arina.

a breitling navitimer. uniquely designed with red and black dials and hands just for valarr targaryen.

it had been a gift. from his father and mother, for his eighteenth nameday. you overheard him once say to a classmate in casual conversation, he had been wanting it for a very long time.

that was the kind of school you somehow managed to get a scholarship to. barely scraping by.

the kind where kids discussed world politics and what vintage designer they were going to buy.

you had almost scoffed out loud when you first heard it, because what could a person who already had everything possibly want more?

everything, apparently.

if you had learnt one thing since stepping foot into these prestigious halls, it was that the greed of the rich was endless.

they accumulated desires the way old attics accumulated dust— effortlessly, constantly. taking up space just because they could.

and that was precisely why you weren’t going to let valarr targaryen win this chess match.

your eyes could just barely make out the custom v. t. engraving on the back of the watch as his wrist shifted, and another surge of annoyance spiked in you. of course his daddy and mommy would have it custom engraved for him.

everything in his life came with an explicit stamp of ownership, a reminder that the world belonged to him by right of birth.

you lean forward, settling your chin onto your palms as you analyze the board.

the library around you is dead silent, swallowed by the late-night shadows and the heavy scent of old leather. your eyes scan the wooden pieces standing like little soldiers between you two.

you’re playing white. he’s black.

because he insisted on ladies first, offering it with that smooth, aristocratic chivalry that always felt more like a concession than a courtesy.

you had profusely said you were more than willing to play black, to fight from the back foot as you always did. but he had just smiled, sliding the white pawns toward you with a lazy flick of his fingers.

your brain is moving forward now, silencing the background noise of your own irritation.

the grid of the board expands in your mind, lines of force and diagonal pathways burning behind your eyelids. you’re mapping out all the possible scenarios and endgames, calculating three, five, eight moves ahead until the wooden figures aren't just shapes anymore. they are numbers, vectors, inevitabilities.

you inhale sharply, not hesitating for a second when you pick up your bishop and place it to g5.

valarr’s eyes snap up to you immediately. the dark of his gaze sharpens, the lazy posture stiffening just a fraction.

he had clearly been expecting a different move. your development was too fast, too uncalculated... seemingly amateurish at a first glance.

it looked like a blunder, a reckless push from a player losing their patience.

but if he knew anything about you by now, it was that you weren’t just going to let him win.

not in the classroom where your grades hovered within decimals of each other, not in the formal debates where you tore his arguments apart with cold precision, and certainly not in this bloody chess match.

you weren’t just going to hand him the win on a silver platter like the ones his family used for dinner.

he had only one reasonable response to defend his kingside, but before he made the move, he opened his mouth to speak.

“those pieces look like they’re tying up.” his voice was annoyingly calm, a low baritone that didn't hold a hint of sarcasm. though the glint in his eye gave him away. it always did.

it was the same predatory glint that appeared every time he outscored you on a mid-term exam or got a fraction of a better grade on an essay, turning the academic hierarchy into his personal playground. he lived to tease you, to watch the small, tight line form between your brows.

your eyes lock onto him coldly, and you’re almost offended by how relaxed he is, how comfortably he takes up space.

“you’ve always been too sure of yourself, targaryen.” you reply evenly, your voice dropping into that flat, unbothered cadence you used whenever you needed to shield your nerves.

“i’m afraid you are mistaking me for my cousin, darling.”

your eyes almost roll at the mention of aerion—deciding to ignore the pet name entirely. he used those little words like cheap gambits, meant to throw you off balance, to make you conscious of the fact that you were a girl in a room alone with him after hours.

“pretty sure i’m not.” you retort, eyeing his pieces as he chuckles.

the sound is low, vibrating against the polished wood of the table.

he leans forward, those long, lean fingers reaching out. they are hands that have never known hard labor, yet they move with a strange, heavy deliberate grace.

he picks up his king and moves it.

his king retreated to d6, an unusual, suffocating square, and he pursed his lips just as he hit the tiny silver lever of the chess clock measuring the time.

he had insisted on playing with time. a mechanical ticking that sounded like a miniature heartbeat between you, counting down the seconds of your survival.

“as kind as ever, harmon.” he smiled, straightening his posture again, watching you with an intensity that felt entirely unrelated to the game.

you don’t let him breathe. you move your queen to f8, the smooth wood sliding across the square with a sharp, definitive clack, capturing the black rook standing there.

putting the king into check. once again.

