Sage’s Page

SMAU Toxic! Aerion

Aerion Targaryen accused you of cheating. Again.After one too many jealous rages, you finally end it, blocking him on everything and walking away for good. But you're not done. Now you're out at bars every night, flirting with strangers and handing out his number like candy. Every text he gets is a reminder of what he lost. Every "hey, you up?" drives him a little closer to the edge.He thinks you're merely throwing a fit surely your weren't actually entertaining all those guys, right? So when he arrives at your apartment after a particularly enraging text the last thing he expects is a shirtless stranger to open the door. Warnings: VIOLENCE, suggestive, possessiveness, toxic relationship, jealousy, cheating accusations, mentions of Therapy, Aerion (he's his own warning), SMAU, afab!reader, no mentions of y/n, slight slut shaming (lmk if i missed anything) Modern!Toxic! Aerion x Reader

HockeyPlayer!Aerion

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who makes you sit as close to the penalty box as possible, right on the aisle, first row, directly in his line of sight. Because he knows he's going to get sent there. It's not a matter of if, but when. And when he does, skating off the ice with his helmet off and his silver-gold hair plastered to his forehead, he wants the first thing he sees to be your face. He'll sit on that narrow bench, jaw still tight, and mouth three words to you across the divider: Worth it. Every time.

Love, Bites.

There is no intimacy more sacred or more damning than a vampire's love. To bare your throat is to offer mortality itself, trusting their fangs will take only what you are willing to lose. To be turned is to be unmade by devotion: to die in their arms and awaken eternal, bound by blood and hunger and a choice that was never truly yours. That is the terror. That is the gift. Aerion gave you both. You have never been more alive than the night you died for him. Warnings: Manipulation, Yandere themes, possessiveness, non-con turning , blood , slight gore, suggestive towards the end Vampire!Aerion x Human!Reader

F1 Ferrari Driver!Aerion x Toto’s daughter!Reader

Forbidden fruit has never tasted sweeter than when it belongs to your rival's daughter. Aerion Targaryen, Ferrari's brilliant and brooding star, has spent his entire career despising everything about the Mercedes empire, except for you. When he boldly approaches you in the heart of enemy territory, he sets off a chain of events that forces him to balance his ruthless ambition on track with a devotion off it that shocks everyone, including himself. Because Aerion Targaryen has met his match—and she wears silver.

Warnings: Mercedes slander 😭

Valarr Targaryen

Hung by a Thread (completed)

“Do not seek my fire if you can’t bare its burn” Valarr's betrothed cannot resist the temptation to test him, pressing at his patience, dance with danger, and discover just how jealous a dragon can become. Each tease a spark thrown on dry straw. Warnings: slight insecurity, jealousy, possessiveness, slight suggestiveness, mentions of infidelity, Aerion Targaryen (he's his own warning) Valarr’s patience being tested by his family. Valarr Targaryen! x Betrothed! Reader

Chivalry Updates Mondays

His hands did not leave her waist. If anything, they tightened, pulling her a fraction closer. "That's all I ask," he murmured. She felt his breath against her temple before his lips pressed there. Soft. Brief. Possessive. "Princess," he said, the word barely a whisper. Then he released her. She stood alone in the small office, the blinds still drawn, her heart racing, her skin warm where his hands had been. She had not noticed how close they had been. Had not noticed that anyone walking past would have seen the blinds closed and drawn their own conclusions. She thought she had just had a difficult conversation. She did not know that she had just been marked. Warnings: Power imbalance, slight manhandling, forced proximity, Manipulation, toxic relationship, gaslighting, stalking, Modern AU, bratty! but intelligent! Reader, Lannister! Reader, Jealousy, possessiveness, slight yander!Valarr, political corruption, alcohol consumption, smoking, mentions of cheating, suggestiveness, Violence Modern!Manipulator! Valarr x Brat! Reader

HockeyPlayer!Valarr

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who never asked you to wear his jersey. He just left one in your closet one day, folded neatly, with a note that said: Only if you want to. You wore it to the next game. He saw you from the tunnel and, for the first time all season, missed his pre-game stretch because he was staring. He didn't mention it. But you caught him tracing his name on your back during the post-game hug, and you felt his heart hammering under his pads. He doesn't need you to wear it. He needs you to choose to wear it.

Sir Duncan the Tall

Boxer!Duncan Headcanons

Boxer!Duncan who always kisses you before a fight. It’s not a quick peck. It’s a ritual. He finds you in the chaos of the tunnel, smelling of liniment and sweat, and he cups your face with hands the size of dinner plates, so impossibly gentle. He pulls you in, eyes closed, and presses his forehead to yours. “One more,” he whispers, a low rumble you feel in your chest. When your lips meet, it’s soft, deliberate, a silent conversation. He pulls back, thumb stroking your cheekbone, and murmurs, “My guardian angel.” He genuinely believes your kisses are the only thing that makes his fists invincible. Without one, he swears he’d be walking into the ring blind.

The cold air hit her like a slap.

She stumbled out of the bar, Ormund's arm looped through hers, their footsteps unsteady against the pavement. The street was empty, the buildings dark, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp and the pale glow of the moon.

"We're closed," the bouncer called after them. "You need to leave. Now."

She turned, swaying. "We're leaving. We're literally leaving. Calm down."

Ormund tugged her forward. "Don't antagonize him. He has a bat."

"He does not have a bat."

"He definitely has a bat. I saw it."

She laughed, the sound too loud in the quiet street. "You're lying."

"I'm absolutely not lying." He stopped, pulling out his phone. "Okay. Okay. We need to figure out how to get home."

She blinked at him. "You drove."

"You drove too."

"Right." She frowned, the thought slipping through her fingers like water. "We can't-"

"Drive. Yes. I know." He was already scrolling through his phone. "I'm calling a taxi. Just stand still. Don't move."

Unfortunately, she had never been good at listening, instead she pulled her phone out pressing on the first contact she could reach with her trembling fingers, the line rang only twice.

"Hello" the deepness of the voice seemed to cut through her drunk haze, she recognised it almost immediately.

"Valarr?" Her brows furrowed in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

She could almost hear the strain in his voice, but everything was confusing and her sharp mind had been dulled by the countless drinks she'd downed.

She hadn't yet comprehended who it was she was talking too or what it was she was about to ask. She was for once free of the constraints of society, no longer aware of the implications of her words because to her someone what merely asking what was wrong and so, in her drunken state she relaid her misfortune.

"I need someone to take me home." Her voice was thick, the words running together. "I'm at The Lannister Bar in Lannisport. Can you... can you come?"

The reply was immediate: "I'll be there. Stay where you are. Don't-"

She tried to stand still. She really did. But the world was tilting, and the streetlamp was spinning, and she felt an inexplicable urge to walk paying no mind as to where, she simply let her feet take her wherever they desired. She took one step, then another, she would have made it three but an arm had made its way around her waist.

"Where do you think you're going, angel?"

Ormund yanked her back from the curb. A car whizzed past, close enough that she felt the rush of air against her face.

"Hey-" She blinked, disoriented. "What- "

"You almost walked into traffic." His voice was sharp, the first crack in his easy demeanor. "You can't do that. You can't just- " He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You're killing me. You're literally killing me."

She stared at him. "I'm sorry?"

"You're drunk."

"I'm fine." She was in fact not fine, the phone call now forgotten.

"You're not fine. You're a disaster." He pulled her closer, his arm tight around her waist. "I'm calling a taxi. Stay. Here."

She leaned against him, her head heavy, her thoughts sluggish. "You're so bossy."

"You love it."

"I tolerate it." The slur in her words lacked the bite she intended.

He snorted. "Same thing."

