idk

GIF by @sakuraspoke

The thing about Valarr, sweet, naïve Valarr, was that he had absolutely no survival instincts.

"He's just reading," he said, from beside you on the kitchen counter, stealing grapes from the bowl between you with the casual ease of someone who had decided you were close enough friends that your food was his food. "It's not that interesting."

"He's got two pairs of glasses on," you said.

"He does that." Valarr ate another grape. "He loses one pair, so he puts on another and then he finds the first pair and instead of swapping them he just—" he gestured vaguely, "stacks them."

You looked back through the kitchen window into the living room where his father was arranged in the armchair by the lamp with the particular quality of a man who had achieved a level of comfort he intended to defend unto death. Dark hair, threads of white catching the warm lamplight. Two pairs of glasses. A book that appeared to be roughly the size of a brick, held with the careful reverence of someone deeply personally invested in its continued structural integrity.

He had a cup of tea on the side table that he had not touched in forty minutes because he kept forgetting it existed.

"What is he reading," you said.

"Something about Byzantine military strategy."

You stared.

"For fun," Valarr added. "He does it for fun."

Baelor turned a page. The lamplight shifted across the lines of his face — the strong bearded jaw, the particular set of his brow when he was concentrating, the slight movement of his lips because he occasionally read difficult passages quietly to himself without realising he was doing it, a habit Valarr had told you about once with the fond exasperation of someone who had grown up watching it and could no longer imagine its absence.

He reached for his tea without looking. Missed it by four inches. Patted the table twice, frowning faintly at his book, and then looked down with an expression of mild surprise at the existence of the cup, like he had genuinely forgotten he had made it.

"Oh no," you said quietly.

"Yeah," said Valarr.

Baelor took a sip of the tea, realised it was cold, made a face of profound personal betrayal directed at no one, set it back down, and returned to his book.

You were experiencing something you didn't have a clean word for. It sat somewhere in the vicinity of I would like to bring this man a fresh cup of tea every day for the rest of my natural life and considerably south of that as well, if you were being honest with yourself, which you were trying not to be.

He turned another page. Murmured something to himself. The lamplight caught the line of his jaw and the silver in his hair and the careful way his hands held the book, and you were, genuinely, a little embarrassed about yourself at realizing that you were, in fact, biting your lower lip.

"Valarr," you said.

"Mm."

"Your dad is—" You stopped. Tried to start again. Stopped again.

"Is…" Valarr prompted, with the patience of someone who had been watching this unfold for the better part of an hour and had popcorn, metaphorically speaking.

You watched Baelor reach for his tea again. Miss it again. The same four inches. The same faint frown. The same expression of mild existential surprise upon locating the cup.

Something in you gave way entirely.

"Valarr," you said. "I want to fuck your dad."

The grape Valarr had been eating went somewhere it was not supposed to go. He coughed. You waited. He held up a finger, collected himself, and turned to look at you with an expression that cycled through several distinct phases — shock, offence, processing, reluctant resignation — in the space of approximately four seconds.

"That's my father," he said.

"I know."

"You just said that about my father."

"I'm aware of what I said."

"He's reading about Byzantine military strategy."

"I know! But him being a nerd isn’t helping," you yelled-whispered to your friend.

You looked back through the window. Baelor had found his tea again, remembered it was cold, and was now looking at it with an expression of genuine philosophical sadness, as if looking at it would eventually warm its content again.

Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he looked at his father through the window. Then back at you. The reluctant resignation had settled into something that looked almost like the beginning of a plan.

"He needs a fresh cup of tea," he said slowly.

"He really does."

"Someone should bring it to him." A pause. "He likes it with a splash of milk. No sugar. He'll look up when you come in and forget what he was reading for a moment because he's polite like that, and when he takes his glasses off to look at you properly he'll probably—" Valarr stopped himself. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm doing this."

"Valarr—"

"The kettle's right there," he said, getting off the counter and leaving the kitchen with the dignity of a man washing his hands of a situation while absolutely enabling it. "I'm going to be upstairs. Not hearing anything. For a very long time."

You were already filling the kettle.

GIF by @prettysharwood

You had come over to study.

That had been the plan. That was still, technically, the plan, in the same way that standing in Daeron's kitchen doorway staring into the back garden while your notes sat untouched on the kitchen table was still, technically, adjacent to studying.

