It is softer than you expected, and he is much more beautiful up close. If only there wasn’t something dangerous lurking behind those pretty violets. “Did you come to Lys for pleasure?”

He says through his teeth, “You dare try to touch me.”

No.

“For business, then?”

“Are you slow, whore?”

No.

“Then, for exile.”

The rage that crosses his face is answer enough. 

You had a feeling that was the case. You recognize the look in his eyes very intimately—alone, uncertain, cornered, all veiled behind a wall of arrogance and steel so as to not allow the snakes that wander the Lysene gardens a chance to sink their fangs in. He's a Targaryen prince—if he were back home, he probably would've struck you or imprisoned you for taking such tone and proximity to him, but he's not home, and he's still gaining his footing here in Lys, so he can't afford to react how he normally would.

Well, at least you're not alone in this regard anymore, you suppose, but only time will tell whether he'll make for good company.

You smile lightly and step away, brushing his grip from your wrist.

“Next time,” you call, glancing over your shoulder at him with an easy smile, “try asking my name before you ask my price.”

——————

His name is Aerion Brightflame of the Royal House of Targaryen in Westeros—a second son of a fourth son, tenth in line to the Iron Throne of Westeros. Lys is a city of silk and secrets—nothing truly disappears here, so it’s not hard for you to get the information you want on him. Stories drift through the pillow houses and lavish gardens as easily as perfume. He is cruel and capricious, prone to bouts of anger and violence, according to the whispers you’ve heard, but careful to keep up a charismatic front when before the magisters; exiled after his fickle whims led to the death of his uncle, the crown prince. 

The dragon prince arrived under polite pretense—a guest of Magister Vyrano Naeranar—but word spreads swiftly that his vacation to Lys is not one of his own choosing. He spends his days in Vyrano’s manse, reclining on cushioned couches beneath painted ceilings, letting serving girls drape themselves across the arms of his chair like ornaments—grapes pressed to his lips, wine poured without asking, musicians summoned to entertain his boredom. 

Today, he has the central market on edge, prowling about disdainfully with a white-cloaked shadow that came with him from the west. You watch from the tiled roof of a nearby building. He hasn’t noticed you yet, but you think he can feel you looking, because his gaze periodically sweeps around the square, as though searching for something he knows is there but can’t spot. 

It’s entertaining—almost. Spice merchants from Yi Ti bow low, and the fishwives temper their usual shouting. Lys has returned to the tense state it was in when you arrived five years ago, and the whole city holds its breath as it waits for its draconic guest to return back to his cave.

You tilt your head to the side with an amused smile, watching as Aerion pauses at a stall heavy with Myrish glass and lacquered casks. The merchant fumbles his greeting once his gaze settles on the prince's silver hair and violet eyes—no easy flattery of someone who has sold to nobles before, no honeyed cadence of a seasoned trader. His tongue catches. His eyes flick to Aerion's hair, his sword, the crowd, then settle on the white cloak behind him.

You squint.

He rushes too quickly to the back of the stall, foregoing all of the best goods he has on display.

You don’t recognize him, you note absently, sliding down off the roof and onto a stack of boxes before you realize what you’re doing. You hop down to the ground, easing through the crowds in the direction of the stall. Most merchants who come to Lys are repeat presences—regular ships, regular routes, regular loyalties. You recognize them by name and face now, laugh at jokes they’ve told you too many times, and tease them with sleight of hand before tossing coin in their direction.

This one is not, and unfamiliar never bodes well, especially when word has begun to spread about Lys’s new royal guest. 

“Firewine from the finest vineyard in Myr,” you hear the man say with a too eager smile as you draw close. “Firewine for the Brightflame. Worthy of a prince of the blood.”

Aerion’s mouth curves faintly, and you almost roll your eyes—all men are fools, you think disdainfully, weak to shallow flattery. He reaches for the decanter, and the merchant's fingers tighten slightly around it before releasing it to the prince. He holds the glass up to the sun's light and tilting it slightly, admiring how the bright liquid clings to the crystal.

You pluck the wine from his hand before he can make a decision on whether or not he’d like to taste it, skipping out of reach as his gaze snaps toward you, outraged. This will be today's entertainment, you decide, pleased. Not a single day since the prince has gotten here has been dull, and you're finding yourself increasingly pleased with him. The white cloak behind him makes a move to apprehend you, but Aerion waves him off when he recognizes you, expression twisting with irritation.

“You again,” he says. “Plucking a gift straight from my hands—do you have a death wish?” 

You give him an easy smile, tilting your head to the side. “Not me,” you reply, “but you, perhaps? Shouldn’t your royal training have taught you not to accept wine from strangers, prince? Many are fond of sweet death, you know?” 

Aerion’s eyes flash, and his gaze slides from you to the merchant, who looks aghast as he stares at you. He fumbles out, “My lady jests—”

You swing around, one arm sliding around the man’s slim waist, the other lifting the decanter up to his lips. “Then, the good merchant wouldn’t mind tasting his own wine, would he?” you coo, smiling.

The merchant freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again, throat bobbing as you press the rim of the crystal against his lips, tilting it ever so slightly toward him. Aerion and his white cloak watch with sharp eyes. Your chest bubbles with excitement—god, the last five years have been dreadfully boring, and one week of this dragon prince has brought color and sharpness to this gray, pillowed world.

“You called it worthy of a prince of the blood,” you remind him sweetly. “Surely it’s worthy of your own.”

The market has gone still—all eyes on you, the dragon prince, the merchant who had the nerve to try to assassinate him. Your gaze flicks up to meet the burning violet of Aerion, who stares at the decanter in your hand with rising fury.

“My lady,” he wheezes, voice cracking, “it is strong, that is all—too strong for an empty stomach—”

“Drink,” Aerion finally says, voice cold and clipped. “Drink, or I’ll have you skinned and hung from the harbor walls for the gulls.”

The merchant’s legs give out entirely. He sags against you, sweat soaking through his tunic, the rim of the crystal trembling against his mouth.

“My prince, mercy—”

“Drink,” Aerion repeats.

The white cloak has already drawn steel. The blade rests so lightly against the merchant’s throat that it barely dents the skin—but everyone in the square can see how little pressure it would take.

You tilt the decanter again.