She wriggled free from her friends grip and made her way to the edge of the pavement . It was cold beneath her, and she leaned forward, her head in her hands. The street lamp flickered above her.

Ormund was still on the phone, his voice a low murmur against the silence of the night.

She didn't remember closing her eyes, nor her head falling into her lap as she slipped further into unconsciousness.

She didn't remember the headlights cutting through the dark.

She didn't remember the sound of a car door opening, or footsteps approaching, or the familiar voice that cut through her haze.

"Where is she?"

Her head snapped up, eyes straining at the sudden brightness.

A man was standing in front of her, his suit dark, his tie slightly loosened, his hair disheveled. His eyes swept over her, cataloguing, assessing, taking in the state of her. He was breathing hard, like he had been running.

She stared at him, her mind blank.

"Hey there, handsome." The words came out slurred, loose. She blinked slowly, her head tilting to one side. "You're really pretty. What's your name?"

The man's expression flickered. His jaw tightened, then relaxed, and she could see him fighting the urge to smile. He crouched down in front of her, bringing himself to her eye level. "You don't recognize me."

She squinted at him, her brow furrowing. She knew him. She knew him. But the knowledge was slippery, just out of reach.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't. But I recognize that you're handsome."

She reached out, patting his cheek, she felt the muscles tighten beneath her touch.

Ormund was watching from a few feet away, his phone still in his hand. "She's very drunk."

Valarr stood slowly, turning to face Ormund. "I can see that."

"I was just calling a taxi-"

"I'll take it from here." Valarr's voice was flat.

"You sure?"

Valarr looked back at her. She was still sitting on the curb, swaying slightly, her head lolling. She looked small and vulnerable and completely lost.

"I'm sure."

Ormund hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I'll call you tomorrow. Make sure she-"

"I will."

Valarr turned back to her. She was looking up at him, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

"You're very tall," she said.

"I know."

"Are you taking me to a secondary location?"

"No." He crouched down again, his voice softening. "I'm taking you home."

"Good." She held out her arms like a child. "Carry me."

He lifted her easily, settling her against his chest. She curled into him, her head dropping against his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her skin through her dress, could smell the alcohol on her breath.

He carried her to his car and opened the passenger door, lowering her inside. She slumped against the seat, her head lolling back. He reached across her and pulled the seatbelt across her lap, clicking it into place.

His hand stilled.

Her dress had ridden up, the hem barely covering her thighs. He looked at her legs, soft and bare in the dim light of the car. He thought about all the men at the bar who must have seen her like this. Thought about the way she had been stumbling through the night, vulnerable and unprotected.

His blood ran hot.

He took off his blazer and draped it over her legs, covering her.

She blinked down at the jacket, then up at him. "Why did you do that?"

"Because your dress is short."

"My dress is perfect."

"Your dress is a problem."

"My dress is-" She stopped, her brow furrowing. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying you need to stay safe."

She hummed, settling back against the seat. "You're very noble."

"I'm trying to be."

He got into the driver's seat, the door closing with a soft, solid thunk that seemed to seal them both inside. The engine hummed to life, low and smooth, and the car pulled away from the curb.

The city lights blurred past the windows, smearing into streaks of gold and red and white. She was still watching him, her head lolled against the headrest, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

"You have really nice hands," she said, her voice dreamy and distant.

He glanced at her. "Thank you."

"I mean it. They're like-" She gestured vaguely, her fingers wiggling in the air. "Strong. But gentle. You know?"

"I don't think I do."

"You would." She nodded sagely, as if she had just imparted great wisdom. "If you saw them from my perspective."

"I'm not sure I want to be inside your head right now."

"You should be." She grinned, lazy and warm. "It's very nice in here. Lots of sparkles."

He focused on the road, the muscle in his jaw working. She was impossible. She was infuriating. She was-

He glanced at her again. Her eyes were half-lidded, a small smile playing on her lips. She looked soft and warm and utterly unguarded.

She was also the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He looked away. He had to focus on the road. He had to focus on anything that wasn't her.

"So," she said, drawing the word out. "Where are we going?"

"Your apartment."

"You know where that is?"

"I know where that is."

"Hmm." She tilted her head, studying him through narrowed eyes. "That's a little creepy."

"You gave me your address."

"Did I?"

"Yes. You don't remember."

"I remember lots of things." She paused. "I just don't remember that."

"Because you were drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"You're very drunk."

"I'm tipsy." She held up her fingers, pinching them together. "Just a little bit."

He didn't respond.

She watched him for a moment longer, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the shape of his mouth, the way his fingers curled around the steering wheel. The leather of the steering wheel creaked softly under his grip. He was holding it too tightly. Valarr forced himself to relax.

He could feel her gaze on him, heavy and warm, like a hand resting on his skin. It took everything he had not to look back at her, not to let himself get lost in the haze of her presence.

"You're really pretty," she said.

He exhaled slowly, a long breath through his nose. "You said that already."

"I didn't." She frowned, thinking hard. "I would remember."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"Multiple times."

"Well." She seemed to consider this. "I probably meant it."

"I'm sure you did."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you're drunk."

She crossed her arms, a pout forming on her lips. "You don't think I'm pretty."

"I think you're more than pretty." The words came out before he could stop them. He felt the heat rise to his ears. "I also think you're very drunk."

"Pretty and drunk," she repeated. "That's a good combination."

"It's a dangerous combination."

She perked up. "I like dangerous."

"Of course you do."

He turned a corner, the car gliding smoothly through the empty streets. She shifted in her seat, restless. Her bare legs shifted beneath his jacket, the fabric rustling softly against her skin.

She moved her feet. One foot landed on the edge of his seat. Then the other.

"Wait-"

She swung her legs onto his lap. Her calves rested against his thighs, her bare feet dangling over the edge of his knee.

She wiggled her toes. "Much better."

He went very still. His hand hovered over the gear shift, frozen in mid-air. His pulse was a slow, steady drum in his ears.

"Comfortable?" she asked, her voice sweet and innocent and utterly disarming.

He should push her off. He should tell her to sit properly, to buckle up, to act like a responsible adult. He should do any number of things that didn't involve letting her continue to rest her legs on him.

Instead, he reached down and rested his hand on her calf. His fingers were warm against her skin, his thumb tracing a slow, gentle arc along the muscle. The skin there was soft. He felt the slight curve of her muscle, the warmth of her body through his palm.

She shivered. He felt it.

"You're very warm," she murmured, her head falling back against the headrest.

"You're very drunk," he said, but the words came out softer this time, less a warning, more a sigh. He shook his head, his thumb still moving in slow, steady circles. A quiet, amused breath escaped him, barely audible.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true." He glanced at his watch 5.26am "You should be in bed." He sighed.

"You should be in bed with me."

His hand stilled. The car slowed at a red light. He stared ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He could feel the weight of her legs on his lap, the heat of her skin through his palm, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

He let out a long, slow breath, consciously relaxing his grip. "You're making it very hard to be a gentleman," he said.

"I don't want you to be a gentleman." Her voice was a whisper now, soft and teasing. "I want you to be-"

"Princess."

"I mean it." She was watching him, her eyes bright despite her haze. She shifted her leg slightly, and his hand slid a little higher. He let it rest there, his fingers warm against her skin.

He took another breath. "I know you mean it," he said. "But I also know you'll regret it tomorrow."

"I won't regret anything."

"You will."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words didn't come. Instead, she just stared at him, her brow furrowed, her lower lip pushed out in a pout that was so ridiculous, so endearing, that his chest tightened.

"You're pouting," he said, his voice rough, barely holding back a smile.

"I am not."

"You definitely are."

"This is my thinking face."

"That's not a thinking face. That's a pout."

She smoothed her expression, but the pout crept back. She couldn't help it. She was too drunk to control her face.