"What are you looking at," said Daeron, from somewhere behind you, in the tone of someone who already knew and was choosing to witness it anyway.

"Nothing," you said.

"You've been looking at nothing for six minutes straight."

Through the kitchen window and the glass of the back door, Maekar was in the garden.

He was doing something to a raised bed that appeared to involve a great deal of focused activity — kneeling in the dirt in old jeans and a worn grey t-shirt that had not survived contact with the garden soil in any meaningful way, hands dark to the wrist, white hair shoved back from his face with what appeared to have been a forearm and was now sticking up at an angle that should have looked ridiculous and did not. He was frowning at the soil the way, Daeron had once told you, he frowned at everything that failed to immediately cooperate with his intentions.

He said what seemed like a profanity by the look on his face under his breath. Adjusted whatever he was doing. The frown deepened fractionally.

The t-shirt was doing a lot.

"He's been out there since eight," Daeron said, now beside you with a mug of coffee and the expression of a young man who had made his peace with his life. "Something about the drainage not being right."

"Does he garden a lot?"

"He acts like it's a tactical problem he's been assigned to solve." Daeron drank his coffee. "Last month he made an Excel spreadsheet."

"A spreadsheet."

"For the tomatoes." A pause. "It had conditional formatting."

Outside, Maekar sat back on his heels and looked at the raised bed with his arms resting on his knees and dirt on his beard and the particular expression of a man reassessing a situation and preparing a revised approach. The late afternoon light was doing something entirely unreasonable to the line of his shoulders. His forearms were right there. Existentially. Just present in the world, doing that to your composure.

You needed to get a grip.

"He looks like that when he's cooking too," Daeron said conversationally. You wondered if he wore an apron. "And when he's parallel parking. And when he's doing the crossword. Basically, whenever he's concentrating on anything he gets that—" a vague gesture toward the window— "face."

"The face," you repeated.

"You know the face."

You knew the face. The face was a problem. The face combined with the forearms combined with the dirt on his bearded jaw combined with the knowledge that he had made a colour-coded spreadsheet for his tomatoes was creating a situation inside your chest that you were not equipped to manage.

You did not get a grip.

"Daeron," you said.

"Mm."

The words were out before you made a decision about them. "I want to fuck your dad."

The silence that followed had genuine texture.

Daeron lowered his coffee mug with the slow care of a man buying himself time. He looked at you. You looked at the garden. Outside, Maekar was frowning at the soil again, entirely unaware that his drainage problem was the least of what was currently happening in his kitchen.

"That's—" Daeron started.

"I know."

"He's my dad."

"I know."

"You came over here to study."

"I am studying."

A long pause during which Daeron appeared to conduct an internal debate of some complexity. You watched Maekar stand, brush the dirt from his jeans, push his hair back from his face with one forearm, and survey his raised bed with his hands on his hips. The t-shirt. The forearms. The hair. The frown.

"He's going to be insufferable about the drainage for the rest of the evening," Daeron said finally. "He needs something to redirect his attention."

You said nothing. You let that sit.

"He doesn't know you're here," Daeron continued, in the tone of a man constructing a case for something he will deny constructing. "I could go tell him. He does this thing when he's surprised — not bad surprised, just caught off guard — where he kind of—" another vague gesture— "resets. Stops frowning. It's a good moment."

"Daeron."

"I'm just providing information."

"You're facilitating."

"I'm going to go tell my dad you're here," he said, setting his mug down and heading for the back door with the air of someone who has made peace with their choices. "And then I'm going to remember that I have somewhere else to be. Urgently." He paused with his hand on the door. "He likes it when people are direct, by the way. He has no patience for anything else."

"I know," you said.

Daeron looked at you with suspicious eyes, like how long has this woman been observing my father without me noticing kind of eyes. He preferred not to walk down that line of thought and went to open the back door instead.

"Dad," he called, "look who came to visit!"

Maekar looked up from his raised bed. Found you through the glass. The frown shifted into something else — not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one, that fractional movement at the corner of his mouth that you had learned was as much as you usually got and had discovered was entirely sufficient.

Daeron brushed past you back into the kitchen, collected his jacket from the chair, and pointed at you on his way to the hall.

"I want absolutely no details," he said. "Like ever. Under any circumstances."

"Obviously," you said.