“feisty today, are we?” he tuts, a clicking sound against his teeth, although there is still not a hint of fear in his voice.

he is not considering losing. the concept doesn't exist in his vocabulary; it hasn't been bred into his bloodline.

he isn't afraid of the pressure; he thrives on it. you can see the visible shift in his eyes— the way his pupils dilate as he works every cell in his brain, finding the narrow pathways and complex situations where he can outdo you, turn your aggression against you, and trap you in your own net.

his fingers drum a slow, rhythmic beat against his cheek as he watches the board, the red hands of his breitling ticking down on his side of the clock.

when will he realize?

the thought is a cold, beautiful spark in your chest. you stifle the small smile threatening to spread over your face, keeping your expression entirely wooden, a perfect mask of academic indifference.

you have already seen the end. it’s three moves away, an invisible string wrapping around his throat, and he’s pulling it tighter with every second he hesitates.

black moves to c6, trying to create an escape hatch through the center.

you don’t even hesitate. your hand is already there, cold and steady. you take your queen and slide her diagonally across the entire board, capturing the rook on a8.

the piece leaves the board with a heavy thud.

valarr watches the square for a moment. his fingers stop drumming against his cheek. his eyes track the lines— from the queen to the bishop, back to his crowded center, realizing that the space around his king has completely vanished.

the geometry has collapsed on him. the seemingly amateurish opening wasn't a mistake; it was a beautifully tailored shroud.

the disbelief settles into his features slowly, a slight parting of his lips, a subtle tightening of his jawline as the logic of the board finally forces its way through his confidence.

you cannot hold the quiet, little victorious smile breaking out across your face as you’re the one leaning back in her chair now, mimicking his exact posture from twenty minutes ago.

you cross your legs, your eyes dropping to your own hands, waiting.

valarr sighs, a long, rough exhale that breaks the quiet of the room.

he brushes a hand through his dark hair, disrupting the neat style he always kept, leaving it messy and raked through as he desperately tries to find an out. a loophole. a single square. a variation he might have missed in the calculation.

but there is nothing. you have thrusted him into an inescapable chokehold. it’s humiliating really, because he had treated the beginning of the match like a joke, and now he is staring at an absolute execution.

a good game... turning into you crushing him...

and you hadn’t even intended to make it look this brutal. it was just the math of it. the cold, perfect math.

“good game.” his voice is lower now, rougher around the edges.

all he does is lean forward across the narrow table, his warm, calloused palm extending toward yours. when your skin touches his, you can practically hear the electricity—a sharp, static spark that zips up your forearm and makes the small hairs on your wrist stand up. his grip is firm, lingering for a fraction of a second too long before he lets go.

you hum in response, already reaching out to clear the pieces, separating the black from the white, preparing the board for a new layout. the high of victory is still humming in your veins, turning everything sharp and bright.

“another game?” you suggest politely, your voice holding that slight, competitive edge you can never fully suppress around him.

you’re already placing the white figures back onto their starting blocks, your fingers nimble, when valarr suddenly coughs.

your eyes snap up from the pawns to find his face.

your gaze scans over his body, taking in the sudden rigidness of his shoulders. the moment your eyes drop lower, he immediately crosses his leg with an abrupt, awkward jerk, leaning forward in his seat so his elbows rest heavily on the polished wooden desk, effectively shielding his lap from view.

the silence between you changes instantly, losing its academic sharpness and turning thick, heavy.

“valarr...” you say his name so carefully, the syllables dropping into the space between you like small stones into deep water.

his cheeks flush a sudden, dark red, the color creeping up from the collar of his expensive shirt and staining the sharp line of his jaw.

“yes?” he replies evenly, though you can hear the distinct, strained tightness in his throat, the way his fingers grip the edge of the mahogany table until his knuckles turn white.

you look from his flushed face down to the awkward tilt of his crossed legs. the sudden defensive posture of a man trying to hide an undeniable betrayal by his own body.

“did you just get a boner from me beating you at chess?”

your words would have been irritating, crude and simple at best if he hadn't been so utterly, intensely entranced by you in that moment.

his dark eyes lock onto yours, the aristocratic composure completely shattered, leaving something raw and scorching in its place as he stares at you across the ruined board.

luck won’t save you, love — that is what he had said to you at the beginning of the match. oh how the tables have turned.

you repeat the same words to him and cock your head to the side in amusement.

“you take far too much pleasure in tormenting me.”

“you were bragging.” you reason.

“maybe.” he inhales before turning the board sharply, the heavy wood twisting on the mahogany table.

the black figures are sitting in front of you now.

you cannot stifle the smile spreading across your face.