"See?" he said. "There it is again."

"I think it's very cute."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because she did think it was cute. She thought everything about her was cute. And she was right.

He pulled up to another red light. She shifted, her leg pressing against his hand. He looked down at her, his eyes tracing the shape of her toes, the curve of her calf.

"Princess." The word was almost a sigh. "You need to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Making me want things I can't have."

She sat up at that, her eyes sharp. "You can have them."

"Not like this."

"Then what's the point of-" She gestured vaguely. "All of this?"

"All of what?"

"You." Her voice was softer now. "Me. Us."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, her words blurring together. "You say you want me, but every time I get close, you pull away. Every time I try, you push me back. You make me feel like I'm chasing something that doesn't want to be caught."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked away, her jaw tight.

"Its not-"

"Don't." She held up a hand, her fingers trembling. "Don't- say something you don't mean. Don't- " She stopped, her words failing her.

He reached out, catching her hand in his. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist.

"I've never meant anything more."

She looked at him, her eyes glassy and uncertain.

"Why won't you let me in?"

He took a breath, steadying himself.

"Because if I do," he said, "I don't know if I can stop."

He let go of her hand. He put the car back in gear. He drove.

And he didn't look at her again; not until she fell asleep, her head lolled to the side, her breathing slow and even.

He pulled up in front of her building and sat there for a long moment, just watching her.

She was impossible. She was infuriating. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering.

His thumb brushed across her lower lip, soft and warm. She sighed in her sleep.

"I think I'd rather be 'just a friend' than not have you at all."

He didn't know if he meant it.

But the words hung in the air, heavy and true, and he let them settle over him like a weight he would carry for a long time.

The car pulled up to her building, the engine humming low and steady as he killed the ignition. The sudden silence was heavy, pressing against his ears.

She was still asleep, her head lolled against the passenger window, her breath fogging the glass in slow, rhythmic clouds. He sat for a moment, just watching her. The moonlight caught her face, softened the sharp edges she always wore like armor. She looked younger like this. Softer. Vulnerable in a way that made his chest ache.

His hands were still on the steering wheel. He forced them to relax, one finger at a time. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the coiled spring of his jaw.

He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her face. The strands were soft between his fingers, slipping through his touch like water. She stirred, murmuring something unintelligible, her brow furrowing for just a moment before smoothing out again. She didn't wake.

She trusts me, he thought. She's completely vulnerable, completely unconscious, and she trusts me.

The realization landed somewhere deep in his chest, warm and heavy. He had never been trusted like this. Not by anyone. Not like this.

"Princess." His voice was low, gentle, barely above a whisper. "We're here."

She blinked slowly, her eyes unfocused, struggling to find him in the dim light. "Here where?"

"Your apartment."

"Oh." She sat up, swaying immediately, her hand reaching out to brace herself against the dashboard. "Right. I know that."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do." She fumbled for the door handle, missing it twice, her fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. "I live here."

He watched her struggle for a moment, a mixture of exasperation and tenderness swelling in his chest. She's adorable when she's frustrated.

He got out and walked around to her side, the cold night air biting at his skin. He opened the door before she could fall out, his hand reaching for her. She looked up at him, her face flushed, her smile lopsided and unguarded.

"You're very helpful," she said, the words slurring together.

"I try."

He offered his hand. She took it, her fingers warm and unsteady, gripping him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world. She stumbled as she stood, her legs giving out beneath her, and he caught her, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her against him.

She smelled like tequila and something sweet, something that was just her. His jaw tightened. His arm tightened around her waist.

If anyone else had seen her like this, he thought, if anyone else had touched her like this-

He pushed the thought away. It was too dark, too possessive, too much like the man he was trying not to be.

"Steady," he said, his voice rough.

"I'm steady. I'm perfectly steady."

"You're swaying."

"I'm dancing." She swayed again, deliberately this time, and he tightened his grip.

"You're swaying."

"Same thing."

He guided her toward the entrance, his hand firm on her back. She leaned into him, her head dropping against his shoulder, her weight settling against his side. He could feel the heat of her through her dress, could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing.

"You're very warm," she murmured against his shoulder.

"You're very drunk."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

"You said that already too"

She laughed, the sound loose, vibrating through his chest. He felt his heart stutter in response.

He got her to the door of her apartment. She fumbled in her bag, her fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. She pulled out her keys. Dropped them. Picked them up. Dropped them again.

"Fuck," she muttered, bending down to grab them. "Why are they so small?"

He watched her struggle, his hands itching to help, to take over. She was so stubborn. So determined to do everything herself. He loved that about her. He also wanted to shake her.

"Do you want me to-"

"I've got it. I've got it." She jammed the key at the lock, missing completely. "See? Fine. I'm fine."

"Princess."

"I'm almost there. I'm- " She fumbled again, the key scraping against the metal. "Fuck."

He reached past her, his fingers closing over hers. The warmth of her skin seeped into his palm. She went still.

"Let me," he said, his voice soft.

She didn't move. He could feel her breath catching, could feel the slight tremor in her fingers beneath his.

"Please," he said. "Let me."

She nodded, her eyes glassy, her lips parted. He turned the key, heard the lock click, and entered her password as if it were second nature.and pushing the door open.

"After you," he said.

She stumbled inside, and he caught her elbow, guiding her forward. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. He found the light switch, and the room flooded with warm light.

He looked around, taking in the space. It was her. Books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, a half-empty glass of water on the counter. It was lived-in. Real. He liked it.

She was heading toward the kitchen, her steps unsteady, her hands reaching for the counter to steady herself.

"Where are you going?"

"Water," she said, her voice thick. "I need....water."

"I'll get it." He moved past her, his hand brushing her arm. "Sit."

"I don't want to sit."

"You need to sit."

"I don't need to-"

He lifted her before she could finish. She squeaked in surprise, her hands flying to his shoulders, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting you on the counter." He settled her onto the cool marble, his hands lingering on her waist.

"I'm more than capable" She whined squirming.

"I know you are," he said, his voice softer now. "But I want to."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. He could feel the heat of her through her dress, could feel the rapid beat of her heart beneath his palms. He could feel the tension in her body, coiled and waiting.

She trusts me, he thought again. She's drunk, she's vulnerable, and she's letting me touch her.

He didn't deserve it. He wanted it anyway.

"Stay," he said, his voice barely audible. "I'll get you water."

He forced himself to let go. He moved to the fridge, opening it and pulling out a bottle. He could feel her gaze on him, tracking his every movement. He uncapped the water and turned back to her.

He stopped.

She was still sitting on the counter, her legs dangling, her dress riding up just a little. Her hair was mussed, her eyes half-lidded, her lips slightly parted. The light caught her face, softened her features, made her look like something out of a dream.

His dream.

He moved toward her, his steps slow, measured. He stopped between her knees, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her. He offered her the bottle.

"Drink."

She took it, but she didn't bring it to her lips. Her fingers wrapped around the plastic, but her eyes were on him.

"I don't want just water."

"I know."

"I want-"

"I know what you want." His voice was low. "But right now, you need to drink this."

She looked at him, her eyes glassy and defiant. She was challenging him. Testing him. Seeing how far she could push.

She has no idea, he thought. She has no idea what she's doing to me.

"I don't want to," she said.

"Baby." He reached up, his thumb brushing her jaw. The skin there was soft.

"Please, drink the water." He felt her shudder beneath him.

"Can you do that for me? Hm?"

She held his gaze, her defiance wavering. He could see the fight draining out of her, could see her resolve crumbling. He waited. He didn't move his hand. He just held her gaze, his thumb tracing slow, gentle arcs against her jaw.

She brought the bottle to her lips. She drank. The water was cold, and she shivered. A little water escaped, trickling down her chin, tracing a path down her throat, disappearing into the fabric of her dress.

