#dark!akotsk

Tears silently roll down your cheeks, falling like incessant rain.

Your vision is all but a blur, clouded with the salty wetness. Some tears land on your lap, others slip down your neck but you make no effort to clean them. There’s no point to it, you’re already a mess. You sniff, making a small whistling noise as you struggle to breathe with a nose that becomes more stuffed by the minute. 

A sharp thump has you flinching, the wooden table rattling when a glass cup gets slammed down with unnecessary force. 

“How pathetic.”

Seated to your right on the small circular table, Aerion scrutinizes you with irritation etched to his face. His nose twists when looking at you, as if the sight of your tears is physically repulsive to him. As if he isn’t half the reason why you’re crying. 

“Planning on weeping like a puppy all night?” he cruelly asks. “Stupid question. Of course you are. That’s all you ever do.” 

Aerion leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on some secret. 

“Is this part of your plan?” he asks. You can only look at him, confused. “To shed all these pretty tears and then look at us with those big sad eyes. Do you think us stupid enough to be fooled by you?”

His words are purposely cruel and you look away, a new batch of tears being revived from the mockery. When you don’t answer him, his eyes narrow down. A telltale that his patience is slowly draining.

You can’t stop the pitiful whimper that escapes from your lips when he suddenly snatches your wrist. His fingers painfully dig into the bone, squeezing hard in a warning. 

“That’s enough with the fucking tears.”

“Aerion.”

His cousin intervenes, calm and composed even though there is a warning edge in his voice as he directs at Aerion. He nods towards Aerion’s grip.

“Let go of her.” he calmly requests, even though his tone indicates that such is not for discussion. “You’re hurting her.”

Aerion glares at his dark-haired cousin and for a moment there, it almost feels as though his impulsive anger will get the best of him. Watching the two men fiercely argue is common, especially as the smallest of inconveniences seems to trigger their completely opposite personalities and make them clash against each other.  

For a moment, it looks like one of their fierce arguments is about to break. But then the moment passes and so does Aerion’s irritation. It doesn’t entirely go away but it subsides just enough to give you space to breathe. 

Aerion rolls his eyes, lifting finger by finger until your hand is entirely released. He slumps on the chair, tongue poking into the inside of his cheek as he stares at you. 

“Do not pity her too much, cousin. She has a thing for dramatics. I barely touched her and that already got her panties in a twist.” he says, considering you with a dangerous glint in his violet eyes. “Makes me wonder how pathetic she’s gonna act when I finally fuck her.”

Your heart drops. 

It’s gonna happen eventually, you know that. You’re not stupid or naive enough to believe that Aerion or Valarr would take a chastity vow for the rest of their lives just because you don’t want them. You not wanting them didn’t stop them from quite literally kidnapping you and keeping you hostage in their basement.

But still, just the thought is disheartening in more ways than one.

The rest of your life…

You don’t want to spend your entire life trapped by a couple of mad cousins who seem to believe that keeping a girl locked tight in their basement is the solution for their obsession. You don’t want to be anywhere near them or to look at their faces or to listen to their voices or to pretend to be a good girl.

You don’t want to spend the rest of life at their mercy… and yet the possibility of such happening is frighteningly real. 

“Shut up. Do you always have to ruin dinner with your nonsense?” Valarr shakes his head with a sigh. 

“She’s the one ruining it with her tears and snot, not me.”

Humiliation burns in your face as you hastily swipe your palms across your cheeks, wiping down your cheeks. Your nose embarrassingly whistles again as you try to breathe in.

Valarr gently calls out your name. 

“Don’t listen to him. Aerion is an idiot who doesn’t own a shred of decency.”

Aerion grunts something that awfully sounds like a curse, but Valarr pays him no mind. 

He glances at you, swiftly cutting down the chicken tender in his plate into smaller pieces before lifting them over to your plate. An attentive thought, given how the plastic cutlery you are given barely works. 

Valarr eyes your plate. “Eat your food, sweetheart. It’s getting cold.”

Aerion snorts from his seat, rolling his eyes condescendingly. 

“Yes, sweetheart, eat your food. And clean that damn nose. All that whistling and sniffling is making me lose appetite.”

To say that you’re mortified is an understatement, you want nothing more than to disappear from the face of the Earth at that comment. You blow your nose with a napkin as quietly as you can, not needing more of Aerion’s insults. 

Valarr snorts. “I’d say your lost appetite has more to do with uncle Maekar calling than anything else. What did he want, anyways?”

“Same as usual, that old man says that…”

Their conversation gets lost on you as you focus on the food, a small sharp pain in your gut reminding you of the lunch you skipped.

The plate placed in front of you has long gone cold, but it still looks good. The chicken Valarr cut for you is neatly organized to the side, near the small stack of oven-cooked potatoes, greens and vegetables. Healthy. Fresh. 

Picking up the plastic fork, you shove some food into your mouth. It tastes good, like it always does. Seasoned but not overly so. Cooked just perfectly. The type of food that is served in upscale restaurants. 

Your mind drifts towards the rectangular service elevator located in the wall of the kitchenette, where the food arrives everyday without fail. Spacious enough to fit a maximum of a couple of food trays, but small enough to prevent a human body from crawling inside.  

Aerion once complained about their private chef’s attitude in the mornings and so it’s not hard to put the pieces together into the puzzle and figure out that there’s a person working on a daily basis upstairs. More than one, most likely.

The Targaryen family is wealthy enough to cause envy to most billionaires in the world and surely their sons have a full, large team of staff and employees to take care of their shared house. Private chefs, housekeepers, maids, managers, security. 

You’ve lost count of the days, but your captivity time couldn’t be over two weeks.

Two weeks of sending food to the basement.

Two weeks of the boys visiting the basement.

And while their visits are irregular and at odd hours, there’s not a single day they haven’t showed up. You always have dinner together, but they also show up throughout the day to visit you. Sometimes together. Sometimes taking turns.

Aerion and his arrogant attitude, always ready to taunt you about how miserable he can make your life if you don’t start acting right with them. Valarr and his gentle voice, always whispering soft comforting words that hide away his true intentions.  

Do their staff not notice their prolonged visits to the downstairs floor or are they paid enough to keep their minds and their eyes strictly to their work? Perhaps they simply don’t care. No one cares. And that means that you’ll rot in this stupidly comfortable basement for the rest of your life. 

A lone tear escapes from your eye and you quickly swipe at it, not wanting the barely contained dam to break loose.

Again. 

–

Sunday morning you wake up to find Aerion in the living room. 

You’re still half dazed from a night of poor sleep and ruthless insomnia, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes when you realize with a startle that silver-haired boy is on the couch. You stop by the doorway, legs locking up the moment you catch sight of him.

It’s not the first time Aerion has randomly made himself comfortable in the basement apartment, showing unnanounced. Valarr often does the same. It’s almost as if they take turns in checking up on you in person, despite their state-of-the-art vigilance system.

Or maybe their visits are just a strategic step in their plan, a way to force you to become accustomed to their presence around you. If that’s the purpose, you refuse to let it happen. 

Much to your dismay though, Aerion only ever drops in the most random occasions. Forcing you to quietly endure his presence while he drops to the mattress and scrolls down on his phone while laying in your bed as if you’re not even there. Sometimes he shows up for something as random as using the en-suite bathroom, only to leave right after. 

And sometimes, he comes with the sole purpose of terrorizing you.

The memory is still fresh of when he forced you to accept a shoulder massage, some lousy excuse on how tightly wound up you were and that you needed to relax. Only for the said massage to involve his hands wandering far too low and his fingers painfully digging into your muscles. 

And when he caught sight of the tears silently tracking down your face, he snapped. Pushed you away from him with a force that sent you to the floor. Yelled at you for being an ungrateful bitch, that he was only being nice. As if he was the victim, which couldn’t be further from the truth. 

While Valarr is always somewhat predictable, Aerion is the complete opposite. He’s fire. Dangerous and uncontrollable, always burning himself and others. He’s volatile. There’s never knowing of his moods, never knowing if ignoring him is gonna make him furiously snap at you or if he’ll just roll his eyes and leave you be.

He’s unpredictable and that’s perhaps what frightens you the most about him. One wrong word can either earn you a sharp slap to the cheek or a just a roll of the eyes - and there’s never telling which one will happen. 

So that’s why your heart skips a beat at the sight of Aerion slumped on the couch, feet propped up on the small coffee table.

You try not to stare too hard because of his clothes. Or the lack of them, given how he’s only sporting grey sweatpants. His toned torso is on full display, the black ink of a three-headed dragon on his forearm making a formidable contrast against his pale skin. A monster Aerion seems to be particularly fascinated about, some obsessive connection to the roots of his family history. 

Aerion doesn’t look at you. His violet eyes are fixed on the television, though the sound is completely off. A great way to watch television indeed.