“i won’t make the same mistake twice.” he promises, voice slightly hoarse.

“oh we’ll see about that targaryen…” you speak as you move the first pawn forward, restarting the game.

you can only pray that it's one of the house staff, someone going in early to put the laundry into the washing machine or to fetch some cleaning supplies for the massive estate.

you turn on your heel slowly, the smooth marble floor cold beneath your bare feet, praying to the seven that it wouldn't be—

seven hells.

even maekar targaryen or daeron would have been better than the soul you find staring at you wide-eyed across the long expanse of the hall.

aegon.

his plastic toothbrush is still hanging limply from his wide mouth, a messy smear of white mint toothpaste coating the soft curve of his cheek.

his little eyes are as wide as tomatoes, completely round with a child's pure surprise, and his hand is paused in the air mid-motion where he had been reaching for the wall.

"egg." your voice is a breathy, fragile thing.

he looks from you straight to the heavy dark wood of the door you had just slipped out of—his older brother's room—before looking right back at you.

you can't quite decipher the sudden, shifting look in his eyes, and that silence is already worse than any insult aerion could throw at you.

you swallow hard, the dry back of your throat burning as you open your mouth to formulate some half-hearted, pathetic lie, but the boy cuts you off before you can even start.

"why did you just come out of aerion's room?"

he cuts straight to the point. no beating around the bush. straight to ripping the band-aid off with the brutal honesty only an eight-year-old possesses.

one half of you is deeply relieved by the directness, while the other is brimming with a suffocating anxiety, knowing there is absolutely no avoiding the lens of his scrutiny now.

you inhale softly, mentally preparing your chest to answer the impossible question.

aegon trails his gaze from the very top of your messy head down to the bottom of your bare feet, squinting his brow in deep concentration, as if trying to mathematically figure out and place what all of this could possibly mean.

what you are doing in his house. on a quiet sunday morning when you weren't scheduled to be babysitting him, having made absolutely no plans to come over.

and you're standing there in a pair of tiny pajama shorts. a t-shirt that is clearly, severely crumpled from a night spent tangled in satin sheets. your hair a wild, birds-nest disaster. and a faint, dark purple bruise already blooming like an ink stain right over your collarbone.

though he definitely doesn't need to know the origin of that.

his eyes widen even more (if that is even physically possible) and for one terrifying fraction of a second, the blood in your veins turns to pure ice. you think that the adult realization of what had actually occurred between you and his brother has finally dawned on his innocent mind.

"egg—i swear—it's not like that—"

"y/n, we were supposed to do the prank on monday!" he whisper-yelled, his face twisting into an expression of intense, frantic urgency.

before you can even blink, his small hand reaches out, catching your wrist and dragging you physically into the safety of the guest bathroom with him, quickly shutting the door closed with a dull thud so aerion wouldn't wake up and hear.

you swallow the lump of bile in your throat, your mind involuntarily flashing backward to the image of aerion’s limp, exhausted body sprawled across those dark silk bedsheets.

the same sheets that are currently covered in the heavy, intoxicating smell of your mixed skin, spent silver-tinged lust, and stale smoke.

your mind snaps violently back to reality when egg's frantic, high-pitched voice cuts back into the small bathroom space. "… what were you thinking going into his room like that? and why are you even here anyway? you weren't here yesterday evening… when did you come? is everything okay?"

for one terrible, agonizing moment, you are convinced he's still going to figure it out.

he's going to piece together the atmosphere, the way your breath hitches, the faint scent of aerion's expensive sandalwood cologne clinging to the fabric of your shirt, and he's going to hate you for the rest of his life.

goodbye to the safe haven of babysitting.

goodbye to any chance of helping him grow up into a less traumatized, less broken kid than the rest of his family.

the overwhelming, toxic guilt of what you did with aerion suddenly eats at you from the inside out, threatening to suck the very life from your chest, stripping you down to the brittle marrow of your bones.

stupid. stupid. stupid.

you are supposed to protect aegon from the monsters in this house. you aren't supposed to hurt him by going and sleeping with his brother—the very brother who treats him like a psychological playground, the one who tortures him for fun and leaves him trembling in the grand hallways.

stupid. stupid. stupid.