A dark ribbon of wine spills past the man’s lips. He chokes, sputtering, trying to twist away, but your grip at his waist tightens just enough to steady him.

“Careful,” you tease. “You’ll waste it.”

He yanks away from you and spits up the wine, making his answer clear. The white cloak immediately sheathes his sword and grabs the man by the neck, scruffing him like an unruly pup. You let the decanter drop carelessly to the ground, shattering against the stone, and you turn to leave, bored now that the excitement is over.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Aerion calls after you, put off by your unspoken dismissal.

“Here, there,” you say dismissively, tossing raised eyebrows over your shoulder. “Everywhere? Nowhere?”

Aerion looks seriously irritated by your disrespectful attitude. You only smile.

“Return with me to Vyrano’s manse,” he says firmly—an order, not a request. Unfortunately for him, you do not take orders from anyone, much less foreign princes. “You will explain to me how exactly you knew that was poison, or I will presume that you were in league with the assassin.” 

“I would rather die,” you say, voice a sing-song, enjoying the way indignation crosses his face. “Til next time, prince.”

——————

“I thought you said you weren’t a whore,” a familiar voice drolls from the now undrawn curtains leading into the room you’re relaxing in a few days later. 

You bite back a sigh—you had a feeling he was going to come looking for you sooner or later, but you didn’t anticipate it would be so soon. You suppose he’s just as bored as you are, stuck on this island with nowhere to go and no one to call your own. There's only so much wine you can consume and music to listen to before you drive yourself insane. Your gaze lifts to where he’s standing.

Aerion is dressed prettily today in red silks, but you have yet to see him go anywhere unarmed. The girls around you stiffen when they recognize the three-headed dragon on the pommel of his sword—they’ve become used to your presence and whims over the years, but the dragon prince is a new unknown that they don’t know how to deal with yet, so you wave them off, silently telling them to leave. They all scatter, but not before giving you concerned looks.

“I’m not,” you say easily, tilting your head to the side as Aerion steps into the lavish, perfumed room, “but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy their company. Men have loose lips when their cocks are wet. Sometimes friends in low places are much more useful than friends in high ones.”

“Is that so?” Aerion's gaze sweeps the room once, as though assessing for any threats. Once he determines that there are none, he makes his way over to you, boots silent on the rugs. He doesn’t sit immediately; instead, he stands over you. Red silk catches the lamplight, the violet of his eyes brimming with something you can’t name as he looks down at you. He looks every inch the Targaryen prince—ornamental and dangerous and terribly beautiful, fire and blood and all things in between. Your lips curl up slightly, which only serves to make him incensed. “You are impudent. Disrespectful. I should have your tongue removed.”

You give him a lazy smile, head half-lolled back against the cushions to look up at him with lidded eyes. “Ah, but my tongue can be so useful,” you murmur. “You wouldn’t deprive Lys of its many talents, would you?”

“You grow tiresome,” Aerion says through his teeth, though his irritation is edged with something hotter. “Do you even know who you speak to?”

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen,” you drawl. “Everyone on our little island knows who you are.”

“And yet, you toy with me as though I’m some Lyseni fool come to squander coin,” he replies, leaning down, one hand braced at the cushion beside your shoulder, coming so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. You tilt the lower half of your face up to brush your lips against his, just to see how he reacts, but his free hand comes to your throat, holding you in place. “Who are you?” 

“No one,” you reply with a mysterious smile, and his fingers tighten slightly around your neck. You try again, amused, “Anyone you want me to be.”

“Your name, woman,” Aerion insists, voice low and dangerous, temper fraying. “Give me your name, or I’ll do much worse than take your tongue.”

You let out a huff of laughter, gaze flicking down to his lips for a long moment, watching the way they tighten in annoyance. You give him your name after a few seconds pass—only your first. He waits a moment for your family name, but when you don’t give it, he clicks his tongue in irritation, hand dropping from your throat to take a step back, falsely assuming you don’t have one.

“How did you know that the wine was poisoned?” he asks you coldly. “Were you in league with the assassin? Turned against him to try to gain the favor of a prince?”

You rest back against the cushions when he lets you go, and Aerion’s gaze slides down again to the silk draped loosely around your shoulders, the way it slips down your skin. He catches himself, glaring at you furiously as he waits for an answer.

“He was an unfamiliar face,” you say dismissively. “Merchants in Lys are all familiar. I was suspicious, considering word has surely begun to spread about our resident dragon prince, and he looked far too anxious. Luckily so, seeing as you would’ve drunk the Weeping Lady’s tears without a spare thought.”

Aerion’s lips curl up into a snarl. “I would not have been so foolish as to drink wine from some unknown merchant.”

“If you say so, prince,” you agree blithely, waving your hand. “Is this all you came for? If so, I was in the middle of an entertaining conversation. Unless you’d like to join us girls in our gossip, that is?”

“You do not dismiss me, whore,” Aerion spits. “Why intervene then? If not for gold or to curry favor?”

“Well, I would never say no to gold,” you answer easily, “but in truth, the island has become boring these past few years. You’ve entertained me in the week you’ve been here. I would hate to lose you so untimely.”

Aerion stares at you as though he didn’t hear you properly. “You would speak of me as though I’m a court jester?” he asks, voice low. Dangerous. Ah, things are getting fun—the spark of interest you felt before returns in a blaze, you’ve always enjoyed dancing on the razor’s edge. “As entertainment?”

Heat crawls up your spine. Your lips curl up. You correct, “An island jester, but to the same accord, I suppose.”

His hand darts out to wrap around your throat again. This time, he drags you to your feet, into his chest. His thin fingers dig into your skin, sharp nails biting crescents. You still only smile lightly, gaze not leaving his, watching as chips of amethyst burn into swirling pools of dragonfire—the same color as you imagine the flames Meraxes breathed over Dorne in the war of conquest your tutors forced you to read about. 

You find yourself breathless just for a second, regretting your initial assessment of him. There are no dozens of him in the pillow houses of Lys—Lys houses boys of silk and perfume, with soft skin and syrupy voices, not boys whose blood is fire and breath is ash, not dragons.

You are not one to deny yourself what you desire—your wants are fickle and fleeting, and boredom is the most terrible punishment of all in the years you’ve spent trapped on Lys. You are quick to indulge and quicker to discard, because it’s all you have to do while you’re here. 