He doesn’t acknowledge you, although it’s impossible not to have heard you coming and so you stand at the doorway for a few moments, resisting the temptation to just go back to your room and slip back under the covers until he goes away to do whatever he does on the weekends. But the smell of the delicious waft of fresh donuts coming from the kitchenette has your stomach aching.

In the end your hunger wins and you make an effort to push back the discomfort that gathers in your bones, an instinctive reaction to Aerion’s presence in your vicinity, as you walk across the living room till you reach the corner where the kitchenette is located. 

You set the coffee machine working and eye the tray on the counter.

Every morning the kitchen sends down a variety of breakfast pastries. Freshly baked, soft dough and still warm from the oven. Smelling so heavenly that your mouth waters just by looking at the elegant display of donuts, croissants and pancakes. 

And it tastes even better than its enticing appearance, you have to hold back from moaning as your teeth sink into a fluffy donut, the sugar glaze melting in your tongue. 

You’re halfway through a sugar-sprinkled croissant when Aerion speaks. 

“Come here.”

You glance at him and find his violet eyes already settled upon you. He takes his feet off the table and sits straighter on the couch. When you remain posted by the counter a moment too long, his eyebrows rise.  

“Come here or I’ll get you here myself.”

His words are said with a plain tone and yet they are enough to get you moving. You make your way to the couch without wasting time. Once you are within his reach, Aerion snatches your hand and rudely tugs you towards him. 

You land in his lap with a motion that is as painful as it is graceless and Aerion grunts. Tension surges through your body when his arm snakes around your waist like a reinforced chain, keeping you grounded to him. 

With his other hand, he brings your hand to his mouth and takes a bite of your half-eaten croissant.

He stares lecherously with provocation in his eyes as his tongue slithers to his lower lip, licking away the sugar powder. It takes nearly every ounce of self-control not to make your repulsion too obvious and even so the corners of your lips twist downwards. 

“Tastes sweet.” he comments, the tip of his tongue still languidly darting at his lips. “Do you like sweet things?”

You writhe before looking away, setting your eyes on the big screen. 

Aerion chuckles lightly but lets you ignore him, thankfully. He seems to be in a good mood, those days quite rare.

You were already half-imagining him angrily pushing you to the floor but instead he drags you closer with his arm, settling your back against his bare chest, tucking his chin over your shoulder. 

You remain like that for a while, the silence settling between you.

It’s far from comfortable, with you trying not to move on his lap while pretending to watch the screen when in reality you couldn’t be any less interested in seeing a blood-filled scene of what appears to be a criminal investigation show. 

You are as though a statue, mentally struggling and shallow breathing, while Aerion is seemingly more than comfortable. The minutes drag by with the pace of a snail, excruciatingly slow.

One episode of the show ends and another begins and yet Aerion seems perfectly content in keeping you captive in his suffocating embrace. 

At one point, Aerion begins to caress your arm.

Long fingers moving up and down the length of your arm in smooth movements, fingertips drawing light patterns on the exposed skin. Goosebumps erupt in your skin. His touch feels too intimate, body against body, skin against skin. You don’t even know if he’s doing this on purpose or if it’s genuinely an unconscious gesture.

Either way it messes with your head, a bad feeling in your stomach as you dread the moment he gets bored of innocent touches and his hands graduate into wandering to more intimate regions. 

Valarr shows up halfway through the third episode. 

By then, your legs have gone stiff from the awkwardness of sitting in someone else’s lap, your mind coming up with all sorts of excuses only to reject them out of fear of triggering Aerion back into his cruel persona. 

Aerion’s arm tightens around your waist at the sound of the door opening but remains quiet otherwise. Valarr repeats your steps, freezing by the doorway.

Only the rise of his eyebrows indicates some sort of surprise at finding you and Aerion in such a close position. Heat floods your cheeks, the awkwardness of the situation making you squirm. 

“Good morning.” 

You greet him back while Aerion only grunts. That has Valarr's attention shifting towards his cousin. 

“As much as I hate to interrupt, there’s an emergency.” he declares, “It’s about your brother.”

“Which one?”

“Daeron.”

Aerion sneers. “Shocking.”

“Apparently he pulled Aegon out of boarding school with an excuse and now they’re both missing. Uncle Maekar wants us to help the security team in finding them.” 

That doesn’t seem to please Aerion, opposite to you.

“Daeron has pulled this shit before. He’ll return in a few days when his money and booze run out. That’s what he always does anyway.” he spits, “I’m not wasting my time over a drunk brother who doesn’t wanna be found.”

Valarr looks at him, dark brows pinching. 

“You have to tag along, Aerion.” he affirms. His eyes dart towards you for a second. “Or do you want your dad to show up here by surprise?”

Sharp pain blooms in your arm, where Aerion’s gentle touch has now turned into cruelty with his blunt nails digging into your skin. His irritation feels palpable as he exhales sharply, upset. 

“Daeron, that fucking idiot.”

A yelp escapes you when Aerion abruptly pushes your body to the side with the roughness that is so typical to him. You wince when your arm gets trapped between the couch and your body as you fall down, part of you minimally grateful that at least he didn’t throw you onto the floor. 

Aerion curses his pathetic brothers, shoulder colliding against Valarr as he angrily storms off without so much as giving you a last word. You prefer it that way, anyways.

When you finally manage to pull yourself back together, giving into the relief of at last having back your personal space and relishing into the comfort of the solid couch underneath you instead of Aerion’s lap, it’s when you realize that Valarr hasn’t moved away. 

He’s staring at you with an expression on his face that you can’t decipher. Brows pushed together, eyes firmly set in you. As if he's trying to figure out something.

“... it might take a while for us to get back. Don’t wait up.” 

Valarr speaks at last, giving you a last strange look before leaving. 

–

Not a day goes by without you making a round on the apartment. It’s a habit that grew out of boredom as much as of necessity. You can’t stay in the basement forever. You simply… cannot. 

It becomes part of your routine, a habit that engraved itself into your nearly empty schedule. You examine the entire apartment at least once a day. Twice if you’re feeling desperate enough.

There’s not a specific time to it though.

Sometimes it’s the first thing you do in the morning, sometimes you have to delay it because of Aerion or Valarr. But your mind quickly becomes restless when the hours go by and you haven’t yet searched for every nook and creek in the apartment in hopes of finding a miraculous way out. 

By now the apartment’s floor plan must’ve been etched into your mind, not a single corner that yet remains unknown. Sometimes you consider writing all your findings into a notebook, note down all the details no matter how important or how insignificant they are.

You’ve always been fond of writing things down on paper, finding the physical support much more useful for when needing to clear your head and find a solution. Maybe you could even use the notes to conjure up a few plans, a path to finding back your freedom. But then you’re reminded of Aerion’s awful tendency to go through the few personal belongings you have and how his intruding hands would inevitably find your diary and you instantly give up on that idea. 

You don't need to make things worse for you.

The apartment is spacious, with overhead lights that brightly illuminate the divisions during the day in a poor mimick of sunlight and then dim into a weak, gentle lightening as the hours pass till nighttime. It’s all white and beige. Clean and simple, minimalistic and yet not completely desolated. 

The main door is an impossible challenge.

Not only does it have a 10 digit passcode that changes everyday but also has a retinal and fingerprint scanner as well as a voice confirmation step. All those security steps severely limit down your chances but it did cross your mind that you could simply wait for the boys to open the door, push them aside and then make a run for it. But the same thought must’ve crossed their minds as well as they never unlock the door if you’re around. 

The spacious, larg living room is divided in two areas, wide enough to have a long beige couch and a home theater television hanged to the wall as well as to host the kitchenette in a corner, a small round table next to it where you eat your meals.

The reasoning behind having a kitchenette is beyond your comprehension as there is no oven, no stove, no microwave. Only the service elevator that acts as food delivery and a bunch of locked drawers where the metal knives and glass plates are kept.

Other than that, there’s only a small fridge with cold water and ice and then a small pantry stacked full with snacks and drinks to keep you satisfied until meal time. 

And then there’s your room, the king sized bed occupying the biggest part of it. There’s a very minimalistic touch to the whole division, with only the bare essentials - a small wooden wardrobe, a simple vanity, a clock on the wall. The en-suite bathroom is a small sanctuary within this nightmare, the only door with a functional lock. While there are cameras hanging on the top corner of each room - even the bedroom, the bathroom escapes from that fate. Most likely they didn’t want the gross vision of you using the toilet although you’re very certain Aerion would enjoy watch you take a shower. 

As of lately the tall door that controls your freedom persists in your mind.

Your thoughts are inevitably drawn to it, like a moth attracted to flame. Your heart skips a beat whenever that metallic beep travels through the air, the sound of the door being pushed open or even closed. 

You pay closer attention to when the door is opened from the inside.