His eyes followed it. He watched the droplet slide down her skin, watched it disappear into the shadows of her cleavage. His jaw strained under the weight of his restraint.

She set the bottle down. She was looking at him, her lips parted. He reached out, his thumb catching the droplet on her chin, wiping it away slowly. His thumb lingered on her skin, warm and rough.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded. Her voice was soft. "Yes."

He didn't move his hand. He couldn't.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to close the distance between them, to taste the water still on her lips. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat. He could feel her pulse beneath his finger, quick and fluttery.

She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut.

She would let me, he thought. She would let me do anything.

"Valarr?" she breathed.

The sound of his name on her lips, soft and trusting, nearly undid him.

He pulled his hand away.

"Drink more," he said, his voice rough. "You need to hydrate."

She pouted. Her lower lip jutted out, soft and pink. It was the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

"You're no fun," she said.

"I'm very fun." He stepped back, putting distance between them. He needed space. He needed to breathe. "I'm also very patient."

"You don't seem patient."

"I'm hiding it well."

She laughed, soft and sleepy. She took another sip of water, then set the bottle down.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better." She looked at him, her eyes bright despite her haze. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know." She paused. "I want to."

He didn't know what to say to that. He just looked at her.

She was looking at him too. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. He felt himself leaning in, felt the distance between them shrinking.

"Valarr."

"Hmm?"

She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. The touch was light, hesitant, but it sent electricity up his arm.

"You're still here," she said.

He looked down at her hand. Her fingers were warm against his skin. "Where else would I be?"

She smiled. It was soft, genuine, and it hit him harder than he expected. It was the kind of smile she didn't give to anyone else.

"I don't know," she said. "Somewhere else."

He covered her hand with his. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She looked at him, her eyes glassy but certain. "Good."

She didn't let go of his wrist. He didn't pull away.

They stayed like that, her hand on his arm, his palm warm against her fingers, the world around them fading to nothing. He could hear her breathing, steady and slow. He could feel the heat of her skin. He didn't want this moment to end.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the weight of her hand on his arm, the warmth of her presence, the quiet certainty of being exactly where he belonged.

She called me, he thought. She was drunk and vulnerable and she called me.

That has to mean something.

She jumped off the counter.

It was sudden, unsteady, her feet hitting the floor with a wobble that made his hand shoot out. She was already moving, stumbling toward the hallway like a ship caught in a storm, her steps uneven and unpredictable. He followed, his body tense, ready to catch her.

"Steady-"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." She waved him off, but her hand caught the wall, knuckles scraping against the paint as she steadied herself. "I just need to...change."

"You need to sit down."

"I need to change."

"Then sit down and let me-"

She stopped at her bedroom door, turning to face him. The movement was sudden, and she swayed, one hand bracing against the doorframe. Her dress had shifted. The straps had fallen off her shoulders, pooling around her upper arms like melted silk. The fabric was loose, hanging low, the neckline slipping dangerously. She was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read; half-challenge, half-invitation.

His breath caught in his throat. The air in the hallway felt thick, heavy, pressing against his lungs.

"What are you doing?" The words came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw against his throat.

She reached up and pulled the strap down further. The fabric slid, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the delicate line of her collarbone. The light from the hallway caught the skin there, soft and warm.

"Wait-"

She turned. Her back was to him now, the fabric of her dress hanging dangerously low. He could see the curve of her spine, the delicate bones of her shoulders rising and falling with each breath. He could see the edge of something darker beneath the fabric, the shadow of lace against her skin.

He stopped breathing.

"Don't." The word was a rasp, barely audible. "Don't do it."

She glanced back at him, a ghost of a smile on her lips, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark. "Do what?"

"You know what."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Her fingers found the zipper. She pulled it down.

He heard the slow hiss of metal separating, heard the fabric loosen around her body. She shrugged, and the dress slid down her shoulders, catching at her elbows for just a moment before she let it fall. He heard the fabric give, heard it slide down her body, pooling in a soft heap around her feet. The sound was impossibly loud in the quiet hallway.

His eyes slammed shut.

"You can't-"

"What's wrong?" Her voice was teasing, lazy, drifting toward him from somewhere in the darkness of her bedroom. "Have you never seen a woman naked before?"

He had. But not like this. Not her. Never her.

He turned away, his hand finding the doorframe. His knuckles were white against the wood, the tendons standing out like cords. His teeth were clenched so hard he could feel the ache spreading up into his temples, could feel the strain in his jaw. His pulse was a frantic drum in his ears.

"Get dressed," he said, the words scraping out of him. "Put something on."

"You're no fun."

She laughed. The sound was light, unbothered, and it sent a shiver down his spine. She didn't care. She wasn't thinking. She was too drunk to understand what she was doing, too drunk to understand the effect she was having on him. Every sound she made, every shift of her weight, every rustle of fabric was amplified in the silence.

He heard her rummaging through a drawer. Heard the clatter of hangers, the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of her bare feet on the floor. He kept his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, his breathing shallow, his pulse a steady, insistent drum in his ears. He counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. He forced himself to slow down.

He could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, feel the tightness in his chest. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to see her. He wanted to-

He stopped the thought before it could finish.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" Her voice drifted out from the room, teasing and lazy.

"Until you tell me you're dressed."

"And if I never tell you?"

"Then I'll stand here all night."

She was quiet for a moment. He heard the soft rustle of fabric, the creak of a drawer closing.

"That's sweet," she said, softer now.

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

"Okay," she said. "I'm done. You can turn around."

"Are you actually dressed?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He turned slowly, his eyes cautious, his body braced for what he might see. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a loose t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild. Her face was flushed, her eyes still half-lidded.

She was swaying. Just slightly. Like a reed in a gentle wind.

He exhaled, long and slow, and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. "Come on. Bed."

"I don't want to go to bed."

"Yes, you do."

"I want to stay."

"Stay where?"

"Here." She gestured vaguely, her hand waving through the air. "With you."

His chest tightened. "Princess."

"I just want to talk to you. For a little while." She swayed, catching herself on the bedpost, her fingers curling around the wood. "Is that too much to ask?"

He looked at her, her face soft, her body swaying slightly, her eyes bright with something that wasn't quite sleep. He should tell her to rest. He should leave her to sleep. He should do any number of things that didn't involve staying.

Instead, he crossed to her, his hand finding her arm. The skin there was warm, soft. "Bed. Then we can talk."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She let him guide her to the bed. He pulled back the covers, the white sheets cool against his fingers. She climbed in, her legs weak, her movements clumsy. He pulled the blanket up over her, tucking it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her collarbone for just a moment. She was watching him, her eyes soft and sleepy, a small smile on her lips.

"You're very good at this," she said.

"At what?"

"Taking care of me."

He didn't answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. She was so close. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, could smell the alcohol and her perfume and something else beneath it, something warm and clean and her.

"Are you going to stay?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because if I stay, I won't leave."

She seemed to consider this, her brow furrowing slightly. "That doesn't sound like a bad thing."

"It's not a bad thing." His voice was quiet, barely a whisper. "It's just not the right thing. Not tonight."

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

"I'll hold you to that."

She opened her eyes. They were bright, despite the haze, despite the exhaustion. "I called you tonight. I called you first." The words came out slurred but certain. "Even when I was too drunk to think straight, I called you."

The confession hung between them, heavy and raw. He felt it settle in his chest, warm and sharp.

"I know," he said. "I know you did."

"Don't say it like that," she murmured.

"Like what?"

"Like it doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything." His voice was soft, scraped raw with honesty. "It means more than you know."

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. Then, softly, she said, "You're always doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Saying my name like it means something."

He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek.

"It does."