You want him, you decide. You want the dragon prince, and you will have him, one way or another. Dragons have always existed to be tamed by the old blood, and you do not care if you burn in your attempts to make him heel. 

“You mock me,” he breathes out, eyes wild as though a part of him still doesn’t believe you have the nerve. “The last person who dared mock me to my face, I put to the sword.”

You lean into his grip, lifting your own hand to cradle his cheek. He startles at your touch, grip tightening on your throat instinctively. You murmur, lips almost brushing his as you speak, “We are in Lys, prince. Even a prince of the blood has to obey the law of the magisters—and you will be hard pressed to find the conclave willing to indulge your violence over banter.”

His lip curls up into a snarl, a noise ripping from his lips, more dragon than man, and he lets go of you harshly, sending you sprawling back down on the cushions. You smile easily, tilting your head to the side as you look up at him, and he looks even more incensed by your lack of fear, that you’re treating his righteous fury like a joke.

“Who are you really?” he demands. “A spy for my father? Another assassin?”

“So paranoid, dragon prince,” you murmur, fingers sliding up against your throat, skin still warm where he touched you. “I’m just a girl who enjoys playing with fire, that’s all.”

Aerion bares his teeth. “Girls who play with fire get burned, whore,” he says, voice low and furious. 

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” you say flippantly with a pointed raise of your eyebrows, eyes glittering as you watch how he seethes.

“You think this is fun,” he asks slowly, pupils blown wide, violet slivers around black marbles. “You prattle about magisters and laws as though I’m some merchant who can be summoned and fined. I am not a merchant, I’m a dragon, and dragons are not bound by laws of cities built on pleasure and perfume. They answer only to blood and fire.”

Your pulse jumps, and you raise your chin, giddy.

“Well, dragons have always answered to the right hand, haven’t they?” you drawl, grinning when you see the rage and indignation that cross his face once the implication of your words hits him. 

For a moment, you think he’ll draw his sword and cut you down where you lounge, consequences be damned—or maybe he won’t even bother sullying his sword with your blood. He’ll wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, watching the life leave your eyes up close and personal, your pulse fluttering and dying beneath his fingers. 

What an intimate way to die, you think with a wistful breath.

But he catches himself before he can do something that would end with him being thrown in the damp cells beneath the city, letting out an irritated hiss before he turns on his heel and storms out of the pillow house.

“‘Til next time, prince!” you call after him, barely catching the way he glares furiously over his shoulder at you as he turns the corner.

As soon as he’s gone, the girls you were chatting with creep back into the room, one of them curling at your side, hand coming up to brush the bruises already blooming where his fingers once were. Her touch is soft and warm, and you find that you prefer the harsh, scalding imprint he left behind. You brush her hand away gently before she can wash away the feeling of his touch.

“You must be more careful, my lady,” she says softly. “You provoke him too openly. He’s not like the others.”

“I know,” you answer easily, gaze still trained on where he left, replaying the moment in your head over and over again. His hand at your throat, his breath hot against your cheek, the restraint trembling beneath his skin like a tethered beast. “That’s exactly what entices me.”

——————

Aerion Brightflame asks about you incessantly after that. 

He returns to your favorite pillow house and tries to threaten the girls into telling him more about you, but they prove loyal, misleading him with vague answers and directing him to the wrong people. It infuriates him, and he rages and threatens for hours, but the girls of the Perfumed Garden remain out of reach. The Maryls, in spite of their misgivings over the last century, remain one of the more powerful banking families in Lys, and Aerion, for all of his fury, at least knows better than to go making an enemy of them during his time in exile.

He tries the magisters next, but the magisters are even less inclined to indulge him. Smiling men with poisonous tongues—they bow to kings when it’s profitable and to coin when it’s safer. They will not choose between you and the dragon prince, because to take a side would be to make an enemy, and an exiled prince, tenth in line, with no army and no dragon, holds little weight on the scale when you’re sat on the opposite side. Your father might be cruel enough to keep you on a forced vacation at this little idyllic paradise for years on end, but he will not stand for disrespect.

Aerion’s wrath is apocalyptic when he realizes that the magisters are being as evasive as the whores, meeting his questions with riddles and half-answers. He leaves their manses with his temper fraying, red silk snapping like a banner behind him. He is not accustomed to doors closing in his face, and you find yourself too entertained when the magisters send a serving girl to find you and warn you that the dragon prince is poking around about you.

He has his white cloak follow you around some days—you see him trailing from the corner of your eye, and instead of making moves to lose him, you let him follow several paces behind, amused by the lengths Aerion is going to for answers. His white cloak only returns with reports of laughter and music, of you moving freely between pillow houses and manses alike as though you belong to none and all at once. 

At last, he does what pride has resisted: he tries seeking you out again.

Unfortunately for him, you make a game of cat-and-mouse. The harbor children run to you the moment they see a flash of red silk and the dutiful white cloak following behind, warning you that the prince is out hunting again, and you’re quick to make yourself scarce from all of the places he would ordinarily be able to find you, lounging in the hidden coves of the island where the sun is brightest and the water is warmest. 

You spend a week toying with him like this, watching from a distance as he becomes more and more incensed by his inability to find you, but all fun must come to an end, and you’re expected at the First Magister’s manse for a mid-summer festival, so you don your prettiest silks and make way to the manse you’ve been residing in the past five years.

The manse is ablaze with torches and lanterns before the sun has even fully set, hundreds of them, hung from archways and balconies, glass tilted in rose and amber so that the entire property glows like a living jewel. Musicians line the outer courtyards, flutes and lutes carrying through the warm night air, drums pulsing in time with the tide below. 

You make your way to a partially secluded balcony of the manse, lounging back against velvet cushions, the scent of orange blossom and wine thick in the air. From here, you can see everything happening down below, and people can’t easily make their way to you for conversation. Making your appearance for all intents and purposes, in sight of all of the attendees below, as the First Magister asked of you, but distant enough not to be bothered. The perfect compromise, in your fair opinion.

The gardens are the picture of decadence—marble statues wound with garlands of fresh roses, silk canopies rippling overhead in the gentle breeze, servants refilling goblets before they’re empty and cooling flushed faces with fans of dyed peacock feathers. 