The boys’ back covers the majority of the process and they’re awfully quiet when doing whatever is it that they do. But you’ve come to catch a few stray details about it. It’s not always the code that opens the door, nor is it the retinal scanner, or the fingerprint option or even the audio mechanism. 

It alternates.

The door-opening mechanisms change everyday in an irregular pattern, too confusing for you to even try and figure it out. Not just that, but the codes are updated every day as well. The punching of the keypad sounds different each time you try to listen, the words they whisper into the microphone resonating inconsistently on each occasion.

It’s too confusing, too complex and your memory doesn’t cooperate when you need it to. It’s a complete disgrace. It frustrates you so much that your eyes can’t stop being constantly drawn to it. 

Much like right.

You realize with a startle that Valarr has stopped talking, his eyes following your fixed gaze before returning to your face. He stares at you, not exactly surprised but perhaps a bit... amused? 

“... it was my idea.”

That grabs your attention. “Hm?”

“It was my idea.” he nods towards the door, “The door. Had it custom made, very specific design. State of the art technology gadgets. It cost us a fortune."

He smiles.

"Aerion doesn’t like it any better than you do, thinks it’s too much trouble.”

Your lips twist. 

“He’s not wrong.” you whisper. 

“He’s not wrong.” Valarr repeats slowly, nodding his head. “That’s true. It’s a lot of trouble. More for us than you, really. But I thought you’d prefer it this way.” 

You look at him, not sure whether to be confused or angry.

“Why would I?” 

Valarr gives you a pointed look, tilting his head.

“Well, maybe because instead of the door, Aerion suggested we keep you chained to the bed.”

A cold feeling spreads in your body, twisting your guts. You look at Valarr, horrified. What? 

He only shrugs his shoulders. 

“He wondered why should we go through the effort of tiptoeing around the door all the time when we could have it the easy way. A chain on your feet or your neck and problem solved. You’d be bed bound the entire time, unable to leave or to roam around. Easy fix, right?”

His hand lands on top of yours, warm and comforting, as your brain attempts to process the harsh scenario of what could’ve been. An image pops up in your mind, uncalled for.

Of you laying on the bed, writhing and twisting but never getting far away, held down by a steel chain that digs into your skin, Aerion’s hands travelling up and down your body, touching it without pudor or fear, taking what he wants…

“I rejected that option." he assures you, softly. "Because you deserve better. Because you don’t deserve to be that miserable, like a bird whose wings were stripped away.”

Valarr steps closer. His palm cups your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing the skin. He gently steers your face up, making you meet his eyes. Demanding for your attention, despite the bucket of cold, freezing water he just threw at you. 

“... it’s not always gonna be like this.”

When you only blink at him, he continues. 

“I know you don’t exactly enjoy being locked up here. I understand that. I’m sorry about that too. But this is just a temporary arrangement. Only until you give me and Aerion enough reasons to trust you.”

Your stomach flips.

“I’ll… be able to go upstairs?”

Valarr nods, a small smile gracing his pretty lips. 

“Eventually.” he confirms. “We have a pretty big garden, I think you’re gonna love it. The gardener is working on planting flowers, your favorites. Maybe one day you can tend to them yourself.”

“Then there’s the infinity pool, heated of course cause you hate cold water. Ah, and Aerion wants to show you the game room, he can’t wait to beat you in a bowling match but between you and me, my money is on you.”

Valarr chuckles and for a moment, you let your imagination run wild. Just for a moment. Just for a very small, short moment.

Not with them, never them. But the outside world.

There’s a flicker of hope reigniting inside you, at the possibility of feeling the sun’s warmth kiss your skin or to be able to fill your lungs with fresh, pure air. You don't even remember what fresh air feels like anymore.

“The perimeter of the property is well-guarded, we made sure of it. No one gets past our security team. You’d be safe to wander around the entire grounds and no one would stop you.” 

Valarr speaks as though that's a compromise. As though it's your safety they'd be concerned about when the truth is clear for all who can see.

And then reality dawns on you. You’d be able to go outside - a promise that has no grounds to be trusted in the first place - but at what cost?

By playing along in their delusional game and losing your sanity and self-respect in the process. By losing yourself in the middle of achieving whatever illusion of freedom they want to trick you with. By being their willing puppet.

Valarr seems to catch onto your distress and his tone loses some of the enthusiasm. He pulls his hand away from you and crosses his arms.

“Like I said, the security team is pretty solid. No one gets inside without our permission.”

He looks at you, brown eyes fleeting to your lips before returning to back to your eyes.

You let him guide you down the hallway, your legs aren’t really yours anymore.

The bathroom light is too bright. It burns your eyes. Valarr lifts you onto the counter and steps between your knees. His shirt is smeared dark at the sleeves. He doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Look at me.”

You can’t.

He wets a washcloth under the faucet. The water runs pink.

“There we go,” he murmurs, wiping your cheek with impossible gentleness. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

The cloth pauses beneath your left eye.

“You won’t have to leave again after tonight,” he says softly, almost like a promise. “I’ll take care of everything. You can stay with me. I’ll make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.”

Your stomach twists. The faucet keeps running, pink water spirals down the drain.

You finally lift your eyes.

Over Valarr’s shoulder, through the bathroom doorway, you can see the edge of the living room.

Duncan’s hair.

Duncan’s eyes.

Still open.

Staring.

A sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Valarr immediately turns your face towards him. “Hey. Hey, you don’t need to look at that.” He cups your face with both hands. “Stay with me. Just look at me.”

He wipes another streak from your jaw. You hold your breath as you stare at the wallpaper with tiny blue flowers on it. Duncan complained about it when he first moved in. You remember laughing. You remember-

The cloth brushes your cheek.

You flinch, Valarr immediately freezes.

Valarr notices your expression, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He kisses your temple. His lips are warm. His hands are steady.

“You know I love you right?” He whispers

The words land in the room like a curse.

“You know that, right?”

-

He leaves you in the bathroom as he begins cleaning.

You hear his footsteps move through the apartment with frightening tranquility. Going through closets and cabinets. 

You lean to the side to look into the living room, Valarr works methodically, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight with concentration. Duncan is wrapped in the living room rug. The weight of the dead body shakes the floor every time Valarr lets go of it. You hear him struggling, grunting.

The sound of the rug scraping across the floor makes your skin crawl.

You slide from the counter, your legs nearly giving out. The world spins as you catch yourself on the sink.

You walk closer to the doorway, your eyes drift across the room.

The couch, the coffee table, a knocked-over lamp, the cracked-

Something small sticking out of Duncan’s overturned bag.

A long triangular box with large red text.

Slowly, you move towards it, picking it up.

The cardboard box feels heavy in your hand, the cartoon faces smile at you.

ONE WISH WILLOW

Your pulse stutters.

Duncan’s.

Unused. Still sealed.

Hope hits you so suddenly it hurts your chest.

It drops to your stomach as footsteps approach the front door.

Before you can think, you grab it and shove it beneath your sweater, pressing it against your stomach.

Valarr returns seconds later, breathing harder than before.

He doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go.”

-

He carries you to the car.

You don’t remember the drive, only flashes.

Streetlights sliding across the windshield, Valarr’s hand on your knee. The box hidden underneath your sweater.

When he stops the car, you realize you’re on a bridge.

The river below is black and endless.

Valarr gets out. 

You hear the trunk open.

Then the sound of something heavy being dragged.

You don’t look up until the splash comes.

The impact echoes up from the water.

SPLASH

You flinch so hard your shoulder slams into the door.

Valarr returns a moment later, he slides into the driver’s seat and immediately reaches for you.

“Hey.” His thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry, baby. It’s over.”

You stare at him.

Outside, the river keeps moving.

Inside, the One Wish Willow digs into your stomach like a splinter.

The drive home feels endless.

Neither of you speak.

The windshield wipers drag back and forth across the glass, smearing rainwater into distorted streaks of yellow and white. Every passing streetlight flashes across Valarr’s face.

Sometimes he looks normal.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

You stop looking.

Your fingers remain pressed against your stomach the entire drive.

Valarr notices eventually.

His hand slides over yours.

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Cold?’

You don’t answer.

His thumb strokes your knuckles.

“You’ll feel better when we get home.”

You stare out the window, the river long gone now.

Duncan is long gone now, somewhere beneath black water.

You look at Valarr’s hands; steady, unshaking.

Lines of red beneath his fingernails.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

-

Valarr guides you upstairs, his hands on your waist. He turns your body to enter the bedroom.

He sets you carefully on bed, your back meeting the bed frame. Immediately, he drops to his knees beside you.

Checking your face, legs, and hands. Checking for injuries, for damage.

“Do you need anything?”

You shake your head.

“Water?”

No response.

“Food?”

No response.

“Are you still cold?”

No response.

His face falls slightly. It almost makes you feel bad.

Then you remember Duncan’s eyes. Still open, staring directly at you.

