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.