It is obscene and glorious—it is Lys, and you are terribly bored. 

You exhale, gaze flicking up to the night sky, stretching languidly against the cushions as a pretty boy from the Perfumed Garden settles at your side. He’s all silk skin and silver lashes, bracelets chiming softly at his wrists. He smells faintly of sweet wine and summer berries—looks like the dragon prince, you think blandly as your eyes trace amethyst eyes and lithe limbs, but without the fire that comes with. Without asking, he leans in, mouth brushing the hollow of your throat tentatively, waiting for you to send him away or accept him at your side. 

You tilt your head obligingly in response, granting him better access, and he lets out a hum against your skin, to the irritation of the golden-haired girl already curled on your opposite side, pouting against your skin from where she’s nuzzling your wrist. They don’t like sharing—more likely one will be sent away in favor of the other, and it’s nicest up here with the view of the gardens, not having to deal with merchant lords and magisters pawing and groping. 

The girl presses a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist, sucking gently at your pulse, and the boy at your throat grows bolder when you do not dismiss him, mouth traveling from your collarbone to the curve beneath your ear, teeth grazing lightly before he soothes the spot with his tongue.

You sigh, head lolling back against the cushions, gaze drifting upward to the lanterns swaying above the terrace before you allow your eyes to slide shut. You are bored—they are beautiful, and attentive, and they know exactly how to please you, but you’ve long grown weary of soft skin and pillowed touches. But you’re expected to be here until dawn, and there are still hours left until then, so you may as well use them as a way to pass the time. 

Just as the boy’s hand starts to drift cautiously along your waist, testing the line between invitation and overstep, your hair stands on end, eyes reopening as your instincts warn you that you’re being watched. You're used to being watched in Lys—by curious nobles and idle voyeurs whose stares follow pleasure like sport—but this is not that. Your head falls to the side when both courtesans at your sides stiffen, gaze drifting over to the curtained entrance to the balcony you lounge on.

You hum when you recognize the figure standing there, half in shadow, lanternlight catching along the sharp line of his jaw and his silver hair. He doesn’t say anything, violet gaze flicking to the two at your side. You let out a long exhale through your nose, eyes flicking up in irritation. 

“Go,” you tell the two courtesans, who immediately take the opportunity to scurry away from Aerion Brightflame’s imminent ire. Your gaze meets his again, and you say dryly, “Ao zūgagon qrīdrughagon ñuha līvi. Gaomagon ao kȳvanon naejot ropakagon zirȳ, zaldrīzes dārilaros?”

You scared away my whores. Do you intend to be their replacement, dragon prince?

Aerion tilts his head to the side slightly, gaze lidded, eyes sharp shards of amethyst. “First, you liken me to a jester, now a whore. It’s almost as though you are determined to see how far you may push before I remind you what I really am.”

“I am simply offering ways for you to recompense,” you reply lightly. “You frightened away my night's entertainment, after all.”

“I did not tell them to leave.”

“You did not have to.”

His mouth curls up faintly at that. “I am not here to replace anyone,” he says coolly.

“Pity,” you sigh. “You would be far more interesting.”

“You have been avoiding me,” Aerion says after a moment, changing the subject as he steps fully onto the balcony, staring down at you coldly. 

“And you have been asking about me,” you drawl. “Sit with me, prince. My neck aches craning upward to look at you.”

Aerion’s lip curls up in distaste, gaze flicking to the cushions where the courtesans had just been sitting. He asks, “You expect me to sit where your whores were just pawing at you?”

“You expect me to continue craning my neck?” you counter lazily. “It’s terribly inconvenient.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’ll refuse you on principle, but then, with visible reluctance, he steps closer and lowers himself onto the far edge of the velvet cushions, lounging back against them and giving you a disdainful look. You curl onto your side to look at him through your lashes, smiling lightly. 

“You mock me, you antagonize me, and you disappear for days,” he says, voice low. “Who are you? A real answer this time.”

“My name was not satisfactory?” you ask, teasing, purposely shifting a little closer, knee almost brushing his thigh. His eyes flick over you once, wary. “Well, what have you learned then, prince? From your many inquiries?”

His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. With a voice as thin as his smile, he says, “Nothing of import.”

You lean in a little closer, fingers dragging up the red silk of his sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it, warmer than the summer night, than the wine still sweet on your tongue, fire burning under man. Your fingers itch to slip beneath the silk, to slide against his bare skin, feel the thrum of his pulse. His gaze snaps down to where you’re touching him, lip curling up in distaste, but not brushing you off. Your heart races in your chest, delighted, a smile touching the corner of your lips. 

“But that tells you something of import in itself, does it not?” you hum, fingers sliding higher, grazing the seam at his shoulder, then down again in a slow, idle path, memorizing the shape of him through silk.

His breathing shifts—barely, but it does—and his eyes follow the trail you trace down his arm sharply. His attention pulls back up to your face, calculating your words. “You move between manses as though you belong to all of them,” he says, more to himself than to you. “The Perfumed Garden protects you. The magisters evade my questions. Even the harbor brats run interference on your behalf. That is not coincidence.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“Perhaps they simply like me.”

“No one is liked that thoroughly without reason.”

“Indeed,” you agree, inching closer. Your knee presses against his thigh firmly now, head resting against the same velvet cushion that supports his shoulders. You can feel the tension in him through the thin barrier of silk. His face tilts toward yours, within a breath of one another—you can almost taste the wine on his mouth. You have to stop yourself from leaning in to drag your tongue against his bottom lip. “Why ever would the Lyseni insult a prince of the blood for a common whore?”

His gaze doesn’t leave yours, even as your fingers slip from the silk of his sleeve to his collar, tracing the edge where fabric parts to reveal pale skin beneath. You don’t quite touch him there, but you long to. 

“You do not speak in the Lysene dialect—no common whore of Lys would speak fluent High Valyrian,” Aerion continues, voice low, picking up on the hint you dropped him earlier. Your gaze slips down to his lips as he speaks, and you have to force it back up to his eyes. “Nor would she openly antagonize and—” His hand darts up, lithe fingers wrapping around your wrist, tight enough to bruise when you start to trace down the embroidered patterns along his chest. “—freely touch a prince of the blood.”