"Not even a look. Not a grin. Nothing."

"Daeron."

"I mean it,” he directed one final look to you from the front door. He turned on his heels and, with that wicked smile he usually saved for when he wanted to get under your skin, said: "Go on, pup, go get your toy."

Your eyes widened at the audacity of the man. But, when the front door closed behind him and you looked back through the glass at Maekar, who was still watching you with that fractional almost-smile and the dirt on his jaw and the forearms, you smiled and decided, for maybe the first time in your friendship, to not argue with Daeron.

So, you opened the back door.

I am completely normal about these men. Yeah. Completely normal.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna

Baelor isn’t exactly how you imagined him. All the articles online paint him out to be this stone cold enigma, the Mr. Darcy type. Even his affair that was published six months before your arrival had a coldness attached to it that made you shiver, like he was entirely detached from it— like he hadn’t been the main cause for the downfall of his own marriage. 

He carries himself around the house with a casualness that catches you off guard, if he’s not dressed in his workout attire, preparing for his morning run, then it’s loose jumpers and trousers that are so snug they outline everything. Everything. 

You catch yourself looking at the most inappropriate times. Especially when he invades your space in the mornings, flicking over a few files in his study while you clean, not even sitting down in his chair. He lifts his arms, stretching and that knit jumper lifts up, showing the thick happy trail underneath. His eyes flicker over to catch you, catching you but he doesn’t smile, no. 

He looks as well, letting his eyes wander from where the skirt of your attire falls just below your ass and the stockings wrap around your thighs. You’re used to men staring, but there’s something different about this. He isn’t leering like those men did before, it’s almost like he’s sizing you up, wanting to work you out. 

You think if he asked, you’d let him work you out in whichever way he wanted. 

He greets you when he sees you, nods his head politely but that’s it. 

You’re used to men being hungry around you but with Baelor you feel like the animal with an appetite you’re dying to fill. 

Pathetically you attempt to win over his hungry affections, placing yourself in his study when you know he’ll be coming in the morning. Cleaning something on the bottom book shelf, bending over so he can get a nice glimpse of your ass cheeks and the thong that rides between them. Only when you look back at him, he’s not even looking at you, all that signals that he’s seen the sight is that smug smile on his face. 

You try repeatedly, making yourself available to him in ways that would normally have a man panting and crawling to you. Yet each attempt fails miserably until one does catch you by surprise. 

“It won’t work.” 

You’re bent down, in a mean doggy press on the floor as you clean underneath his desk, literally serving him your ass on a platter. Only you look around to see him standing over the desk not giving you the slightest bit of attention. 

“What won’t work?” You ask, playing dumb. 

He snickers, turning over another page. “This game you’re trying to play.” 

“I’m not playing any game.” 

He looks over to you then, with a look that sees right through you. 

“Okay,” you stand up, hands up in surrender. “You got me.” 

He hums, like he’s not even the slightest bit interested. 

“Won’t you let me apologise at least?” 

“Apologise, for what?” 

“Your nose.” You step closer to him, one leg sliding between him and the desk. Your body pressing up against his and in a seductive drawl you whisper, “I can apologise in any way you want me to.” 

Your finger reaches out to touch the scar over his nose but he catches your wrist. “Don’t.” 

“Why not?” 

He leans in then so close you can feel his hot breath against the skin of your face. “I’m your employer and there are lines I do not cross.” 

“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.” 

“What if you’re a reporter? Got some sort of mic on you and you’re recording all this.” 

“You can search me if you like?” 

He rolls his eyes then, falling back and chuckles. 

The noise is deep and guttural, almost drawing you in. 

“Like I said, there are lines I won’t cross.” 

You huff, letting out your frustrations but you don’t stop there. You strip, pulling the maid costume till it pools out your feet, then your shoes with it, until you’re in nothing but your lace thong. 

His eyes lift up then, and you notice the way his jaw clenches. 

“I think my next room is your bedroom,” you tell him, before turning back and walking out the door. 

You’re on your knees when he enters the room, mouth salivating as closes the door. 

He looks half impressed, unamused though as his eyes run over you. 

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he directs, and you listen. 

You practically hop onto the bed, biting your bottom lip as he stands before you. 