The guilt dies, fast.

Valarr reaches for your hands. You let him.

His hands are walm. Yours feel cold, almost numb.

“We’ll figure this out.”

The conviction in his voice is terrifying.

“It’s just us now.”

Something inside your chest cracks.

His smile returns, “Nobody is ever going to take you away from me again.”

You stare at him.

At the man you wished for. At the man you ruined.

The hidden One Wish Willow still presses against your ribs.

The second Valarr leaves the room to answer a phone call, you drop to your knees beside a dark wooden dresser. Your fingers shake so badly you nearly drop the triangular box.

The packaging catches against the wood. For a horrible second, you think it’s stuck. Then it disappears beneath the dresser.

You shove your foot under the dresser, pushing the box further back under the dresser just as footsteps approach.

-

The television stays on constantly, day and night. You don’t know why. Maybe Valarr thinks the noise helps. Maybe he’s afraid of silence. You don’t want to find out.

The room never becomes dark, never peaceful, never still.

Cartoons, sitcoms, romcoms, new reports, infomercials. The voices blur together.

You barely hear them anymore.

You stop eating, food simply stops making sense.

Valarr tries anyway.

The first night he makes your favorite meal. You watch him as he carries the plates upstairs. His face full of hope, like a child showing off a drawing.

“Look.”

He sets it in front of you, “I remembered extra cheese.”

The smell immediately turns your stomach.

You manager two bites. On the third, you vomit on your lap, on Valarr’s shirt he put you in after the bath he set for you a few hours before, in the plate of food he painstakingly made for you.

A second later, Valarr is beside you. Holding your hair, rubbing circle against your back.

“It’s okay.” His voice cracks.

You don’t know whether he’s comforting you or himself.

-

Every time.

Every fucking time you close your eyes, he’s there.

Duncan.

Just his eyes. Open, unmoving, staring directly at you.

You wake up screaming, Valarr nearly falls out of bed trying to reach you.

“Baby.”

His hands grab your face. “Baby?”

You can’t breathe. You can’t stop shaking.

You can’t stop seeing him.

“Duncan.”

The name slips out accidentally.

The room goes silent. Valarr freezes, just for a second, but you notice.

His hands stop moving, his expression goes blank. Completely blank, like someone unplugged him. 

The look lasts less than a heartbeat. Then it’s gone, replaced by panic.

But you’ve already seen it, and once you’ve saw it, you can’t stop seeing it.

-

You start paying attention. That horrible blank stare. A few seconds at a time, a glitch, a crack. A fracture running through whatever this thing has turned him into.

Maybe he’s just as trapped as you are.

The television is playing some sitcom you’ve seen a hundred times before. Someone says something funny, the audience erupts in laughter.

The sound makes your skin crawl.

Valarr sits beside you. His hand rests on your knee; his thumb moves in slow circles.

You stare at the screen, pretending to watch.

Then the movement stops. Slowly, you turn your head.

Valarr is staring at the television, completely motionless.

The room suddenly feels quieter.

“Valarr?”

Nothing, the sitcom audience laughs again.

“Valarr?”

His eyes slowly shift, meeting yours. “What day is it?”

The question catches you off guard, “What?”

“What day is it?” His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t spoken in years.

Your heart hammers, “Thursday, I-I think.”

Valarr stares, the muscles in his jaw twitch.

“What happened?” The words barely leave his mouth.

You sit upright, “What do you mean?”

His eyes narrow, not at you, past you. Like he’s trying to remember something.

“What happened?”

You open your mouth.

Before you can answer, Valarr blinks. The confusion vanishes.

His hand squeezes your knee, “There you are.”

You freeze; his smile returns. Wrong, familiar.

“I missed you.”

-

You’re standing in the bathroom brushing your teeth. Valarr is sitting on the closed toilet lid, watching you.

The mirror catches his reflection; you almost miss it.

His expression changes instantly.

You stop brushing. Valarr is staring at his own reflection, his eyebrows pull together slightly.

“Valarr?”

His breathing changes. Sharp, uneven.

His eyes flick downward to his hands.

Then the bruises covering his arms, the scratches, the marks.

His face loses what little color remained.

“What the fuck…” The words are barely audible.

Valarr jerks upright so fast the toilet lid bounces off the base.

His eyes lock onto yours. For a split second, you think he’s remembering everything.

Duncan, the bridge, the blood.

Instead, his entire body goes rigid, like something grabbed him and pulled him back in his head.

His eyes unfocus, then refocus.

“Baby?” The smile returns. Artificial.

You stare at him; the toothbrush gripped tightly in your hand.

The repeated word makes you sick to your stomach.

-

The television drones on, it’s been on for hours.

The sound has stopped meaning anything, it’s just noise filling space so silence doesn’t get a chance to form.

Valarr is talking beside you. His voice rises and falls like he’s telling a story you were supposed to follow.

You didn’t catch the beginning, or the middle. Or anything at all.

You stare straight ahead, past him. Your eyes land on the dresser without meaning to. 

Pressed into darkness like it might rot if it’s found, your last chance. 

Your last mistake.

Valarr’s voice pauses, “Baby?”

You don’t move.

“Baby?” His tone shifts slightly.

Quieter now, careful.

The room is smaller.

The television is too loud.

The thoughts arrive uninvited.

Duncan is dead.

It’s your fault.

Something inside your chest caves in.

The first object hits the floor before you realize you’ve moved.

The television remote.

It cracks against the wall hard enough that plastic scatters across the carpet like bone fragments.

“Baby-“

You don’t hear him finish; your hands are already reaching.

A lamp, it shatters against the coffee table. Glass jumps across the surface like it’s alive for half a second before dying out.

Your breathing turns jagged, uneven, too loud in your ears.

You are on your knees now, without remembering the fall. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely see them.

You gasp, but it breaks apart before it becomes words. “I can’t do this anymore!”

Valarr moves immediately. He drops to the floor beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence without seeing him fully.

“Baby,” he says quickly, hands reaching.

Always reaching.

“Don’t-don’t touch me!”

He stops, like he’s been physically interrupted.

You drag yourself backward on the floor, your palms slip against the carpet, your breathing stutters.

“I can’t,” you repeat again, but now it sounds different. Like you’re telling it to yourself more than him.

“You’re okay,” he says. But it doesn’t sound like reassurance, it sounds like an instruction.

And something in that breaks the last thread you were holding onto.

You shake your head violently, “No.”

Your voice cracks immediately. “No, no-“

Your eyes lock onto him, and everything that’s been building inside you spills out at once.

“You are not him!”

The words land wrong.

Too loud.

Too real.

The room goes still, Valarr doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak, just freezes.

“What?” He says quietly after a moment. 

“I don’t want you,” you choke out.

The sentence feels like tearing something out of your chest.

“I don’t want you.” Your voice breaks completely.

“I want Valarr!”

His face shifts.

“I am him,” he says immediately.

Too certain.

“No,” you whisper.

Tears are already blurring your vision.

“No, you’re not.”

You push yourself backward again, scrambling, desperate for space that doesn’t exist.

“You’re not him.”

The repetition becomes a rhythm.

A prayer.

A warning.

Valarr slowly follows you. He’s controlled, like he’s tracking you.

“I can be whatever you want me to be,” he says, voice trembling now. “I’ll do anything.”

“No,” you sob.

“Anything,” he insists. “I’ll change.”

Your breath breaks completely. “You can’t.”

“I can.”

“You can’t be him!”

The words finally snap something open inside him.

He goes rigid, entire body locking like a wire pulled into tight.

He stands slightly, just enough that his shadow falls over you completely.

The calm breaks.

“I AM VALARR!”

The shout detonates through the room.

You flinch so hard your entire body curls inward. A broken sound leaves your throat; half sob, half panic.

And then-

Wet.

Warmth, spreading fast.

Humiliating.

Your entire body goes still in horror as your mind lags behind understanding.

You stare at the puddle beneath your legs. You can’t move. You can’t speak.

Valarr stares too; at you, at the floor below you.

The anger is gone instantly, like it never existed.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

“Oh, baby.”

The sound is different now, empty.

He drops to his knees again immediately. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You fall into his chest, there’s nowhere else left to fall.

-

That night, Valarr falls asleep with his arm around your waist.

Or at least, you think he does.

The television flickers softly across the room. Some late-night informercial drones in the darkness. The blue light washes over the ceiling in slow pulses.

You stare upward. You haven’t slept, not really. Every time you close your eyes, you see Duncan.

Every time you drift off, you wake up choking on panic.

Beside you, Valarr breathes steady. His arm is heavy across your back like a leash disguised as affection.

His fingers twitch, you freeze. The room feels impossibly still.

“Don’t move like that.”

The voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

Your entire body locks. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

Valarr is staring at the ceiling. His expression is blank, he looks exhausted.