You hum, pulse fluttering beneath his thumb. He feels it—you know he does. “And where does that leave your answer?” 

Your breath catches in the back of your throat as he drags his nail down your inner wrist, sharp enough to draw blood if he chooses to press a little deeper. His gaze drifts from your face to your wrist, the edge of his nail pressing just enough to sting, and then deeper, a small bead of blood welling against your skin before he eases the pressure. He watches it rise and then shifts his thumb beneath it and rubs upward, smearing the blood against your pulse. 

“You were quick to recognize what I was,” he says at last, voice quieter now. His thumb lingers at your pulse. “Quicker than most.”

“You did deny pleasure and business,” you remind him easily, lips curled up slightly.

“And yet, not many would immediately jump to exile,” Aerion murmurs, gaze sharper now. “Not unless they are well acquainted with it themselves.”

“Udrimmi dārilaros,” you purr—entertaining and intelligent, you think you’ll have fun with the dragon prince. Clever prince. “Birds of a feather, you and I.”

Aerion makes a noise in the back of his throat as though he doesn’t quite agree, but his eyes slide back up to your face, calculating. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, and your gaze fixes on it. He muses, “You’re no ordinary exile, if the Lyseni will insult a prince of the blood to retain your favor.” 

You watch his eyes slip over your features, trying to put together all of the pieces, irritation swimming in violet when he can’t immediately do so. You can’t blame him—you suppose they don’t fit together too neatly. For the Lyseni to favor you over him, he would assume you would have to be royal yourself, probably initially leaning toward an imperial princess of Yi Ti or the daughter of a Qartheen merchant prince. But you speak fluent High Valyrian, and the YiTish and Qartheen people hold the Valyrian Freehold in high disdain—they do not teach its tongue in their court, much less prize it with the reverence you speak it in. That makes him lean toward the Free Cities, and yet—you do not speak in bastardized Valyrian. Your Valyrian is clean, as old and measured as it was when the Freehold ruled the world before the Doom.

Frustration flashes across his face, and he runs his tongue between his teeth, trying to put together the jagged pieces you’ve handed him. You watch the movement with open interest. He is thinking—calculating lineages and alliances, which houses of which cities might keep the old tongue unspoiled, who the Lyseni might favor more than the dragon. You can see the names forming and falling away behind his eyes, each failure leaving him more incensed.

His grip on your wrist loosens as he thinks, and you slide your hand down the length of his forearm, shifting closer. He does not stop you, too occupied with his thoughts. That’s when you lean in, mouth brushing against the hollow of his throat, the same way the pretty silk boy did to you when he curled up at your side before.

He stills, inhaling sharply the moment your lips touch his skin. You feel the warmth of his body, flames burning beneath skin, the faint thrum of his pulse. You let your lips linger before drawing back slightly, breath ghosting across the same place, waiting to see if he’ll push you away.

“I did not give you leave to touch me, whore,” he finally says, but he doesn’t move away, nor does he push you back. 

“I thought we had established that I’m not a whore,” you murmur, and then press your luck by pressing your lips to his skin again, firmer this time. A third time along the ridge of his throat as it bobs beneath your mouth, a visible swallow that betrays him.

You feel the tension ripple through him—anger and desire warring with one another, braided too tightly to separate. His hand comes up fast, fingers tangling in your hair roughly. He doesn’t pull you away like you expect, and you can’t help the way the corners of your mouth curl upward slightly. 

“You behave like one,” he hisses.

“A whore would not be so bold as to touch a prince of the blood without leave,” you echo his own words back at him. When he doesn’t shove you away and rise to his feet, you shift closer still, half into his lap, hands sliding against the smooth silk covering his abdomen, not slipping beneath yet. His fingers twist in your hair again—a warning—you do not heed it. “Iā līve daor ikson kostagon naejot kostilus ao isse aōha muña ēngos.”

A whore would not be able to please you in your mother tongue.

His breath hitches, grip on your hair tightening at the sound of High Valyrian spoken so cleanly against his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your mouth, and you flick your tongue out to circle it, sucking gently at his skin. He pulls your head back slightly, fingers tight in your hair. His pupils are blown wide again, violet slivers around black, except that last time he was fueled by rage, this time it’s something far more dangerous—his free hand slides up your thigh to your hip, thumb pressing hard into your skin. Your hips twitch, aching to grind against the thigh between your legs, but you catch yourself, waiting for him to speak.

“You presume much,” he says, voice low. “You enjoy seeing how far I will allow you to go.”

You smile lightly, gaze lidded. “I enjoy discovering where the line truly is.”

He twists your hair just enough to make it sting, nails carving crescents into the skin at your hip. “Do you really think the laws of this city will protect you from me?” he breathes out. “You think coin and courtesy mean anything if I decide otherwise?”

Your gaze drops to his lips as he speaks, and his fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your gaze up to his. “I am dragon-blood. Exile does not strip that from me. It does not make me tame. You play at this because you believe I will abide by Lyseni custom—that I will bow to their law. If I wished to make an example out of you, Lys would not stop me.” His lips curl faintly, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You feel his breath against your lips. “You provoke me in my own tongue. You touch me without leave. You grind against me like a bitch in heat and call it entertainment. And you think I’ll simply indulge you.”

His hand at your hip shifts, sliding slightly higher to yank you fully into his lap. You suck in a breath as your bodies align. You feel him pressed against your inner thigh, hard, aching as much as your cunt is, but his grip is iron at your waist, refusing to allow you grind down.

“I allow this,” he continues, nails dragging slowly against your scalp as he tilts your head another fraction, “because I choose to, and if I withdraw that choice, no law or magister in this pillowed city will save you from me.” His thumb presses deep into the small of your back, forcing your spine to arch subtly toward him. “If you want to please me, then please me like a good whore, but my patience wanes with your games, and you will not like the result if it’s exhausted.”

You lean in to latch your lips to his jaw, lashes fluttering as you press an open-mouthed kiss there, mapping the sharp lines, teeth teasing pale skin. He inhales sharply through his nose, hand tightening reflexively at your waist, but then he loosens his grip just enough for you to lower your hips so that his clothed cock is pressed against the damp silk covering your cunt. 