She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. "Stay until I fall asleep?"

"I can do that."

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Sleep. I'll be here."

"Promise?"

He was quiet for a moment. The word felt heavy, weighted with meaning. Then, softly, he said, "I promise."

She smiled before turning her face into the pillow, her hand slipping under the blanket, her fingers seeking something. He watched her for a moment, then reached down and took her hand in his. Her fingers curled around his, her grip warm and trusting. He squeezed gently. She squeezed back.

"Your hands are really warm," she murmured, her voice already fading.

"Sleep, princess."

"I am sleeping. I'm just also talking."

"Then stop talking."

"Never."

He laughed. The sound was quiet, barely a breath, but he felt it in his chest. He was in too deep. He had known it for weeks, for months, for longer than he wanted to admit. But this, this quiet intimacy, this trust, was something else entirely.

He sat there, holding her hand, watching her breathe, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. His thumb traced slow circles on her palm. He felt her grip loosen, felt her breathing deepen, felt the tension leave her body.

She was gone. He could hear it in the slowing of her breath, the deepening of her exhale.

He stayed. He waited. He watched her sleep, her face soft and peaceful, her hand still wrapped around his.

"One day," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, the words more for himself than for her. "I'll stay. But not tonight."

He slipped his hand free, careful not to wake her. His fingers lingered for just a moment, brushing against her palm. He pulled the blanket up higher, tucking the edge under her chin. He found another blanket draped across a chair and covered her legs with it, ensuring she would be warm.

He looked at her one last time, his eyes tracing the curve of her face, the softness of her mouth, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks.

Then he turned and walked out of the room.

He was in his car before he realized he was smiling.

He caught himself in the rearview mirror, the curve of his lips, the softness in his eyes. He looked away, but the smile stayed.

He could still feel the weight of her hand in his. Could still feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. Could still hear her voice, soft and trusting, saying the words that would echo in his mind for days.

"I called you first."

He had wanted to kiss her. He had wanted to stay. He had wanted to give in to everything he had been holding back, to let the careful walls he had built around his heart crumble to dust.

But he had promised himself he would earn her. And he didn't plan to break that promise.

He drove home with the windows down, the cold air biting at his skin, a smile that wouldn't leave his face. The streets were empty, the city lights blurred past him, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt something that might have been hope.

She called me first.

Valarr was in too deep.

Notes:

HES SO FINEEEEE

NEEEEDD someone to take care of me like that 😭

My og plan was to write the gala now but it felt too rushed to this chapter will kinda establish the tension that we'll see (ppl that are up to date with PR stunt know what im refering too)

Anyways hope you enjoyed guys, sorry it was delayed 😞😞

The regular update schedule will be coming back so next pt is out moday, love you all sm <333

-Sage

Taglist:

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The second gift arrived four days later. A bottle of wine. Vintage. Rare. The label was eligible to anyone who didn't know what they were looking at; a deep red script, a crest she recognized from an auction catalogue she had once skimmed. She had mentioned the vintage once, in passing, during a conversation about investment portfolios. He had remembered the name but not the context.

She stood in her office, holding the bottle, and tried to feel something. Gratitude, perhaps. Or the flutter of being seen.

The glass was cool beneath her fingers. The label was embossed. The cork was sealed with wax.

She placed it on the shelf next to the bracelet and walked back to her desk.

The next gift arrived on a Monday morning. A first edition.

The book was old, the leather binding cracked and soft with age, the pages yellowed at the edges. She recognized the title. She had mentioned it during a meeting with her uncle, a casual remark about a collector she had met at a conference.

She opened the cover. The spine creaked. The smell of old paper and dust rose to meet her.

She had expected to feel something when she saw it. A flicker of warmth, perhaps. A reminder of the flowers, the jasmine, the interview he had dug through archives to find. That had been thought. That had been care.

This was not the same.

She set the book down carefully, her fingers lingering on the cracked leather. The flowers had meant something. He had found a four-year-old interview, uncovered a detail she had forgotten she had shared, and sent her something that felt like being known.

These gifts were different. They were expensive, yes. They were rare, yes. But they were also, empty. The kind of things a man with money could buy without really trying. Without really seeing her.

She looked at the bracelet on her shelf. The wine. The book.

And then she thought about how no one had seen him send them. How no one had watched him hand them to her. How all of it; the flowers, the texts, the praise, had happened in the dark between the two of them, hidden from the world.

She sat down slowly. The chair creaked beneath her weight.

Everything he's done for me, she thought. Every gesture. Every word. Every gift. It's all been private.

The realization settled into her chest like a stone dropped into deep water. Cold. Heavy. Unavoidable.

He had never once claimed her in public. He had never once stood beside her in front of others and made it clear that she mattered. Not at the meetings. Not at the events. Not at the Lannister Dome.

He had sent her flowers. He had sent her texts. He had praised her in private, touched her in the garden, kissed her in the dark.

But when the lights were on, when other people were watching, he was silent.

She pressed her palms flat against the desk. The wood was cool beneath her hands. She breathed in. Breathed out.

"He's still playing games."

The words hung in the empty room. No one answered. But the truth of them settled into her bones, a weight she had been carrying without knowing it.

Over the following week, she watched him.

At the Thursday strategy meeting, Valarr was present. He was seated across the table, his silver hair catching the light, his suit impeccable, his expression unreadable. He spoke when spoken to. He nodded at the right moments. He did not look at her.

She watched his hands fold on the table. She watched his jaw move as he spoke to Lord Farman. She watched the way his shoulders stayed straight, his posture perfect, his mask firmly in place.

He treated her like a colleague. An ally. A business partner.

She caught his eye once, briefly, across the table. She saw something flicker there; a question, a desire, a crack in the surface.

He turned away first.

She left the meeting with her hands shaking and her jaw tight.

The following evening, she attended a networking dinner at her uncle's request. Valarr was there, seated at the opposite end of the table. She watched him charm the Tyrell representatives, watched him laugh at a joke Lord Ashford made, watched him move through the room like he belonged there.

He did not look at her. Not once. Not the entire evening.

She smiled. She made conversation. She charmed the Tyrells and made Lord Ashford laugh and left with a handful of promising contacts and a hollow ache in her chest.

In the car, she pressed her forehead to the cool glass. The city blurred past. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and tired.

"He's not going to change," she whispered.

The driver asked if she was all right.

She said she was fine, at least that what she would tell herself.

Another gift arrived on a Friday afternoon. A necklace. Emeralds and gold.

She opened the box without ceremony. The stones were vivid, the gold warm, the setting intricate. The kind of thing that would make a woman feel cherished, if it came with any indication that he had thought about her at all.

She held it up. The emeralds caught the light, green and deep and cold. She thought about the flowers. The jasmine. The way he had found that interview and remembered a detail she had forgotten.

She set the necklace back in the box. The velvet was soft beneath her fingers.

She called her assistant. "Return this. No note. No explanation. Just return it."

Her assistant hesitated. "My lady, it's from-"

"I know who it's from."

She turned back to her work.

The fifth gift did not arrive.

Instead, her phone buzzed late on a Monday evening. She was in her apartment, still in her work clothes, a glass of wine in her hand, her mind still spinning from the day's meetings.

She picked it up. Opened the thread.

T. Heir: Is the princess too good for emeralds now?

She stared at the screen.

The words sat there, smug and sharp, dripping with something that might have been sarcasm or might have been bitterness. She could hear his voice in her head that low, measured tone, the one that made everything sound like a test.

Is the princess too good for emeralds now?

She read it once. Twice. A third time.

The anger rose slowly, not hot and immediate, but cold and gathering, like ice forming on a still lake. She felt it spread through her chest, her shoulders, the tension in her jaw.