“V-Valarr?”

“Shh. You’ll wake him up.”

“Who?” You barely breath out.

“It’s not me, (Y/N).” His eyes slide toward yours.

Immediately, fear floods your chest.

“N-No. You are Valarr.”

You hate how desperate you sound.

“He’ll wake up if you’re too loud.” He whispers, not moving an inch. 

When he opens his eyes again, they look wet.

“He’s not me.” He says quietly but firmly.

Your eyes burn, “Valarr…”

“Keep your voice down.” The warning comes instantly, sharp.

His eyes dart toward the television, then to you.

“What happened?” The question comes out harsh, demanding.

You feel tears gathering instantly.

His voice cracks, “What did I do?”

You cover your face, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t know.” The words barely make it out.

Valarr freezes.

“I didn’t know it was real.”

You force yourself to look at him, at the real him. The version you’ve been searching for. The version you’ve been mourning while he sat beside you.

“I wished for it.”

Valarr doesn’t move, doesn’t blink.

“I thought it was a joke.”

Tears spill down your face. “I thought it was fake.”

Valarr remains silent, only his expression changes. Devastation.

He breaks the silence with a harsh whisper, “You could’ve left me alone, but you did this?”

You start to cry harder, “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t even give me a choice.”

You physically recoil, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You push out of your breath. “B-but I can fix this!” You scramble off the bed, towards the dresser.

“I can fix this,” and “I’m sorry,” spill out of your mouth like a disoriented prayer as you rush toward the dresser, socks slipping on the ground.

Your knees slam against the floor, you barely feel it.

Behind you, Valarr stands.

“(Y/N), what are you doing?”

Your hands disappear beneath the dresser; dust coats your fingers. Your nails scrape the wood. For a moment, you can’t find it. Your fingers grasp it, pulling yourself off the floor.

You yank open the box, the playful tune you heard weeks ago now sounding distorted.

“I can fix this.” You say, turning towards Valarr. You’re holding the branch in shaky hands, before putting it in his.

“You wanna make me happy, right? Make me happy.” You plead, holding onto his arms. “Make everything go back to normal. Please. That will make me happy.” You smile shakily, tears leaking from your eyes.

Valarr looks at you. You can’t read his expression, tears flooding your eyes leaving you with a blurry figure in front of you.

“Okay, (Y/N).” He says, rubbing your head.

“Okay?” You say, full of hope.

“I wish for (Y/N) to love me the way I love them.”

SNAP!

Your face drops, “no...” You whisper, looking at the broken branch still in his hands.

“Now you’ll be happy, baby. You’ll be happy with me.” He says with a bright smile.

You’re about to say something but something inside you shifts.

You smile.

Your lips begin to bleed from the stretching tension, your eyes flooding with tears.

-

my brain is rotten. hope you enjoy

You yelp when at the sharp pain. 

“Fuck, sorry.” Valarr immediately rushes to apologize. His hand pulls away in the slightest, reducing the pressure of the ice bag on your nose. “I’m so sorry.”

You bring your own hand to the bag but Valarr refuses to let it go. He clings to the bag, carefully keeping it pressed against your nose while eyeing it with utmost concern.

The concern isn’t entirely uncalled for. Anyone unfortunate enough to lay their eyes upon you would feel concern. Heck, even you are concerned.

Your nose is but a scary sight, surrounded by a mix of humid blood and tears. The majority of the bleeding has stopped by now but you can still feel some of it slowly dripping down from your nostril. It looks like a bomb has exploded right in the middle of your face and it most certainly feels that way too. It still hurts enough to make your eyes well, an agonizing sort of pain that you’re slowly starting to become familiar with.

You’re nearly certain that something has been cracked although Valarr assures you that the bone is intact, that your nose is perfectly fine, that it’ll heal easily.

You’re not too sure whether he speaks the truth or if he’s just trying to make you feel better. 

“I’m gonna check again.” 

Valarr pulls the ice bag away from your face and you nearly whine at the loss of the soothing cold relief. He visibly tenses up when his eyes take in the damage and then presses the bag back to your nose with steady fingers. 

“It’s not too bad.” he says after a moment. “The swelling might take a while before it goes away but your nose will be fine.”

You sniff, a couple of tears dashing down your cheeks. You reach with shady fingers to wipe down the saltiness from your lips, the metallic taste of blood leaving a gross aftertaste. Your fingers are reddish when you pull them down. 

“... it hurts.” you mutter.  

Valarr is quick in pressing a kiss to the side of your head. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” he tries to comfort you. “But it’s gonna get better soon. The painkillers are gonna help and so will the ice, so let’s stick with that, okay?”

You don’t reply and let your gaze fall on the kitchen’s faucet. The words are on the tip of your tongue, just ready to slip out but you bite them down. You’re exhausted and your whole face hurts. There’s no point in wasting words, especially when every movement of your face triggers pain. Valarr presses another kiss to your hairline, letting his soft lips linger on the skin as he apologizes for the nth time. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

Your boyfriend pulls back, lowering his head to meet your eyes. He looks both upset and worried, a strand of brown hair falling on his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

That makes another tear roll down your eye. You want to believe him.

You want to believe Valarr. You want to believe that he wouldn’t hurt you on purpose. You want to believe that he didn’t mean to grab you by the back of the head and shove your face against the kitchen counter. You want to believe he wouldn’t abuse you like that over something so small as a dinner with friends lasting longer than expected.

You want to believe… and maybe that’s why you stay when the right thing would be to leave. 

“I know I fucked up.” Valarr laments, “I was just upset you wouldn’t answer my calls, I wasn’t even thinking straight. I was so worried, thinking of all the bad scenarios and you kept declining my calls and I know your friends are bad influences and it just-”

Valarr cuts himself off before he starts to get worked up. Again. He exhales deeply.  

“That’s not an excuse, I know it. What I did was… awful.” he says. “I shouldn’t have hit you.  I didn’t even mean it, it just happened.”

Valarr speaks like a tormented soul, like your pain is his to share. 

“But it won’t happen again. I promise.” 

He touches your hand, palm covering your own. 

“Can you forgive me, sweetheart? Please.”

Part of you wonders if he’ll deliver a new blow to your nose if you decline. Your hesitation lasts only a moment before you nod, a small reluctant gesture.

Valarr smiles weakly and buries his face in the crook of your neck, whispering about how much he loves you and how he is. It feels like a movie you’ve seen too many times.  

Yes. You forgive him. You forgive him  because he Valarr never means to hurt you, even when he does. You forgive him because there’s no other possible answer. Not when you’re under the heat of his stare, his figure hovering you, his hand pressed on where it hurts the most.

Not when there is still a part of your heart that clings to the dark-haired boy, unable to let go of the love that you feel for him. 

You always find it in your heart to forgive him, even when nothing changes. And maybe that's what hurts the most.

–

Laura frowns as she takes in your face, sitting down on the chair. 

“What happened to your nose?”

You force out a small smile and shrug your shoulders. “I tripped. Landed face square on the counter, can you believe it?”

Your friend hisses as if imagining your pain, a similar reaction to when your mom videocalled you a few days earlier and discovered the poor state of your face.

After nearly two weeks of hiding inside the apartment, swallowing painkillers like its candy and spending hours applying freezing cold ice to your face, your nose has improved significantly. Valarr was right about the nose not being broken and yet that barely meant anything with how badly it hurt. 

But while the appearance has considerably improved by now, you didn’t dare to come bare faced. It took multiple layers of carefully applied concealer to minimize the ugly bruising into a less scary sight of your nose, but the swelling is an issue not even the heaviest of makeup could ever resolve. 

“Geez, I swear you’re always bumping or falling these days.” she shakes her head bewildered. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“And Valarr?”

Your eyes widen. 

“What about him?”

She sighs.

“What does your boyfriend think of your carelessness?” Laura says, the corner of her lips twisting into a smile. “Valarr is always so protective over you, everyone knows it. Right now, he must be battling against himself not to wrap you in a huge bubble of plastic just to keep you safe.” 

You roll your eyes.  

“I’m speaking the truth here.” Laura exclaims, pointing her finger at you. “But in seriousness, you’re lucky to have a boyfriend like that. I mean, he’s handsome and rich and intelligent and kind and I could go on forever and the list still wouldn’t end.”

“I know.” you say only to be interrupted by your friend. 

“You better know. Because he literally looks at you with stars in his eyes despite the horde of girls throwing themselves at him. So you better lock in and not fumble this up.”

She gives you a serious look.

It’s easy to see her perspective and even easier to understand where she’s coming from. You’re not the prettiest. Or the smartest. Or the richest. You don’t own a single superlative. Mediocre is perhaps the best adjective to describe you. And rich pretty boys who are textbook perfect don’t just fall for mediocre girls when there’s a sea of better options waiting for them.