He settles back against the cushions, violet eyes lidded as he stares down at you, and you drag your tongue up his throat, along the underside of his chin, to his lips. You bite back a noise that builds in the back of your throat when he parts his lips, tongue sliding against yours as you swipe along his bottom lip before he leans in to press his mouth firmly to yours, deepening the kiss on his own terms.

You let out a quiet moan into his mouth, fingers curling in the silk at his shoulders, heart racing as his tongue maps the inside of your mouth the way you’d mapped the line of his jaw. He tastes exactly how you expected—fire and ash, blood and steel, you want him. You haven’t wanted anyone or anything so badly in your entire life. Before you were cast from black walls and marble palaces, you were given everything you wanted on a silver platter, before you even knew you wanted it yourself; and after, your life became so dull and colorless that even your fleeting desires were shallow, monotonous things, passing and predictable, boring, never lasting for more than a few moments' time. 

But this—the sting of his nails dragging against your skin, the taste of his tongue, the heat of his body, it’s different, it burns, consumes, and you want him. The exiled prince, the dragon—you’re sick of perfume and silk, you want blood and fire, claws that cut through skin and touches that burn, incandescence. Your hands slide from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading through silver strands, and his mouth falls half ajar against yours when you roll your hips and tug lightly at his hair. His hand slips from your waist to between your legs, and you gasp into his mouth, eyes sliding shut, forehead pressed to his, noses nudging when he slides his fingers against your clothed cunt.

“You say you’re not a whore, yet your cunt weeps like one,” Aerion breathes against your lips disdainfully before leaning in to drag his tongue up the length of your neck. Your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back slightly as his fingers dip beneath the silk, sliding between your wet folds. 

“And you speak as though disgusted,” you reply, breath shuddering against his temple as his teeth bite deep into your pulse point, “yet your body disagrees.”

Aerion doesn’t even bother with a reply, pushing two fingers into your cunt and watching the way you arch against him as he drags them in and out of you. He tilts his head back against the cushions, lips wet and kiss-swollen, eyes lidded as he looks up at you. He says scornfully, “I thought you were to be the one to please me. It seems as though I’m the one doing the pleasing.”

“Shijetra nyke, dārilaros,” you murmur, relishing in the way his breath hitches and body visibly shudders when you speak High Valyrian to him. “Kesan mazverdagon ziry bē naejot ao.”

Forgive me, prince. I’ll make it up to you.

You lean in to press your lips against his again, gasping lightly into his mouth when he presses his thumb to your clit, before he slips his fingers out of you, looking up at you expectantly. You roll his bottom lip between your teeth, feeling his chest vibrate as he fights a groan, and you slide your hand from the nape of his neck down his chest, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his silk pants. 

“I see Vyrano has you dressed like a proper silk boy,” you murmur into his mouth.

Aerion’s lips immediately curl into a snarl, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, as though to prove he’s a dragon and not one of the pretty boys you can find in the pillow houses. Iron floods your mouth, lip stinging painfully, and his lips part to snap out an insult, surely, but your hand dips into his pants before he can, fingers wrapping around his cock. Whatever words were on his tongue immediately die, jaw falling half-slack as your hand glides up and down his length. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, pushing the blood he drew into his mouth and swallowing the moan he lets out into you when you squeeze gently at the base of his cock, thumb sliding over his tip, smearing the precum leaking from his slit. 

Anyone could see the two of you, you think distantly, a thrill running through your body as your gaze flicks over the balcony, where lanternlight spills gold across flowery decadence, and the drifting servants and laughing nobles below. Some are watching, you realize, noticing that several gazes are already flicking upward to where the two of you are entwined, sharing breath, kisses, touches. 

This is Lys—it is not ordinarily scandalous. Lovers are displayed as often as jewels and tapestries. Half-hidden trysts on balconies are as common as wine spills on marble. Men and women press each other against pillars and cushions every festival night, and the city merely hums in approval, but this—

This is different.

You and the dragon prince are not some merchant’s bored heir and his purchased distraction, or a magister’s son and a painted courtesan. He is fire and blood, and you come from black walls and marble palaces. This is not scandalous, not if it were anyone else, but it is not anyone else.

You let out a breathless laugh, kissing him again, deeper this time—can’t get enough of the taste of him, the warmth of his lips against yours, the heat of his body. One hand still works his cock, quick snaps of your wrist that make his head loll, while the other slips beneath silk to flatten against his abdomen, nails raking gently against his skin. His eyes roll half-back, muscles tensing beneath your hand, hips stuttering, but before he can finish, you pull your hand from his pants.

Aerion hisses, eyes snapping open and violet flaring furiously as his hips jerk up against air, ruining his high just when he was on the precipice. He spits, “You dare—” but you press your lips against his before he can finish the sentence, pushing the silk down to his thighs, just enough so that you can sink down on his cock.

“Hah—” you gasp, head falling back slightly at the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. Your gaze blurs as you look up at the stars above, trying to give yourself a second to adjust, but Aerion’s hands drop down to your waist, nails digging into your skin as he snaps his hips up. Just for a second, you see stars—the tip of his cock forces itself so deep inside of you that you swear, just for a second, that you can feel him in your stomach. “Oh—”

Aerion pushes himself up from where he’s lying back against the cushions, sucking at the crook of your neck before he drags his tongue up to the spot behind your ear. He presses his lips against it as he breathes, “Ao ȳdragon hae iā līve se gaomagon hae iā līve, yn aōha orvorta iksis tolī ȳrda naejot sytilībagon naejot iā līve.”

You talk like a whore and act like a whore, but your cunt is too tight to belong to a whore. 

His abdomen tenses as you answer him by scratching lines through his skin, and you guide him back against the cushions, leaning down to kiss bruises up his pale throat. You press your lips to his again as you finally start to rock your hips, the drag of his cock against your walls making you hot and dizzy. You force down a whimper when he sucks the blood from your bottom lip, where he sank his teeth in before. One of his hands comes up to hold the back of your head, tilting your head so that he can drag his tongue against the roof of your mouth.

He tastes like fire, you think again, licking the inside of his lip, fire and smoke and blood, everything you’ve ever wanted. The more you kiss him, the more heat spreads through you—like a dragon, breathing flames through his mouth into yours, spreading through your chest, your stomach, your whole body, you almost make yourself laugh, but a pointed thrust makes your eyes knock back. 