He thought she could be bought. He thought the problem was the gift, not the absence of thought behind it. He thought she was playing hard to get, and the solution was to offer more, spend more, give more.

He didn't understand her at all.

She set her phone down. Picked it up again. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could respond. She could tell him exactly what she thought. She could explain, again, that she didn't want his money, that she wanted his presence, his attention, his claim.

She could lay it all out in words he could not ignore.

She put the phone down.

No.

She was not going to explain herself. She was not going to justify her worth. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response. She was not going to play this game.

Let him sit with his message. Let him wonder why she didn't respond. Let him wait.

She left the thread open.

She simply let the words hang there, unanswered, a silence she chose.

The silence, she realized, was the most powerful weapon she had.

The next morning, she walked into her office, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down at her desk. The bracelet, the wine, the book, the necklace; they were all gone, returned or stored away. The shelf above her desk was empty.

She opened her email. She opened her calendar. She opened the quarterly reports.

She did not open his message again.

But she knew it was there. Waiting. Unanswered.

Let him wait.

The meeting was scheduled for three in the afternoon in the executive boardroom of the Lannister Tower.

She arrived early, she always arrived early. The room was all glass and dark wood, the city sprawling beneath the windows like a circuit board waiting to be rewritten. The polished surface of the table was cool beneath her fingers. She arranged her notes, aligned her pens, and waited.

She did not have to wait long.

The door opened, and Valarr walked in. His suit was navy, immaculate, cut to the precise shape of his shoulders. His hair was brushed back from his face, and his mismatched eyes swept the room once, cataloguing, before landing on her. He did not smile. He did not greet her. He moved to the opposite side of the table and began arranging his own materials with the quiet precision of a man who had never made a mistake.

The silence stretched between them, thick and deliberate.

She watched him. His hands were steady as he set down his folder. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. The low light of the afternoon sun caught the silver in his hair, gilding the edges of his profile.

He did not acknowledge her presence.

She did not acknowledge his.

The door opened again, and Lord Grafton entered. He was older, silver-haired, with a face that had been carved by decades of negotiation and a smile that was warm without being soft. He wore a charcoal suit that matched his reputation; solid, respectable, quietly powerful.

He shook Valarr's hand first; a firm grip, a nod of mutual respect. Then he turned to her.

"Lady Lannister." His voice was warm, and his eyes lingered on her face a beat longer than necessary. "I've heard a great deal about you."

She smile, not her public smile, not her sharp smile. Something softer. Something that invited confidence. "All good things, I hope."

"All interesting things." His gaze travelled over her face, her throat, the way she stood with her shoulders back and her chin lifted.

She laughed, low and genuine. "I've heard the same about you, Lord Grafton. Your reputation in Braavos precedes you."

His eyes flickered with appreciation. "You know Braavos?"

"I spent a summer there. During my university years." She tilted her head, letting the memory soften her expression. "The canals at sunset. The way the light catches the water. There's nothing like it."

"Then you understand why the Iron Bank keeps its roots there." He was leaning in now, just slightly. "The world changes, but Braavos- Braavos stays constant."

"Constancy is rare," she said. "It's valuable."

Valarr shifted in his seat. The movement was small, barely noticeable, but she caught it. His jaw had tightened. His hands were still, too still, resting on the table like he was forcing them to remain motionless.

She did not look at him.

The meeting began. She laid out her projections, her voice steady, her gaze fixed on Lord Grafton. She moved through the numbers like a dancer moving through a familiar routine, each step precise, each gesture intentional.

She was aware of Valarr across the table. She did not look at him.

But she felt him. The weight of his attention like a hand pressed against her spine. The heat of his gaze on her skin.

She ignored it.

Halfway through her presentation, she noticed Lord Grafton's attention wavering. His eyes drifted to the window, then back to her. He was not bored, but he was no longer engaged.

She set down her pen, leaned forward slightly, just enough to bring herself into his line of sight, and smiled.

"Lord Grafton," she said, her voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "I apologize. I've been speaking at you rather than with you."

He blinked, then smiled. "That's not a problem. Your numbers are impressive."

"Numbers are only part of the story." She gestured toward the window, toward the city beyond. "What I'm proposing isn't just a partnership. It's a conversation. The Iron Bank has been looking for a foothold in the Westerosi market for years. The Lannister Bank can offer you that. But I want to understand what you're looking for."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "What I'm looking for," he said, "is someone who sees the long game. Someone who understands that loyalty and patience will outlast any quarterly report."

She held his gaze. "Then we understand each other."

The conversation shifted after that. Less formal, more engaged. She laughed at a joke he made, a genuine laugh that rose from her chest. She touched his arm once, briefly, to emphasize a point about Braavosi trade routes. She leaned in when he spoke, her attention absolute, her presence open and warm.

Lord Grafton was listening. Really listening. She could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his gaze softened.

She felt Valarr watching her.

She did not glance in his direction.

"You know," she said, "I'd love to discuss the finer details of this proposal with you outside the formal setting. Perhaps a private dinner?"

Lord Grafton's eyes lit up. "I would be honored, Lady Lannister."

"Then it's settled." She smiled. "I'll have my assistant send you the details."

Across the table, Valarr's pen snapped.

The sound was loud in the quiet room, the sharp crack of plastic breaking. She saw his hand freeze, saw the ink spread across his fingers, saw the brief flicker of something dark cross his face before the mask settled back into place.

Lord Grafton looked up, startled. "Are you alright, Ser?"

Valarr's smile was smooth, polished, utterly hollow. "A minor inconvenience. My apologies." He set the broken pen down, wiped his fingers with a handkerchief, and did not look at her.

But she felt it. The weight of his focus settling around her like a collar.

The meeting concluded. Lord Grafton shook her hand warmly, then Valarr's with the same courtesy, and left with the satisfied air of a man who had been handled by experts.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was loud. Thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.

She stood and gathered her notes, moving slowly, deliberately, using the polished surface of the conference table as a makeshift desk. The room was quiet now, the hum of the city distant through the glass.

She heard him move.

His footsteps were silent on the carpet, but she felt the shift in the air as he approached. She felt the weight of his presence settle behind her, felt the heat of his body radiating through the fabric of her blouse.

His hands landed on the table on either side of her, caging her in. The warmth of his chest pressed against her back, firm and unwavering. His mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin, smelling of mint and something darker.

"You want to test my patience, hmm?"

She should have been afraid. She was not. Her heart was pounding, her pulse racing, but not with fear.

She was too angry for fear.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His laugh was low and sharp, but it broke the silence like a whip crack. She heard the anger in it, the edge of something darker, something she had never heard from him before.

"Don't play dumb, baby. It doesn't suit you."

The word hit her like a slap. Baby. It was dismissive, possessive, and it made her blood run hot.

His hands pressed harder against the table. She could feel the tension in his arms, the barely restrained fury thrumming through his body. The wood was cool beneath her palms. His body was warm against her back, and she could feel every line of him pressing against her.

"I'm not playing." Her voice was steady. "I was working."

"Working." He laughed again, softer this time, but no less sharp. The sound vibrated through his chest and into her spine. "You were leaning in. Touching his arm. Laughing at his jokes. You agreed to a private dinner."

"I agreed to a business dinner."

"You agreed to a dinner."

"To discuss the deal."

"With him."

"With the client."

She could feel his breath against her neck, warm and uneven. Could feel the tension in his hands, the way they trembled against the wood.

"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "what else did you offer him?"

She went still.

"Nothing," she said. "I offered him nothing."

"You offered him dinner."

"I offered him a business meeting."

"With you."

"Because I'm the one who won the deal." She finally managed to turn her head, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face in her peripheral vision. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. "Not you. You lost, Valarr. You lost to me. And you can't handle it."