And while it’s hard to admit, Valarr has been the best thing to happen in your life. Your first relationship, your first kiss, your first ever in everything. He doesn’t make you feel dumb for the things you say, doesn’t judge you for the choices you make.

He’s the boyfriend of your dreams - except when he is not. But who said love doesn’t come in the shape of bruises and broken bones sometimes. Maybe that’s the cost of having someone you don’t deserve. 

“I know. I won’t.” you promise, even though it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. 

The conversation carries on easily for the next few minutes, with Laura extensively describing each and every detail of her latest trip to Europe and where she plans to go next. When she compliments the bracelet loosely hanging on your wrist, you thank her with a smile. You don’t tell her the rose gold bracelet is an apology gift for a nearly-broken nose.

Valarr messages you a few times for updates, to which you reply immediately. His tendency to get upset whenever you take too long to reply back always hangs in the back of your mind these days and at the moment you’re nothing but eager to maintain peace. 

Laura does most of the conversation, chatter box as she is.

Not that you mind, you’re more than happy listening to her speak of her adventures in the love department and the way she so confidently manages her life, so easily maneuvering through every challenge like it’s nothing. 

It’s nearly an hour and half later that Laura remembers a date she has to get ready for and rushes out with the promise of scheduling another hang out soon. You don’t actually think she’ll remember to text you any time soon but that’s fine. 

The walk back to the apartment is a quiet one.

It’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to stretch your legs properly with Valarr always insisting on driving you everywhere or forcing you to accept his personal driver to act as your chauffeur. Today is a rare opportunity and so you take your sweet time, walking slowly through the busy streets while relishing on the pleasant warmth that comes with the first days of spring. 

You find Valarr standing in the living room when you return, phone by his ear. 

“Hey.”

His furrowed brows ease up and Valarr quickly hangs up the phone before reaching for you. He greets you with a kiss to the lips and there’s an apologetic expression on his face when you wince, a pang of pain thrumming along the bridge of your nose when his own pokes it. You’re quick to disguise your pain, pushing out a weak smile. 

Valarr glances at his wrist, checking his watch. 

“You’re back early. I thought Laura was gonna keep you there with her forever.”

You let out a small laugh. “She would've tried, but she had plans for tonight so, yeah.”

Valarr chortles and then glances at you. 

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve picked you up.”

 “It’s fine. I didn’t want to bother you.” you shrug your shoulders. “Besides, it was a nice walk.”

Valarr lets out a sigh. 

“You never bother me, you know that.” he assures you, his arm coming to rest on your shoulder. “I just don’t like you walking all alone. Accidents happen every day and it’s not like the crime in this city is getting any better.”

“It was just a ten-minute walk.” 

Irritation flashes in his features before he tucks it away, so fast you nearly believe to have imagined it. Valarr smiles, lips curling into that specific forced smile he gives whenever he wants to put an end to the conversation in a delicate but firm manner, the one that means ‘sure, but we’re doing this my way’. 

“Still. Call me next time. Okay?” 

His brows rise interrogatively, the weight of his hand over your shoulder suddenly heavier with expectancy. 

You cave in, much like you always do. 

“Okay.” 

–

Tension accumulates in your mind, making it harder to keep the smile from slipping from your lips. 

Valarr’s grip tightens around your hand, his fingers crushing your hand. A quick glance reveals nothing. Your boyfriend’s posture is impeccable, his back straight as he makes casual conversation with the man who approached him.

He’s congratulating Valarr on his latest intervention during a board meeting, praising him with an eloquence that almost borders on the extravagant but Valarr only smiles and politely nods, accepting the credit. He’s probably used to having people butter him up in hopes of gaining favors for the future.

The Targaryen family business is known for following a conservative patriarchal structure, which sets Valarr to follow his father’s footsteps into the role of chairman in a not so distant future.

And while you don’t think Valarr to be particularly thrilled to one day receive such a burden of responsibility, there’s no doubt that he’ll do an amazing job at it. 

Your moment of distraction breaks when the conversation shifts to you, the man in the suit turning towards you with a yellow smile. His gaze fleets to your to your dress, dangling on the cleavage before returning to your face. 

“... and might I say your date looks gorgeous, Valarr. Truly a pretty girl.” 

Valarr tenses up and your hand suffers again, making you certain that by the end of the night you’ll certainly have lost all blood circulation on that hand. 

“Yes, I am aware of how good my girlfriend looks.” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse us…”

The man opens his mouth to reply but Valarr is already tugging you away.

It’s a struggle to keep up with his fast pace in high heels without knocking into anyone. The space is crowded with guests, men in expensive suits and women dressed in designer dresses. Their chattering fills the air alongside the live jazz band, everything is glamorous laughing and business banter.

Everyone seems to know each at these sort of high-society events, know exactly how to act and how to speak, how to make small talk. Everyone is in sync, tuned in to the exact same lifestyle of rich mansions and sports cars and yachts for birthday presents.

They take the meaning of wealthy to a whole new level. On the other hand, you stick out like a sore thumb, too awkward and not witty enough to make a long-lasting good impression. 

Valarr walks like he knows his way around the place, secure and confident in everything he does. You stumble behind him, trying to keep up. You catch some familiar faces around. You know his family or some of them, at least, are also present tonight. Valarr’s parents greeted you when you arrived, Baelor telling how glad he was that you could make it while Jena complimented your dress. 

Aerion is also in attendance. Earlier in the night you caught a glimpse of him and his girlfriend, the poor girl looking weirded out as Aerion hissed something into her ear, his grip on her shoulder so tight that his knuckles turned white. You don’t imagine him to be a good boyfriend, despite knowing little about your boyfriend’s cousin. 

His father Maekar ran into you on your way to the restroom while searching for his older son, muttering something under his breath about ‘his drunken disgrace of a son’. You suppose even wealthy families have their own personal drama going on. 

Valarr brings you upstairs, walking down corridors until he pushes you inside a library.

You don’t even have the time to marvel about the existence of such a big library inside the house before Valarr harshly slams your back against a bookshelf, breath being knocked out of you at the impact. Your purse falls on the ground, strap slipping from your shoulder. 

“Why are you wearing that?” he questions, hovering over you with one hand on each side of your head against the shelf. 

You look down at the dress and then back at him, confused.

The cocktail dress is in a color that favors your skin tone, sparkly around the edges and tighter than you usually wear, but without being too revealing. You didn’t think it inappropriate given how it had been a gift from Valarr. Especially with how tonight everyone kept complimenting the dress and how if favored you. 

“The dress code-”

“The dress code didn’t ask for you to dress like a slut.” he hisses, frustration etched to his voice. “Why did you wear this? So everyone could stare at you and your chest?”

Your eyes well up and you furiously blink, not wanting to ruin your makeup. 

“But you said this dress was okay.”

Valarr glares at you. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“I asked you yesterday.”

“I didn’t say that.” he repeats.

“But, Valarr, you-”

His hand slaps the shelf, startling you. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” he snarls, his volume rising. “Or are you calling me a liar?”

He steps away from you, shaking his head. His hand comes up to brush away a strand of hair from his eyes as he looks away, anger rolling out of his in waves. 

“Is that why you came tonight? To flaunt around in that tiny dress, get all the attention you can. Should’ve fucking know.”

Your heart tugs at the cruelty in Valarr’s voice. But you can’t let him think that of you, he misunderstands you, you’d never do something like that. 

So you reach out to him, hand tentatively touching his arm. 

“Valarr, pleas-”

Your boyfriend slaps your hand away with a strength that has your skin sizzling from the impact. A yelp escapes from you when his anger hits you like a bull, his hands slamming you against the shelf. Your spine painfully throbs at the impact and the corner of a book digs into your shoulder. 

“Next time I’m leaving your slutty ass at home.” he declares, not sparing you a single glance before storming off. 

He leaves you standing there, alone and helpless. Heart plummeting from the argument, mind not being able to process what just happened. 

–

“Valarr.”

Valarr presses another kiss to your neck, making you laugh when he tries to sloth his face through the collar of your shirt to get to your shoulder’s skin. 

“Valarr.” you whine with a giggle as his lips tickle your neck. You push at his head until he pulls back.  

“It’s your fault for looking so adorable.” he kisses your cheek repeatedly. “I get cute aggression.”

You smile, heat blooming in your body as he looks at you with something you can only describe as pure adoration in his eyes. It makes your cheeks tingle to have such attention over you, to have Valarr admiring you as if you are the prettiest girl in the world.

It makes you feel warm and soft inside and it’s in these moments that you feel the luckiest girl alive. 

“Well, it’ll be your fault if we get late to lunch.” 

Valarr groans at that, scrunching his nose. He parts from you and walks to his side of the bed, opening and closing the drawers as he searches for something. 

“God, don’t remind me of that. My mother actually interrogated me over your favorite food, so the chef can make it.” 