He grabs the back of your neck first, fingers tangling into your hair as he holds it with a bruising grip. His finger runs over your lips, pulling down on your bottom to release it from its hold. He leans in nose brushing against yours, only when you try to close the distance he pulls a few inches away, stopping you from catching his lips. 

He chuckles and the sound runs right through you, and you can feel the heat in your pants. 

Baelor notices it too, the way your thighs squeeze together and the way you wriggle your hips. 

“Please,” you whisper so quietly you barely catch it yourself. 

He drops, slowly falling to his knees and parting your legs with his big hands on either side of your thighs. 

This isn’t what you expected, mouth falling open as he leans in between your thighs. Once again Baelor surprises you. 

He kisses the inside of your thighs, gently pressing his lips against the flesh, before dragging his teeth along the skin all the way to your clothed pussy. You can’t help but whimper when he pushes his face up against the lacy material, burying his nose and sniffing it. 

Fuck. 

He goes to the other side of your thigh, teeth nipping at the skin before saying your name, twice, to get your attention. 

“Yes,” you let out on a harsh breath. 

He looks up with a smug smile, like he’s won. “An apology starts with ‘I’m sorry’. That’s all I need.” 

“Huh?” 

“I’m sorry,” he sounds out the words, drawing them out like he’s talking to a child. 

“I’m sorry?” You repeat. 

“Good girl.” He picks himself up off the floor, adjusting his jumper and not even turning back to look at you. 

Smug prick. 

Not smug enough though because you catch it, those trousers give it away. The thick outline of his hard cock, trying to force itself out its restraints. 

Got you. 

The AD for the job had been posted for months and not one single hit that hadn’t been from a creep with sadistic intentions. You refresh the website again, flicking through and deleting all the disgusting messages in your in box. Maybe it’s a lost cause. You thought that initially, laughed at Leta when she told you she knew someone that managed to change her job in that way. Topless maid, what a fucking joke or possibly you’re just the unlucky girl that doesn’t know the right way to go about it. 

You place the phone down, feeling two sets of eyes boring into you from behind and you look up to face him in the mirror. 

“Smile pretty girl,” he tells you, with a smile of his own that never really meets his eyes. 

You do, forcing a sweet smile on your face, lips trembling. 

“It’s showtime,” he cheers, his hand landing on the back of your neck, just holding it. To others the touch can be seen as comforting but as his fingers, kneed into the skin of your neck, borderlining on bruising, you know it’s just a way to exhibit his control. He does it to all the girls that try to slip away. 

“Showtime,” you repeat, but the enthusiasm doesn’t hit your voice. 

He senses it, sniffs it out like some mutt and to get you in the mood he offers his friendly white pouch that he knows gets you in the mood. “Want some?” 

You don’t do that anymore. You can’t if you want to get out of this place but you won’t tell him that. You smile harder and shake your head, then lift your drink up and lie, “Already got something, just waiting for it to kick in.” 

He winks then, and nods his head before lifting his hand off you. “That’s my girl.” 

Your stomach clenches at that but you don’t show it, only smiling and letting your eyes follow him out of the room. 

“Just don’t take too long. You got money to make.” 

You let out a shaky sigh when he’s out of sight, looking properly at your dolled up face in the mirror, only your eyes catch the empty dressing table next to you. There’s still residue on the table, powder and foundation but at the top the sticker has been scratched off, with a razor blade or a dull knife and over it lies a new name. 

Yesterday that was Leta’s table; today it’s Honey’s table. 

You’re not sure where Leta is now, her picture still hung up with the rest of your polaroids like a reminder. She didn’t escape like the other girls, she would have texted you. Her phones are going to answer the machine and your texts are unread. You want to believe Leta’s found herself a nice little job out of this city, somewhere so far away they wouldn’t even dare go looking for but most likely she’s been tipped off the cliff just miles from the highway. 

You have to get yourself out of here. 

Your phone pings and you look at it, hoping it’s a text from her. It’s not though, another message from your AD. You roll your eyes, frustration simmering under your skin. You’ll take the AD down, you’re over it anyway. 

You open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard to type out some angry message— only your eyes look over the message, twice, before you let it sink in. Not some nasty crude joke with it, something that possibly seemed like a genuine offer. 

Would it be too good to be true? 

Your eyes flicker from the open doorway that leads back to the club, the bass of the music pouring into the room, and then to Leta’s torn sticker, before landing back on your phone. 