Aerion lets out a low moan into your mouth, lashes fluttering, the violet of his eyes rolling back slightly when you pick up the pace of your hips. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Ao qogralbar hae iā līve.”

You fuck like a whore.

You laugh into his mouth, rolling his lip between your teeth and biting down hard, drawing blood as he did to you before. He hisses into your mouth, hips jerking, cock twitching inside of you; his pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, caught between disbelief and desire—can’t believe you have the audacity to spill blood of the dragon, can’t believe the fact that you did almost made him cum.

“Nyke jaelarys naejot kostilus, zaldrīzes dārilaros,”

I aim to please, dragon prince.

Your hand slides behind his head to pull him up so that he’s sitting upright again, chest flush to yours, lips sliding together sloppily, a mess of blood and saliva. His nails dig into your thighs, body tensing briefly as though he plans to flip you onto your back, but before he can, your hands dart down to push his hands off of you, not letting him take control from you. 

He snarls into your mouth immediately, furious, snapping down on your lip again like a—like a dragon, you think again, breathless. A dragon, yes—your dragon, or he will be. Dragons have always existed to be claimed by the old blood, you echo, and he will be yours, one way or another. Your thighs burn on either side of his narrow hips with each bounce on his cock. For the first time since you were cast out, you feel alive again. Your world has returned to fire and steel and incandescent light, and you’ll be damned before you let it go back to the colorless, pillowed world it's been for the last five years.

You kiss him deeper, fuck him faster, and he lets out a ragged, choked noise, breaking his lips from yours to tilt his face to the sky. Your blood and his is smeared across his lower face, lips pink and wet and swollen, a flush high on his cheeks. 

“Gevie,” you breathe out, hands sliding back up his body to cradle his face, forcing him to look at you again. His violet eyes are partially glazed over when they meet yours. 

Beautiful.

Aerion’s head falls forward, and his whole body seizes as he cums inside of you, and you tangle your fingers in his silver hair to crane his head back so that you can press your lips to his again, swallowing his moans. Your free hand slides between your bodies to rub circles over your clit, rolling your hips still, slower now, so you can feel every inch of his cock drag against your walls. His nails claw your thighs when you don’t ease up, teeth grinding together, pulling his lips from yours to toss his head back.

“Qogralbar aspo—qrugh—ōregon va—”

 Fucking bitch—shit—hold on—

Your hips jerk, a gasp muffled into his mouth—the sting of his nails in your thighs, his softening cock twitching inside of you, the way his jaw is clenched and how the vein running down the side of his neck bulges as he strains to not let out a pitched whine, overstimulated. It’s all too much, one last roll of your hips as he spasms beneath you, cock head dragging up against that sweet spot inside of you, and your jaw falls slack against his mouth, a hitch and a whine as your hips stutter, finishing on his sensitive cock. 

The two of you remain like that for a long while, the sound of music and chatter below, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same dizzying sliver of air. When that pleasant, boneless feeling in your limbs starts to subside, you finally roll off of him, onto the velvet cushions next to him, head lolling back so you can look up at the sky, trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, and eyes sliding shut briefly. 

After a few moments pass, you stretch languidly and rise to your feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Aerion asks, voice low and gaze lidded as he watches you carefully. 

“Down to the garden,” you say easily, fixing your dress. Aerion looks distinctly offended, pushing himself up onto his elbows. You explain, “I promised the First Magister I wouldn’t hide away up here all night, and now I feel, ah, properly energized to go socialize with these peacocks.”

His eye twitches, and he looks as though he wants to argue, but you turn to leave before he can, ignoring the aggravated puff of air he lets out.

“Tell me,” Aerion calls after you. “Where are you from? Why were you exiled here? Who are you really?”

You give him an easy smile over your shoulder. “I revealed enough secrets tonight, haven’t I?” you drawl as you push the curtain open to leave the balcony and head back down to make your official appearance at the festival. “It would ruin the fun if I revealed the mystery all at once.”

Aerion doesn’t respond, gaze dragging over you as he leans forward to pluck one of the grapes you left on the table between his fingers, rolling it once before popping it in his mouth. After a long moment, his lips curl up into a slow smirk, as though finally deciding to go along with this little game of yours. His eyes slide away, effectively dismissing you as though you weren’t already leaving.

 Your smile widens. “‘Ēva hembar jēda, dārilaros.”

"I can't even stand up," he says. "I'll fall if I try to wash myself."

You chuckle. "Poor baby," you murmur, men always have this way of being dramatic when they got sick as if this is the worst thing they go through. "I'll help."

Valarr doesn't think this is the best idea. The girl he's got a crush on helping him have a shower? He won't be able to handle it.

"Maybe I can," he starts as he sits down on bed. It's very difficult. "I can do it by myself. You don't have to come."

"But you said you'll fall."

"No, I was- I was being dramatic," he tries to chuckle. "It's not the first time, I can take care of myself."

You aren't convinced. Valarr has to look right into your eyes with those mismatched eyes of his, and this is not easy. It feels like you stare deep into his soul, you look so gentle, it hurts.

"I can fill the tub for you," you offer. "You can stay in the water for as long as you can, then we'll get you something to eat, hmm?"

"Alright," he accepts. "If you say so."

You help him stand up. His legs feel like jelly and it's not easy to walk all the way to the bathroom, but he manages.

He sits on the closed lid of the toilet as you check the water's temperature. "You should take your clothes off," you remind him. "I think this is cool enough, but we wouldn't want you to catch another cold."

There is something Valarr cannot name in the way you're taking care of him. It feels nice, something soft curling up into his chest, like he'll never be without you. You're not his girlfriend, not his lover, but he imagines you care about him. He never had the courage to tell you how he feels. You flirt with him and he does the same when he's on his right mind, but the timing was never right.

You two are friends. Sort of. You study at the same university, will probably graduate at the same time. You keep seeing each other, but neither of you takes the first step for something more. Friendship grew into something more, something that allows you to come to his apartment more than once every week. Something that lets you take care of him when he got sick, something that permits him to accept the care.

"Let me help," you offer when he shivers as he takes his shirt off. "I'll get you clean clothes to wear afterwards."