Your lips part at the pleasant surprise. 

“Oh, I… That’s so nice of her. ” you comment, looking down on your lap. “Your mom is always so sweet.”

Valarr keeps rummaging through his belongings. 

“She likes you, you know. Thinks you’ve very mature for our age.” he says, glancing over his shoulder for a moment. “She also said I seem happier whenever you are around. Guess she can see right through me.”

You beam. You turn around towards the vanity and check the mirror. Your skin is glowing and it’s not just from the makeup. It’s from your heart bursting open with so much joy and love that it feels like you’re in a dream. 

The smile is still present in your face when Valarr approaches just a few moments later. You turn around, lips parting to speak when he beats you to it. 

“Before we go for lunch, I have something for you.” 

A cream-colored envelope is dropped to your lap, expertly tied with a black silk bow. You raise your eyebrows at Valarr, but he simply nods towards it with his arms crossed. 

“Go on, open it.”

Your fingers slowly open the envelope and confusedly stare at the thin paper that comes out. Your eyes scan on the content, once and then twice before the realization hits you like a truck. The paper is an itinerary.

A one-week vacation to Monaco, to be precise.

You glance at Valarr, finding a huge grin already in his lips. 

“I… Is this true?”

“Would I lie about this?” he laughs. 

You drop your gaze back to the paper, staring at it. It’s not a big deal if you think about all the gifts Valarr has offered you, the jewelry pieces and the new phone, the dresses from high-end brands…  and yet it is. 

Valarr steps closer. 

“You didn’t like the surprise?” 

“No. I mean, yes, I do like it.” you confess, biting your lips. “But, Valarr, it’s too much. It’s too expensive.”

“Nothing is ever too much if it’s for you.” he assures, crouching down in front of yu. “Besides, I know you always wanted to see Monaco. It’s on your dream list, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“But nothing. I want to take you there, I want to see you smiling and laughing without worrying too much. That’s my duty as your boyfriend and I always take my duty very seriously.”

You’re still not convinced. 

“But Valarr-”

His lips swallow your attempts and you instantly give up, slumping into the Valarr as he tilts his face to the side and deepens the kiss. 

When he finally pulls away, his breath fawns over your face as he presses his forehead against yours. 

“I’d give you the whole world if you asked for it. This is nothing compared to it.” Valarr softly hums. “And maybe I’m doing this for selfish reasons because I wanna make memories with you, just the two of us. I wanna enjoy every single minute with you, our first trip together.”

It feels like you’re living a dream, the ones that make butterflies swirl in your stomach and make you feel weightless, light as a feather. If this is what living a dream feels like then you never want it to end. 

The smile refuses to slip from your face, even when the nerves begin to pepper in on the way over to your boyfriend’s parents house.

While you can’t help feeling somewhat intimidated at being around such important wealthy people in such a familiar, informal context, Baelor and Jena don’t spare any effort in making you feel at ease.

They treat you like family, remembering details about you and insisting you call them by their name. Whenever you are around them, you can't help but be mesmerized by them, admiring them with a mix of envy and adulation.

A power couple would be the right expression to describe them, but it goes beyond that. There’s a mature harmony to their relationship, the way they complement each other so gracefully. There’s warmth and confidence in the way they address each other, an at ease that is certainly the byproduct of years of much love and trust.

They are what you aspire to achieve one day. 

–

“Would you like to see my art room?" Jena asks, casually sipping on her coffee.

You two are the only ones left at the dining table after Baelor and Valarr excused themselves to the office as soon as lunch ended, something about checking the contract of a business deal. Jena had given you an accomplice look as they left, saying how you’d have to get used to it because both father and son were incorrigible workaholics.  

You look at her, surprised even though you shouldn’t be. Of course she paints. What does this woman not do?

“Oh, you paint?” you wonder. 

“Amongst other things. I paint, I draw. I do pottery. Tiles too, if I’m feeling inspired.” she laughs at the disbelief on your face. “Sounds a lot, I know but I promise it’s not talent. I just happen to have the time for these hobbies.”

She rises from her seat, gesturing to you to follow her. 

“Come on then, let me show you.”

Jena leads you through the house with an elegance that has you envious. The house is large, even bigger than Valarr’s apartment. It’s a maze of hallways and doors and it’s a relief when Jena finally halts in front of a door on the third floor. 

“Here it is.” 

She opens the door, allowing you to enter first. Inside is a spacious division, the tall floor-to-ceiling windows allowing the space to be completely bathed by sunlight. The smell of paint tingles your nose.

Part of you was expecting to see a messy array of paintings with pencils and brushes and watercolors scattered throughout the floor. Instead, everything is organized with a strictness that surprises you. There are stations with all the products and instruments neatly arranged with rows of sharp pencils, stacks of watercolors, and a small mountain of paintbrushes arranged by size.

Jena allows you to walk around at your own pace, letting you admire her art works without the pressure of hanging over your shoulder. 

“Valarr told me about your plan to pursue a master’s degree.” she begins, a casual tone as if making small talk. “He didn’t seem very happy about the exchange program part.”

You glance at her, frowning a bit.

You know he’s not happy about it. Valarr is never shy about expressing his opinions and while he’s not opposed to you continuing your education, it’s the semester abroad part that made him step back from his initial support. Maybe that’s why you’re holding back from submitting your master’s application even though the deadline is a few weeks away now. 

“Oh. Yes, I.. haven’t decided yet.”

Jena nods.  

“It’s an important decision, you do well in taking the time to think it through.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, before she continues. 

“But most importantly, it’s your decision to make."

She gives you a tight-lipped smile. 

“My son can be very persuasive when he wants to, it’s a skill he inherited from his father. He also has Baelor’s tendency to control the narrative. Like father, like son.” 

Her voice lowers as the smile slips from her face. She looks away, her gaze falling outside the window. 

“Spending a semester abroad can open your eyes to many things. New college, new people, new environment. A new way of seeing things for what they truly are. I’m sure it can be an amazing learning experience for a young girl like yourself.” she softly says. “Don’t let Valarr tell you otherwise.”

With the tip of your ears burning, you mutter a small ‘yes’ and keep pretending to admire a painting when in reality you are mortified to the bone. Jena probably believes you to be one of those spineless, lovesick girls that bend at every word their boyfriends say. That’s a humiliating thought. 

Your attention on the art works reduces substantially but you keep going, not wanting to seem rude. You compliment some of the black and white drawings, one of them appearing to be a portrait of Baelor. 

One station in particular catches your attention as you step closer to the space. Jena notices that immediately. 

“Have you ever done pottery before?” she asks, joining you near the professional-looking wheel machine. It must’ve cost a fortune. 

“Uh, no. I don’t think I’m that skilled, to be honest.”

“Neither am I. But there’s something about using my hands that makes me relax. It’s almost therapeutic.” Jena explains. “It makes me think less, you know.”

There’s a way in which she speaks, a melancholy that she pushes away when she notices your eyes on her. Her eyes get caught up by something behind you and she nods towards it, beaming. Her whole face brightens up, her excitement contagious. 

“That’s my latest project. It was meant to be a jar for Matarys but well, maybe it’s better off as a cup.” she shrugs her shoulders, “It was tricky to make but I like challenges.”

You laugh alongside her, curiously watching as she reaches for it.

The upper part of the clay is still humid and to avoid staining it, Jena rolls her sleeves up driven by instinct, fingers tugging the silk material of her left arm up to her elbows with a motion of someone who’s done this a million times.

It’s only when her right forearm is entirely exposed that both of you freeze. Realization dawns upon Jena’s face and not even a second later she’s harshly tugging the sleeve back down as if covering up her bruised arm is gonna undo her mishap. It doesn’t. 

Your eyes are still fixed at her  arm, now covered by the pink sleeve and yet the vision of the pale skin littered in dark shadows of blue and purple is now engraved to your brain. Hand shaped bruises, as if someone gripped her arm with brutal strength. 

You struggle to comprehend the meaning behind the bruises, even though the truth is crystal clear, dangling right in front of you. Jena blanches, face twisting. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before an explanation is rushed out. 

“Oh, It’s… I tripped. Nearly fell down the stairs. Baelor grabbed me to avoid a disaster, that’s all.” she forces out chuckle, fingers toying with her necklace. “I was distracted. He likes to say I have two left feet and my head perpetually in the clouds.”

It’s like listening to yourself. 

“I’m very clumsy.” Jena laughs, shaking her head at herself. 

You shove your hands into the back pockets of the pants and not even that stops them from shaking. You nod your head, forcing out an awkward smile. 

“I’m clumsy as well.”

–

Maekar’s house is a mess.

Granted that it’s a three-storey mansion inside a private property in the suburbs, a solid and quite impressive structure made of darkstone. The inside just as astonishing although solemn and serious with an aesthetic that favours black and red. The color palette alone is enough to set a distinct ambience when compared to Baelor’s light-toned and welcoming home.