Fuck it. 

Anything is better than here. You type out a rushed reply before hitting send. 

You don’t think, it’s never gotten you anywhere. You reach for Lenny’s keys that you know he tucks away in his drawer, he can do without them anyway. You grab your duffle bag and you don’t even change, nor do you turn back. 

Two hours into the drive and you’re still looking back, you only need to make it to the bus station and then you’ll ditch the car there. You do exactly that, changing from your jewelled outfit in the back seats into a tracksuit, tying your hood up to cover your face before stepping out. 

One way ticket to Dorne then another ticket to get yourself to the house you’ll be working out at. You’ll need to get more clientele of course, but it’s a start and the rest will eventually fall into place. 

You pull up outside the gates after walking a mile in the sweltering heat with your duffle bag on your shoulders. It’s not how you expected to turn up, sweating through your juicy tracksuit but you’re here at least and you can apologise for the rest later. 

You’re only coming to meet your first client anyway, a certain meeting to get things in order. You look through the wide metal gates, eyes peering through them as you stare at the huge mansion behind it and the long driveway that leads up to it. You look at the sign again and back at your phone. 

Sunspear. 

This isn’t entirely as you pictured. 

You buzz the intercom, no response so you wait. It’s still quite early anyway, gives you time to go over the questions you prepared on your phone. 

Preference on attire? 

Hours to be worked? How many days a week? 

There’s a ruffle in the bushes that has you swiftly turning around, hand darting out to slap the object down to the ground. A glock you presumed, or possibly something less eccentric like a wrench from the back of the car. It’s hard and cold, bruises the back of your hand as it comes crashing down to the floor with a thud. 

A camera. Your eyes look down to find a fucking camera, and when they look up you find a man around your age, heavily panting as sweat poured down his face. 

“What the fuck?” 

You both say it in unison. 

You throw your hands over your chest while the man goes to pick up the camera, lifting it up to find cracked glass on the floor. 

“You broke it,” he screeches, trying to pick up the pieces. 

“I’m sorry,” you say it’s like a question. Maybe if he hadn’t pulled up to you like that then you wouldn’t have hit him so hard. “Actually, I’m not sorry. What the fuck are you doing taking pictures of me anyway?” 

“Taking pictures of you.” His brows furrow and his lips turn up in disgust, and you almost feel offended. “Why would I want to take pictures of you?” 

“I don’t fucking know,” you snap back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Because you're a creep.” 

Something comes over the man’s face, and he smirks, pointing towards the house. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” 

“What?” 

“You’re late.” 

You twist your head around at the sound of another voice. A man in his thirties, dornish, short and round at the stomach, he’s wearing overalls. Maybe it’s the style here. 

“I’m sorry,” you meekly say, before forcing a smile on your face and fluttering your eyelashes. “The name’s—” 

“Come through, before he tries to slip in behind you,” the older man points to the man on the floor, still clutching to his camera, before he walks back through the open gates. 

You follow, picking up the pace as you try to reach him. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Targaryen,” you splutter out, trying to keep that same enthusiasm you’re used to. “I look really forward to offering my services to you—” 

The man is quick to cut you off, “I’m not the master of this house. Mr. Targaryen is away settling some business matters and we’ll be back tomorrow. I’m Gerris, the caretaker for Sunspear.” He looks over you with his shoulder, not stopping. “Is that all you have?” 

“This.” You look down at your outfit. “Well I can change but I thought we’d just be discussing my services.” 

“Your role, you mean?” 

“Yes, exactly,” you say with more chipper than you intend. “I assume I’ll be discussing with you on behalf of Mr. Targaryen.” 

“You’ll be discussing with me and only me,” his tone seems serious, almost like he’s trying to be threatening. It makes you want to laugh. “You don’t speak to Mr. Targaryen unless spoken to. You don’t even need to look in his direction. You do your tasks and you get on with it.” 

Strange requests but you’ve definitely heard stranger. 

He stops so suddenly it takes you a moment to halt your movements, landing you right in front of him, face inches away. 

“Capiche?”  

“Capiche,” you repeat with a slight bit of humour laced in your tone. 

He turns back, walking up to the driveway like he’s marching with an army.

Is he always this serious? 

This isn’t entirely what you’d been expecting when you took on this new job role but you’re not exactly complaining, anything is better than working at the club. 