He nods. It's hard enough to stand up to take off his sweatpants and staying only in his underwear in front of you, he can't speak unless it's necessary. You help him get in the tub. He shivers once again once the water touches his skin.

"Slowly," you whisper, helping him settle down properly. "It's not too cold, is it?"

"No, it's- it's fine. Thank you."

"You're shivering," you murmur as you cup his cheek. Valarr tries to focus on the water instead of your hand on him. "I'm sorry for making you do this, but it should help. You wouldn't say yes to seeing a doctor if I offered."

He wouldn't say yes, that's true, but only because he doesn't want to be a burden. He doesn't want to deal with the hospital procedures, he just wants to stay in bed and heal. He wants to call his father. He also wants you to keep touching his face and play with his hair.

"I'll be fine," he says, instead of telling you what he wants. "I'm getting used to the water. Thank you."

"Stop saying thank you," you say. "You know I would never leave you all by yourself when you're burning up from a fever."

Valarr moves his legs in the water only because he doesn't know what else to say. He's happy that you are here and he's grateful and he likes your attention very much. He closes his eyes and makes a tiny sound of pain as his body slides in the tub enough to get his hair wet.

"Can you-" he starts a sentence. The fever's taking him, he suddenly feels brave and vulnerable at the same time, and he doesn't fight. "Can you play with my hair again? Please."

"Of course," you say, sitting at the edge of the tub to reach him properly. "But don't fall asleep."

"I won't." he promises. He makes a little noise at the way your fingers card through his wet hair, a noise that reminds you of purring. His entire body calms down. The pressure and hot waves behind his eyes lessen.

"You're lucky I'm a good cook," you say with a low voice. Valarr likes listening to it very closely. "I'm gonna make you soup. You can take your medicine after eating."

"I want to sleep."

He sounds so vulnerable and so innocent. You give him an adoring smile. "You can sleep all you want after eating, honey. You won't get any better if you stay hungry."

He would do anything you want to be called honey by you again.

You spend a few more minutes playing with his hair. When the water gets unbearable, Valarr opens his eyes. He tries to sit up in the tub. You leave the bathroom to get his clothes.

He manages to dry himself up with a clean towel he finds in the bathroom. You leave the clothes next to him and leave again to give him some privacy. He gets rid of the wet underwear and spends more time than he likes to for changing into his clothes.

When he is finished he calls for you. He feels better, less hot and he's able to open his eyes properly. You wait for him by the door with a smile on your face. He walks towards you.

"We should dry your hair," you say, letting him hold onto you once more. He can walk by himself if he's being honest, but he wants to walk with you. "I'll get a towel."

You make Valarr sit on the bed as you get the hair dryer and a towel. He relaxes as you dry his hair, your fingers are carding through it and not leaving any wet strands. He even tolerates the sound of the hair dryer as you touch his scalp.

"All done," you say. "You can get in the bed now, I'll be in the kitchen."

He gets into bed and you pull the covers on him. He had a thicker blanket before, but you changed it with a thinner one he realizes. It feels better. You fix his pillows, help him settle down and get comfortable.

"Can I sleep?" he asks as if he can resist falling asleep if you say no. His voice is smooth and low, he wants permission to sleep to not distort your newly formed routine of taking care of him.

"Yeah, of course you can. I'll wake you when the soup is ready."

Valarr closes his eyes. You watch him for a second longer. Without thinking too much about it, you lean in his space to kiss him on his forehead. He's less warm, his skin is soft and welcoming. His breath shudders the moment he feels your lips on his face.

He has always liked being kissed on his forehead. Baelor used to do that all the time with a smile on his face, an act of telling Valarr that he's proud of him. That he loves him very much. That Valarr is appreciated and he's important.

And now, you are doing the same to show you care. He feels he's important to you. You are spending your day being with him, taking care of him. He wants to call Baelor and tell him all about you. He wants to ask his dad how to confess his love.

"Alright," you stand up from your spot. "You sleep, I'm gonna go check your fridge."

He drifts off with a lovesick smile on his face.

You try to make as less sound as you can. There are enough vegetables, you make the easiest soup possible with what you find in the fridge. It smells nice when you leave it to simmer. You also check for medicines, some painkillers for his head and another one for his fever. He will be okay, you think, maybe he wants to have some tea later this evening. Warm drinks would help with his throat.

You think of everything your mother would do when you got sick. Going through each step in your mind, you think you have done good. Valarr seems comfortable in his sleep, he will be even better after eating and taking his pills.

He's been sleeping for more than an hour. The soup is warm, not too hot, but steaming. You pour some of it to a big bowl and put it on a tray with a glass of water. You don't want him to leave the bed so you carry it to his bedroom.

"Hey," you say gently, a hand on his shoulder to wake him up gently. He blinks his eyes open, seemingly better compared to how he was. "Can you sit down, honey? I got you some soup and your medicines."

Valarr does as you say even though he feels a little disoriented. "Smells good," he says. "Thank you."

"You're thanking too much," you say, handing him the spoon. "I told you stop, didn't I?"

"Force of habit," he takes the spoon. Gentle, tiny sips and the soup is delicious. "You really are a good cook." he tells you. The pepper in the soup tickles his throat, but it is nice nonetheless. He eats it all without talking, all focused on his spoon to not spill any on his bed. He does a good job of it in the end, you look happy as the bowl becomes empty.

"Good," you say, taking the bowl from him. "Now your water and the pills, please."

The water is cool against his throat, he swallows the pills easily. He's proud of himself when he completes doing everything you say.

"You'll feel better when you fall asleep and wake up again." you promise.

Valarr feels he is seconds away from telling you he loves you.

He holds your hand on the covers. His head feels mostly clear, but also a little foggy. If he tells you anything now, he won't be able to form proper sentences to explain himself, he will probably fall asleep in the middle of the words.

"I need to feel better." he says. He needs to get better as he has a confession to make.

A confession and then he wants to kiss you if you let him. He imagines your lips would be soft on his, your lovely mouth and your clever words, he wants to see how it feels. He thinks you will accept him. Then he can plan a nice first date, a first official date.

He really needs to get better. He has the greatest motivation.

You squeeze his hand in yours. "Will you stay?" he asks. He hopes the answer is yes.

"I will," you tell him. "Go back to sleep."