His hands tightened on the table. The wood groaned beneath his palms.

"You did this on purpose."

"I did my job."

"You wanted to make me jealous."

She laughed then, low and sharp, and it sounded more like a blade than a laugh. "Jealous?" She shook her head, her hair brushing against his cheek. "I don't care if you're jealous. I care that you think you can buy me. I care that you think diamonds and wine and first editions are the same as seeing me. I care that you've never once claimed me in front of anyone else."

She pushed back against him. Not hard. Just enough to feel the resistance of his body.

"Let me go."

He did not move.

"I said let me go."

"Tell me you don't want him."

"What?"

"Tell me you don't want him. That dinner. That man. Tell me you're not using him to make me feel like this."

She stared at him. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were burning, dark and desperate, and she could see the cracks in his composure widening.

"I'm not going to say that."

"Why?"

"Because I don't owe you anything." She took a breath, steadying herself. "You don't get to ignore me for weeks, refuse to acknowledge me in front of anyone, send me presents that cost money but mean nothing, and then demand I perform for you. That's not how this works. That's not how I work."

For a long moment, he was silent. His hands were still pressed against the table, caging her in. His body was still pressed against her back. His face was still inches from hers, and she could see the war in his eyes; the anger, the hurt, the confusion.

"Then how do you work?" he asked.

She held his gaze. "I work by being seen. In public. In front of other people. Not hidden. Not secret. Not invisible."

She pushed against the table and finally turned to face him. He did not step back. His hands were still on the table, bracketing her, but she had turned in the small space between his arms.

Their faces were close. Close enough that she could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips.

"I'm not asking for diamonds," she said. "I'm asking for you. The real you. The one who looks at me like I matter, even when other people are watching."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"That's not a game," she said. "That's being honest."

She gathered her notes and walked past him, toward the door.

At the threshold, she paused.

"Dinner is tomorrow. You can call it whatever you want. But that's what it is."

She left him standing in the empty conference room, surrounded by the city's golden light and the silence of his own making.

In the corridor, her hands were shaking.

She pressed them flat against the cool marble of the wall, her back against the stone, and she breathed. The air was cold in her lungs. The light was too bright.

She had done it. She had told him the truth. She had walked away.

She was not sure if she had won.

But for the first time, she was sure he had heard her.

The morning after the investor meeting, she arrived at the office with her jaw set and her shoulders back.

She had not slept. The confrontation with Valarr replayed behind her eyelids every time she closed them; the heat of his body pressing against her spine, the low vibration of his laugh, the word baby landing like a slap across her skin. She had spent the night dissecting every second of it, turning it over like a stone, searching for the shape of what it meant.

She had not come to a conclusion. But she had come to a decision.

The boardroom was on the forty-third floor. She stepped out of the elevator and into a corridor of pale stone and muted light. Her heels clicked against the marble, each step a small, deliberate sound. The air smelled of old paper and fresh coffee and the particular stillness that came before a storm.

The doors were open. She walked in.

The room was vast, all glass and dark wood, the city sprawling beneath the windows like a circuit board waiting to be rewritten. The table was a slab of polished mahogany, long enough to seat twenty. The chairs were leather, high-backed, arranged with the precision of a battlefield.

Her uncle sat at the head. He was dressed in grey, his golden beard catching the morning light, his hands folded on the table in front of him. His face was unreadable, but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed just slightly too hard against the wood.

Gerold slouched in a chair near the middle of the table, scrolling through his phone with the bored disdain of a man who had never had to fight for anything. He did not look up when she entered.

The senior advisers were arranged along the sides: Lord Marbrand, his face creased with the particular weariness of a man who had been doing this too long; Lord Serrett, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair; Lord Brax, who was studying his notes with an intensity that suggested he was trying to disappear into them.

And one guest. Lord Grafton. The investor from yesterday's meeting.

He sat near her uncle, his silver hair combed back, his suit expensive, his smile warm and practiced. He looked at her when she entered, and she felt the weight of his gaze travel over her face, her throat, the way she stood with her shoulders back and her chin lifted.

He thinks I'm the prize, she thought. He thinks the dinner was the start of something.

She took her seat without greeting him. Her chair was at her uncle's right hand. The position was deliberate. A signal.

The meeting began. Her uncle spoke first, his voice measured, steady. He laid out the quarterly projections, the expansion plans, the partnership opportunities. She listened. She nodded. She kept her eyes on her notes.

Then Lord Grafton spoke.

"I must say," he said, his voice smooth as polished glass, "I was deeply impressed by Lady Lannister's presentation yesterday. The way she handled the numbers, the way she engaged with me personally—" He smiled at her, his teeth white, his eyes warm. "It's rare to find such dedication in someone so young. And so beautiful."

The room went still.

She felt the weight of his words land. The patronizing tone. The way he had reduced her to her appearance, her youth, her usefulness to him. She felt the heat rise in her chest, the familiar burn of anger that she had learned to swallow.

She heard her uncle's sharp intake of breath. Saw Gerold's smirk flicker and die as he looked up from his phone. Felt the advisers shift in their seats, their discomfort radiating like heat.

She did not look at any of them.

"Lord Grafton," she said, and her voice was calm, clear, the voice of a woman who had been underestimated her entire life and had learned exactly how to use it. "I appreciate the compliment. But I'd prefer to keep this meeting focused on the numbers. My appearance is not relevant to the discussion."

He blinked. His smile faltered, just slightly. "I didn't mean to offend-"

"You didn't offend me." She set down her pen. The wood clicked against the table. "You diminished me."

The silence that followed was absolute. She could hear the hum of the city beyond the windows, the distant buzz of a fly trapped against the glass, the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat.

Lord Grafton's smile had frozen on his face. His fingers tightened on the armrest of his chair. "I assure you, that was not my intention-"

"Then let me clarify." She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that made him lean back, just slightly. "I am not here to be admired. I am here to negotiate. If you want to discuss a partnership with the Lannister Bank, you will discuss it with me as an equal. Not as a woman you find attractive. Not as a young thing you can charm. As a professional."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and final. Lord Grafton's face had gone pale, then red, then pale again.

"I think you're overreacting-"

"I think you're dismissing me." She stood. The chair scraped against the floor, a sound that cut through the silence like a blade. "And I think this meeting is over."

She gathered her notes. The papers rustled in her hands. She walked toward the door, her steps measured, her back straight.

"Sit down."

Her uncle's voice stopped her. She turned.

He was looking at Lord Grafton. His face was unreadable, but his voice was cold, flat, the voice of a man who had made a decision and would not be moved.

"Lord Grafton," he said, "I believe my niece has made herself clear. If you cannot treat her with the respect she deserves, then we have nothing further to discuss."

Lord Grafton stared at him. His mouth opened. Closed. "You're choosing her over a partnership with the Iron Bank?"

"I'm choosing integrity." Her uncle's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Something you seem to have forgotten the value of."

The room was silent. She could hear Lord Marbrand's breath catch. Could see Lord Serrett's fingers stop drumming. Could see Gerold's face go white.

Lord Grafton rose. His chair scraped against the floor. "You'll regret this."

"I doubt that."

Lord Grafton left without another word. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.

She stood frozen, her notes clutched to her chest, her heart pounding a rhythm she could feel in her throat. The air was thick. The silence was absolute.

Her uncle turned to the room. "We're done here."

The advisers rose, gathering their papers, their faces carefully blank. They filed out one by one. Lord Marbrand paused at the door, his eyes meeting hers for just a moment. He nodded. Just once. Then he was gone.

Gerold lingered, his hands gripping the back of his chair, his face a mask of barely contained fury. Her uncle looked at him. A single look. Gerold's hands tightened, then released. He left without a word.

Then they were alone.

"Sit down," her uncle said.