Three days in and you’d only been tasked with dusting the rooms in the master quarters. Everything else had been pretty much left clean, and in pristine condition and with the master of the house still not anywhere in sight, you’d grown quite bored. 

Who hires a topless maid when there’s literally no one around to see them? 

You have great tits, it’s a shame to waste such good money when not a soul gets to witness them. 

You decided to tie up your top, put those fine titties of yours away and continue your tasks in that way. It’s not like anyone would notice anyway. 

You drift between rooms throughout the day, there’s five bedrooms in total. The master suite, which you’d been told belongs to the mysterious Baelor Targaryen, another two bedrooms belong to his children, Valarr and Matarys. The other two while you’d been shown inside only get cleaned once a week by yourself, they look like they belong to someone, another two boys possibly, younger than Valarr and Matarys, and yet the picture frames are all sat down and there’s nothing else that really details who they could possibly belong to. Instructions are specific for these two rooms, once a week clean and nothing else is to be touched or moved, Gerris had given you a pointed look that said don’t cross him. 

It’s the only time you’ve taken Gerris stern words seriously. 

You stick to the bedrooms, the toilets and the study. His study. It’s off putting with its dark interior,  deep mahogany bookshelves lining the wall, a desk in the same wooden colour to match in the middle of the room, even the books all range in the darkest shades of green and blue. It’s by far your least favourite room, and yesterday you even skipped cleaning it. 

Baelor Targaryen will be back today though, Gerris told you. All of the staff have been working overtime, making everything perfect and pristine for his arrival. It makes you wonder what he’s like, this mysterious man that everyone seems to so badly want to impress. 

You're halfway through dusting the bookshelf when you meet him, the door to the study being opened without so much as a creek. It’s his footsteps that give him away, even on the carpet you can hear them, precisely paced footsteps, almost timed to match the last one. It’s almost how you picture him. 

It’s eight steps in when he stops, bag being thrown over his desk, his jacket over his chair but you don’t hear the roll of his chair, so you turn, finally looking at him. 

You spent the last two nights looking him up on your phone but the pictures must be outdated, and they clearly don’t do the handsome man in front of you any justice. Even in this dim room, you can’ t help but find him attractive. 

His brows pinch together as he looks at you, eyes falling from your face slowly down to your feet and back up again. 

“Who are you?” He questions with a deep frown, as if you’ve entered his space without invitation. 

You smile but you feel the tremble in your lips. It’s too forced you think, but you fight against it as you answer, “The maid.” 

“Taken over from Lucy,” he says it like he’s still questioning you, like he doesn’t know the orders of his own estate. 

“Yes.”

“Ah.” He nods, sliding out his chair but still doesn’t sit, just stares at you. 

“Oh.” It hits you and you point at your top, where the buttons are done up. You can make quick work of it, if he needs you too. “Do you want me to?” 

“To leave,” he continues to nod, lips twisting up into a smile that you can tell is all forced. “Please.” 

You should be confused and although your eyebrows do knot, you don’t see the point in questioning him. Maybe he’s not possibly in the mood right now for company. 

You fumble, grabbing your stuff quickly before bowing and heading out the door. 

Bowing. Did you just bow? What a fucking idiot. 

You make it all of five days, practically a week seeing as you’re just about to hit your two days off but five days. 

You were cleaning Baelor’s bedroom, tucking the sheets underneath the bed when he came in and yanked you towards him with one arm wrapped around your wrist. Your AD specifically referred to not touching, and while for some extra money you might have been willing to cross that line, you weren’t ever okay with someone grabbing you like that. He’d taken you by such a surprise that you didn’t even get time to think, smacking your fist right across his face without any warning. 

“Fuck,” Baelor shouted, blood pouring from his nose that he tried to cover. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Targaryen,” you say, reaching out to him. 

He pushes his hand out, looking at you then looking away just as quickly. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Cleaning.” 

The door bursts open then, Gerris coming through with a stern expression that twists into horror as he looks between the pair of you. 

“I didn’t mean to—” Mr Gerris starts but his wide eyes dart between the both of you, then he puts his hands up in some sort of surrender. “I- If you guys—” He looks at Baelor then, noticing the blood dripping from his hand onto the floor. “Are you bleeding?” 