"sorry…" you mutter under your breath, turning the chrome tap on with a jerky motion and shoving your hands under the freezing stream of cold water.

you need it. you need the temperature to cool your burning skin down, to keep your fractured mind in check. the cold liquid is the only thing keeping the traitorous blood inside your veins from boiling over.

i always knew there was a fire in you.

the phantom whisper of aerion's rough voice echoes in your ears, and you violently shake your head to drown it out, your mind completely numb and your ears buzzing with a low static as egg continues to enthusiastically retell the details of your original plan.

the harmless, childish joke you two had plotted days ago: to sneak inside aerion's pristine room while he was out and pour garlic-smelling water directly into his signature, over-priced cologne bottles.

just a silly, petty thing to make him feel an inch of the misery he caused both you and aegon on a daily basis.

except, before that could ever happen, you went and fell straight into his bed.

"y/n?" egg's voice snaps you out of the dark spiral once again, his small fingers tugging at the edge of your damp shirt.

"yeah. sorry, um." you quickly shut the tap closed, drying your trembling hands on one of the plush white towels as egg finally turns to spit the white toothpaste into the porcelain basin.

"there was this party yesterday evening," you half-lie, the words tasting like ash on your tongue, "and… it got super late, and valarr was dropping me off in his car. so i just told him it'd be easier if he dropped me off here, i guess… you know, since the estate was closer to the apartment and all that."

"oh." egg speaks, his small shoulders dropping as he mulls over your explanation in his head. his brow furrows for a second, deciding if the story is acceptable. he lets out a quiet, satisfied hum in the back of his throat.

he approves.

he believes the terrible, flimsy lie because he trusts you implicitly. he took the bait without a single second thought.

"sure," he says happily, offering you a tiny, gap-toothed smile before scolding you one last time for trying to pull off the "garlic execution" without him.

you apologize softly, your chest aching with a profound sorrow as he happily opens the bathroom door and trudges back out into the grand hallway.

"i'm starving… could you maybe make those delicious pancakes? the ones with the blueberries and the whipped cream? you know they're my favorites when you make them…" he happily scurries down the corridor toward his own room to get dressed for the day, not sparing you a single suspicious glance back over his shoulder.

"yeah, okay," you reply to the empty hallway, your voice shaking as your thighs ache with the unmistakable, deep bruising soreness of last night's sins. "i'll go to the kitchen and get started on it."

you begin the long walk toward the massive marble kitchen, your shoulders dropping from the sheer physical tension of the encounter.

you can faintly hear him yell a delighted, muffled thanks from behind his bedroom door.

you are still walking on incredibly thin ice, and the dark, heavy guilt of what you did is going to continue eating at you until there's nothing left.

you're going to have to face aerion too—eventually. he's going to wake up, stretch his lean frame out in that dark room, and realize he now has the ultimate, ruinous secret to hold over your head whenever he feels cruel enough.

and he feels more often than not.

but that is a catastrophic problem for later.

for now, you are going to stand in that bright, sterile kitchen and make blueberry pancakes for his little brother.

as you round the corner of the counter, half of your soul tells you the only reason egg had believed your terrible, desperate lie was because his mind simply couldn't even entertain the idea of something else going on between you and his torturer.

i hate him, he's evil, a nepo baby with a god godplex.

all the terrible but righteous things you had ever whispered about aerion brightflame suddenly feel like dirt in your mouth.

traitor, a small, dark voice whispers in the back of your head.

you shake it off, but the cold feeling in your stomach remains.

blueberry pancakes wouldn't fix what you and aerion had done in the dark last night. they wouldn't fix what you did to egg.

you are terrified nothing ever would.

…

scene two

just as if this morning couldn't get any worse, when you round the corner into the massive, sunlit kitchen, you find daeron targaryen's familiar, slumped silhouette leaning against the cold marble counter.

he's dressed in a pair of faded flannel pajama pants, his dirty blonde hair tied back in a low, messy ponytail. he's scrolling aimlessly on his phone, his brows squinted in a groggy frown, a steaming mug of some strange, murky liquid sitting on the counter in front of him.

gods, it smells absolutely terrible.

you instinctively scrunch up your nose as the heavy, medicinal scent hits your senses.

"hey." he looks up once he hears your footsteps padding softly into the room. "what— y/n?"

his bloodshot eyes blink in mild surprise, clearly not having expected your disheveled frame to round the corner at this hour. "what are you doing here?"

gods, would the targaryens just stop asking you that exact question already.

well… you were technically the one intruding into their family home. but that just sounded wrong in your head. it wasn't like you had broken in with a crowbar…

it was more like you came over to babysit egg, which gave you certain house privileges.

oh yeah, and you just spent the night sleeping with aerion. how could you ever forget about that little detail?