She sat. The leather of the chair was warm beneath her, still holding the heat of the meeting. She placed her notes on the table in front of her, her hands flat against the paper, trying to steady the tremor in her fingers.

She expected a lecture. A scolding. A reminder that she had just cost the Lannister Bank a lucrative partnership. She prepared herself for the disappointment she had seen on his face a hundred times, the familiar weight of being told she had done too much, pushed too hard, been too much.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. The sound was long and heavy, the exhale of a man who had been carrying a weight he had not known he was holding.

"I should have done that years ago," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"Stood up for you." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, the gesture rough, almost tired. "I've watched you fight for respect in this company for years. I've watched you outperform men who should have been working for you. I've watched you smile and nod while they patronized you, and I did nothing."

The words settled over her like a weight she did not know how to carry. Her throat was tight. Her hands were still.

"I told myself it was strategy," he continued. "That you needed to learn to handle it on your own. That if I intervened, you would never be taken seriously." He dropped his hands and looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes she had never seen before. Regret. "I was wrong."

She opened her mouth to speak. Closed it. The words would not come.

"I tried other methods," he said. "Underhanded methods. I thought I could fix your image by aligning you with someone powerful. Someone whose name would open doors for you. I thought I could solve the problem without addressing the root of it."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He was quiet for a long moment. The light from the window caught the silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes. He looked old. Tired. "It doesn't matter," he said. "What matters is that I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

The words hung in the air between them. She had never heard him apologize. Not once. Not in her entire life.

"Uncle-"

"Let me finish." He held up a hand. "I'm going to announce it at the shareholder meeting. That you're my heir. That you're taking over when I step down."

The words landed like a blow. She felt the air leave her lungs. "What?"

"You've earned it. You've always earned it." He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. "I should have done this years ago. I should have seen you for what you were instead of trying to fix what I thought was broken."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

She was suspicious. The way he had shifted the subject, the way he had dismissed her question so quickly; there was something he was not telling her. Something he was hiding behind the apology and the announcement.

But she was too happy to care.

She was too happy to care.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was rough. "Thank you."

He nodded. "You'll need to prepare. The shareholders won't be easy. They'll question you. They'll test you. They'll try to tear you down."

"Let them try."

His smile was small, but it was there. "That's my niece."

She left his office with the letter clutched in her hand and a smile she could not suppress. The corridor was quiet. Her heels clicked against the marble. The light was golden, warm, spreading across the floor like honey.

She had done it. She had won.

She walked toward her office, the letter pressed against her chest, her heart still racing. She would tell the Siren. She would tell her friend, who would scream and laugh and demand every detail. She would tell everyone.

But her first instinct, her first instinct, was still to tell him.

She stopped walking. The corridor stretched before her, empty and silent. She looked down at her phone.

The thread was still open. His message was still there, unanswered.

Is the princess too good for emeralds now?

She stared at the words. The arrogance of them. The assumption that she could be bought, that the problem was the gift rather than the absence of meaning behind it.

She should have blocked him. She should have deleted the thread. She should have walked away and never looked back.

Instead, she typed: We need to talk.

She hit send before she could change her mind.

His phone rang an hour later.

Valarr was in his office, the city sprawled beneath him in a carpet of glass and steel, the late afternoon light casting long amber shadows across his desk. He had been staring at the same document for twenty minutes without reading a word. His mind was elsewhere. His mind was always elsewhere now.

He picked up the phone without looking at the screen. He knew who it was.

"Valarr."

The voice on the other end was measured. Tired. The voice of a man who had been carrying a weight for too long and had finally decided to put it down.

"I'm calling to tell you that I no longer need you near her."

Valarr leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him. He let the silence stretch, let the words settle.

"Is that so?"

"She can handle herself just fine." Her uncle's voice was quiet but firm. "She proved that today. She proved it years ago. I was just too blind to see it."

"She's always been able to handle herself," Valarr said. "That's not why I was there."

"I know why you were there." A pause. "I know why I put you there."

The admission hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable.

Valarr waited.

"I thought she needed someone to open doors for her. I thought she needed a powerful name beside hers to be taken seriously." Her uncle's voice was rough, almost bitter. "I was wrong. She never needed you. She never needed anyone."

"She needed someone to see her," Valarr said. "And I did."

The silence stretched.

"I know you did." Her uncle's voice was softer now. "That's the only reason I'm having this conversation instead of ending it."

Valarr's jaw tightened. "Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm stepping back." The words came slowly, carefully, like a man placing one foot in front of the other on unstable ground. "I won't interfere anymore. I won't help you. I won't stand in your way. But I won't be your ally in this."

"I never asked you to be my ally."

"You didn't have to. I offered." Her uncle paused. "And now I'm withdrawing the offer. If that upsets you, we can call off the Lys Oil arrangement as well."

Valarr went still. The Lys deal was worth billions. It was the kind of partnership that defined careers, that shaped the future of both companies. Her uncle was offering to burn it to the ground.

"No," Valarr said. His voice was calm. Controlled. "We won't call it off. The deal stands. It's good for both of us."

"Then you'll stay away from her?"

Valarr laughed. The sound was low and sharp, but it carried no mockery. "You know I can't do that."

"She's not yours to claim, Valarr."

"She's not yours to command either." Valarr leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "You think you can just cut me out of her life. You think you can tell me to stay away, and I'll just- " He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I won't."

"Valarr- "

"Don't worry." His voice was softer now, almost gentle. "I would never do anything to harm her. You know that. You know I'm the best man for her."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with truth and arrogance and desperation.

Her uncle was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with something that might have been resignation.

"Perhaps you are," he said. "But that doesn't mean you get to decide. She'll choose a man when she's ready. And if it's not you..." He paused. "You'll have to accept that."

Valarr's hand tightened on the phone. He could feel the edge of the device pressing against his palm.

"She'll choose me," he said. His voice was low. Certain. Absolute.

The silence that followed was thick, weighted. Her uncle did not argue. He simply exhaled, long and slow.

"Then prove it," he said. "Earn it. Honestly. Without me. Without schemes." A pause. "I'll be watching."

The line went dead.

Valarr stared at the phone in his hand. The screen was dark. The silence in the room was absolute.

He threw the phone onto the desk. It skidded across the polished wood, clattering against the edge of a stack of papers, and came to rest against the base of his lamp.

He reached up and loosened his tie with one hand, yanking the silk away from his throat. The fabric was tight, suffocating. He pulled it free and tossed it onto the desk. The knot had been a mess of tangles, but he had undone it in one swift motion.

He leaned back in his chair, his head falling against the headrest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The light was dim. The shadows were long. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, a steady, insistent rhythm.

He had not lost her. He refused to lose her. The old man had stepped aside, but he had not closed the door. He had left it open, just barely. And Valarr would walk through it.

She'll choose me. The words echoed in his skull. He had to believe that. He had to believe that everything he had done; the flowers, the texts, the patience, the pursuit, had meant something. That she would see him. That she would choose him.

His phone buzzed.

He looked at it. The screen glowed with an unknown number, but he recognized the face. Her face.

She was calling.

He picked up the phone and swiped to answer.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end was slurred, unsteady, and unmistakably hers. "Valarr?"

His grip tightened. "What's wrong?"

"I need someone to take me home." Her voice was thick, the words running together. "I'm at The Lannister Bar in Lannisport. Can you... can you come?"

He was already on his feet, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "I'll be there. Stay where you are. Don't-"

His breath caught as he heard a voice in the background, a man's voice, rough and insistent. "Where do you think you're going, angel?"

The line went dead.

Notes:

Next pt out this time TOMORROW (still counts as a double update righttt) I'm rewriting part 5 because I decided I hated it during the final read 😞

Anyways see you all tmr <333

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