“Yes, I’m fucking bleeding,” he shouts, wiping his nose with his sleeve before placing his hand back to his side. He looks at you with narrowed eyes before turning to Gerris. “Would you please ask the new maid why she’s half naked in my bedroom?” 

Gerris nods before swallowing and looking back at you. “Why are you naked?” 

“Because that’s what you hired me for,” you simply answer, shrugging your shoulders. 

Gerris points, noticing your breasts fully out and then looks back to Baelor. “Mr. Targaryen I would never—” 

“But you did,” you snap, arms crossing over your chest just underneath your breasts. “Someone hired me.” 

“As a maid,” Gerris states. 

“The ad was for topless maid.” 

“Topless maid,” Baelor laughs humourlessly, before clenching his jaw. 

“Yes, topless.” 

Neither look at you, they stare at each other instead with a shared uncomfortable look. 

“Do you need me to button this up?” You ask, pointing to the loose top. 

“Please,” Baelor answers through gritted teeth. 

“Fine.” You button it back up and cross your arms over your chest again. “Happy?” 

“There must be some confusion,” Gerris states, chuckling to himself clearly nervous as the sweat beads dribble down his forehead. 

“A big fuck up, is what it is,” Baelor states, before pointing in his face. “I trust you Gerris. Fix it and—” he points to you but doesn’t even look “ –get rid of her.” 

Baelor storms out the room, footsteps even heavier on the ground than before. 

Gerris looks at you, with a sheepish frown. “You need to go.” 

“Go?” 

“Yes.” 

“No, I can’t go.” You shake your head, voice getting higher as you plead with him. “I need this job, Gerris.” 

“You punched the boss.” 

“He grabbed me.” 

“You had your—” he motions to his own chest, grimacing slightly. “ –out.” 

“It’s what you literally hired me for.” 

“No, I hired a maid.” 

“Topless maid.” You pull your phone out, flicking through it for a few moments before shoving it in his face. “See.” You point. “Topless maid.” 

Gerris squints his eyes, reading before swallowing. “Fuck.” 

Even after showing the ad, even after falling to Gerris’ feet and begging, even after offering to suck him off, you got nothing. The last one really didn’t hit nearly as well as you thought it would, Gerris looking almost horrified and disgusted at the offer, before shoving you as gently as he could manage away from him. 

You landed in the same place you had been when you came, sat on your duffle bag outside the metal gates. 

The man’s there as well, hiding in the bushes and sweating like a pig in the summer heat. Simon, you came to learn is his name, the same news reporter that’s been lingering in the bushes for months, trying to get a glimpse of something scandalous about Baelor Targaryen, only he’s a man that’s rarely seen, always coming in and out of SUV with tinted windows. 

Simon looks at you, pointing his camera through the bushes like the greenery covers it and frowns. 

“Sup,” you nod in some sort of greeting, before turning back to your phone waiting for an uber to pick up. 

He doesn’t reply, only frowns harder before staring back through the metal gates. 

“New camera.” You purse your lips. “Nice.” 

“Hauled you out on your ass, did they?” He questions, like he’s half interested. 

“Want to make a story on it?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m okay.” 

“Your loss.” 

There’s footsteps then, the black gate swinging open and you turn to meet Gerris. 

“Come,” is all he says, not even looking at you. 

You both stand, and then he frowns, lips turning up at Simon. “Not you, idiot. Her.” 

Simon groans, rolling his eyes before getting back under his cover. 

You follow, feet taking two steps at a time just to catch him. 

“I have a contract typed out for you,” He starts off and you almost drop to his feet again to thank him. “I’ll need some sort of ID and your bank details. We’ll go to my office to fill out the paperwork.” 

“What if I don’t have bank details?” You ask. 

He halts, turning back to you and this time you stop instantly. 

“What person doesn’t have a bank account?” 

“A desperate one,” you shrug, it’s the best you can offer. 

He sighs, rubbing his fingers on his temple. “We’ll think of something.” He continues walking again. 

“You don’t know how much I want to thank you for this. Honestly, thank you, thank you, thank—” 

“This wasn’t me,” he almost laughs, shaking his head. “Mr. Targaryen asked me to come get you.” 

“Really?” 

He inclines his head back at you. “Really.”

“Must have made an impression.” 

“Oh, you did.” He stifles a laugh. “A strong one, that you can be sure of.”