"um. i'm making pancakes for egg," you reply as evenly as possible, walking over to one of the high-end cabinets and pulling out the heavy bag of flour.

"no— i mean what are you doing in our house," he clarifies, cocking an amused, cynical eyebrow to the side.

you scrunch your nose again, flaring your nostrils at the mug. "seven hells… what is that drink.. it smells like literal horse piss…" you desperately attempt to steer the topic off yourself as you reach up to take the ceramic measuring bowl from the top shelf.

"y/n," daeron chides, his voice raspy and dry, noting your incredibly obvious attempt to ignore his question.

he might be the family drunk. the one who hides away from their father's heavy expectations with cheap liquor and cynical thoughts. but he isn't stupid. far from it.

"nothing… what… it's not like i broke in," you mutter, getting way too defensive, your carefully constructed mask entirely faltering as you crack an egg against the lip of the bowl.

"i just slept over… so what. big deal. i didn't peg you as the one to have an issue with me being here. aerion is the one who usually—"

mentioning aerion. the absolute worst move you could have made.

because almost immediately, you can see the realization click into place across his sharp features.

daeron violently chokes on whatever the hell herbal tea he was brewing—probably some nasty, bitter detox blend his father forced him to drink to help with the lingering alcohol dependency.

"shit," he coughs out, his chest heaving as he grabs a paper towel.

his eyes quickly glance over your entire frame, his posture growing more confident and amused by the second. a slow, wicked grin is already spreading across his face.

"what?" you snap at him, your fingers sticky with egg white.

"shiiiiit," he prolongs, his voice dropping into a low, delighted drawl.

"daeron, i swear to gods if you don't shut the hell up right now—"

"you slept with my brother," he states too calmly. leaning his hip against the counter and grinning thoroughly at the sheer, mortified horror painted across your face.

"what— why the hell would you even think that— i literally hate aerion's guts..."

he just takes another slow, agonizing sip from his steaming mug, humming victoriously behind the ceramic. "mhm. sure. whatever you want to tell yourself, sweetheart."

you begin to blabber on, your words tripping over each other as you attempt to defend your honor. but he casually interjects with the cold, seasoned perception of a guy who has spent his entire youth watching the dark underbelly of the westerosi elite.

"i've seen plenty of the morning after girls in this house to know exactly what someone looks like after getting it… and getting it good," he snorts, his grin turning slightly bitter at the edges. "which is not me complimenting my brother, by the way. i still absolutely hate his guts. he's still a psycho."

"but phew." he moves slowly around the marble counter, preparing to leave the room entirely as you stand there dumbly.

the cracked egg gleaming on the polished surface, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"also… there's a hickey." he points a lazy finger toward his own hip, indicating your waistline.

you look down at yourself in a sudden panic.

your oversized t-shirt must have ridden up when you were reaching high for the measuring bowl on the top shelf, exposing the pale skin of your hip. where darkly against your skin lays a deep purple crescent mark—the violent, possessive imprint of aerion's teeth from a few hours ago.

"better cover that," he nods knowingly, flashing you one last empathetic but highly amused look before stepping completely out of the kitchen and disappearing down the corridor

you stand frozen by the stove, your hands trembling as you aggressively tug the hem of your shirt down to cover the mark.

from the far end of the western wing, the distinct, heavy sound of a bedroom door swinging open echoes through the quiet estate.

your stomach does a violent, nauseating lurch.

those are aerion’s footsteps. you would recognize that distinct, heavy, and deliberate tread anywhere.

you can hear the faint, gravelly groan of him waking up, his low voice muttering a curse into the empty hallway as he realizes his bed is empty.

the phantom scent of his anger and desire already waking up with him. he’s moving. he's going to come looking for you.

before the panic can completely paralyze you, the bright, frantic patter of much smaller bare feet thumps against the hardwood floors from the opposite direction.

"y/n! are they ready yet?"

aegon bursts into the kitchen, completely oblivious to the thick, toxic adult tension currently suffocating the air.

he's freshly dressed in his favorite cartoon t-shirt, his little hairs sticking up in wild, adorable cowlicks, his face entirely bright and hungry.

he slides slightly on the polished marble, pulling out a stool and climbing up onto it with a massive, gap-toothed grin.

"i want extra whipped cream," he demands happily, resting his chin in his small hands, completely clueless about his brother waking up down the hall. completely clueless about the marks hidden beneath your clothes.

"yeah, egg," you whisper, your voice thick as you turn back to the hot stove, pouring the batter onto the pan while your chest tightens. "extra whipped cream. coming right up."

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