But what truly dazzles you is how chaotic the Targaryen family is when amongst themselves, when they are not hiding behind formal handshakes and polite greetings for the society.

Something that soon becomes obvious when what is supposed to be a nice, calm family dinner turns into a late night of screaming matches between Maekar’s children and drama-filled business discussions between Maekar and his brothers. 

The overwhelmingly loud atmosphere was too much.

Aegon was using the full capability of his lungs to scream that Aerion had the one to slip a worm into his food, while Daella tried to hide her amusement. Maekar’s oldest son Daeron and his shaky fingers kept dropping his glass, constantly spilling dark wine over the table, making a mess of everything.

Rhae was keeping Jena hostage, excitedly telling her all about her new school and friends with the energetic frenzy only a young child could muster. Matarys only added to the ruckus by watching the most random tiktoks at booming volume, while stuffing his mouth full of food. 

Sitting at the head of the table, Daeron II Targaryen sighed heavily as he watched his oldest and youngest sons headbutt in a rather lively discussion, something about company policies and shareholders and business partners. All while Valarr’s remaining uncles opted out of their brother’s argument, one of them hysterically chuckling at an invisible partner.

It was all too much, too loud, too messy. Valarr noticed your distress and pressed his hand to your thigh beneath the table in silent, reassuring support. Only when Daeron spilled his wine for the fifth time, the red pool spreading enough on the table for some of it to drip down your lap and stain your white skirt, did Valarr stand up for the table, taking you to clean up. 

And that’s the story of how you find yourself being smothered against the bathroom wall, with Valarr’s lips growing insistent in their quest of exploring your neck. 

His impatience materializes in the form of passionate open-mouth kisses, his lips moving with a veracity and a hunger that hardly seems appropriate considering the time and place. 

“Valarr.” 

Your boyfriend doesn’t answer you, too busy burying his face in the crook of your neck. You squirm, uncomfortable. Trapped between the wall and Valarr, who has one hand gripping the back of your neck while his other is attempting to find its way beneath your blouse. 

He groans, a low sound that vibrates through your skin as he pushes himself into you until a very firm bulge is pressing against your lower stomach. Your hand flies to his chest, pushing him back in the slightest. 

“Valarr.” you repeat, trying your best to keep a firm, stern voice even though Valarr pays you no mind. “Valarr, your family is outside, we can’t-”

When Valarr finally pulls his face, half-lidded eyes and swollen pink lips, you think you did it. Managed to dissuade him from having sex in his uncle’s bathroom while his whole family is having dinner just a few meters away.

You’re not adventurous enough for that, just the thought of having sex with his parents, brother, grandfather, uncles and cousins just down the hall is enough to make you drier than a desert. 

Your relief is short-lived. Lips parting as you go to thank him for listening to you when his mouth crashes against yours. Your protests muffled down by his mouth, his lips unrelenting as he keeps on kissing you. It gets hard to breath, suffocated by Valarr’s mouth and body. Your nails dig into his arms, but he does not relent. An invisible ache thrums in your nose at the awful pressure Valarr puts against your face. 

It takes considerable effort and strength to escape from his lips, hands shoving at his chest. You twist your face to the side, feeling Valarr’s lips land on your cheek instead. He chuckles, hovering over your cheek. 

“C’mon, don’t be like that.” 

You can hear the smile on his lips as he teases you and it upsets you. You’re about to hiss something back, perhaps remind him - again - of his family’s presence when the door knob rattles. 

You freeze, eyes darting to the door and then back to Valarr. He seems awfully relaxed and comfortable for someone who’s currently at risk of being caught in the bathroom performing questionable actions, at least from an outside perspective. Unlike you, whose heart is racing at an alarming speed. 

The knob is shaken once again, stronger this time, and someone on the outside groans. A male groan, even though you fail to recognize its owner. A moment later, there’s a knock at the door. 

“To whoever is inside. My bladder is gonna explode. Please.” the man outside whines. 

You look at Valarr, full panic in your eyes. He just quietly laughs and presses his finger to his lips, gesturing you to be silent. 

“Daeron, this is gonna take time. Sorry.” Valarr announces with a loud voice and there’s a pitiful groan on the other side of the door, followed by a thump that sounds like Daeron just took a fall to the ground. Which wouldn’t surprise you after all the wine you saw him drinking. 

“We should head back. They must have noticed us missing.” you whisper, but Valarr shakes his head.

Both of his hands come to cup your face and he peeks your lips. 

“Don’t worry about that. We have time.” 

“Valarr-”

“Shh, just be quiet and I’ll take care of the rest.” 

He kisses you again, cutting you off before you can object. Helplessness builds inside you, a feeling that keeps you pliant as Valarr reaches between your bodies to quickly unbuckle his belt, the sound of zipper loud in the quiet space.

You regret wearing a skirt at the same time Valarr rejoices on the easiness of the clothing item while hiking it up. When Valarr grabs your leg and hoists it around his waist, you make a last attempt. But Valarr barely even hears you.  

“I’ll be quick, sweetheart.”

Valarr doesn’t even look at you when he says so, his eyes focused on pressing himself to your entrance.

It’s far from romantic but that only seems to bother you. Valarr drops his face to the crook of your neck, his groans coming out muffled as he sheathes himself inside you. It hurts, a sharp sting as he buries himself until there’s no more of him left.  

Your eyes are dry but your soul is crying. This is degrading. To be fucked in a bathroom, standing against the wall while anxiously hoping no one remembers to use this specific restroom, potentially with your boyfriend’s drunk cousin passed out by the door. 

Valarr doesn’t share the same concern as you, his thrusts becoming faster until he is all but slamming into you, hips harshly knocking against yours. He chases his high frantically like he needs this. 

He’s hurting you and you let him. 

You bite yourself - your lip, your tongue, the inside of your cheek - to avoid crying. You take deep breaths that are knocked out of you. You try to focus on the strain of the leg wrapped around his waist. You try and you try and yet some stray tears inevitably find their way to your eyes.  

Valarr barely notices your distress as he grabs your face and angles you towards him. He’s breathless, much like you are, reaching for your lips. He groans into the kiss and his thrusts gain strength. 

Pained whines are punctured out of you as his pace becomes ruthless, fast and deep and aggressive. Valarr does not last long after that, a small mercy, and with a final slam of his hips, he finally cums.

He buries himself deep inside you, not minding how his cum inevitably ends up trickling down your entrance. Your skirt drops back down, sticking to the sweat and cum on your thighs.

Valarr lets out an amused, deep sound when your pussy throbs around him, mistaking it to be pleasure, when it’s of pain. 

“M’lady.”

You turn your head to the side, watching as the maid bows her head.

The hour quite late for her to come to your door, given how you’d already bathed and changed into your nightgown, more than ready to settle for the night, exhausted from a day filled with pleasantries and formalities of court. You’d just finished brushing your hair and applying some balm to your lips, the last details before finally allowing yourself to slip into bed. 

The nervous look on the maid’s face, however, does not promise a good night’s sleep. 

“M’lady… Prince Baelor stands outside the chambers. He requests permission to enter.”

Your eyes widen with both surprise and shock at the announcement. You look down, at your nightgown and then at the mirror. You’re far from presentable. Evening has long settled down, darkness cast in the walls of the Red Keep. What urgent matters could possibly demand your betrothed to come see you in your private chambers at such late hour? 

Your heart races in your chest as insidious thoughts slither in. Has something happened? 

The maid clears out her throat. You turn to her, fingers wrenching in your lap.

“Uh… I’m afraid I’m not dressed properly.”

That’s all that comes out of your mouth as you stare at the girl who doesn’t appear that much older than you, as if somehow she’ll provide you with the appropriate decision. She looks back at you, helpless in the same way you are. 

“Shall I say so to Prince Baelor, m’lady?” 

Your hesitation lasts for a moment, lips parting to confirm. To tell her to provide your betrothed with some sort of excuse that you’ve yet to consider, to assure him that you’ll surely seek his person in the morrow with the company of your ladies-in-waiting and perhaps your father as well, if such necessity arises.

A formal, appropriate meeting where you’ve had the opportunity and the time to fully prepare yourself - and preferably while dressed in a proper gown instead of a sheer nightgown. 

But before any words receive the opportunity to slip past your lips, a gentle knock to the door happens. A moment later, the door opens without awaiting for permission. 

And a face that has progressively grown familiar to your eyes over the past weeks appears. Prince Baelor. Hand of the King. Prince of Dragonstone. Heir to the Iron Throne. And in less than a moon, your husband. 

“My lady.” 

He addresses you with an ease that hardly seems appropriate given the oddities of his visit. 

The maids bows to her prince and you mirror her, although with a much more troubled semblant.

All too aware of your simple state, nightgown and loose hair and the lack of jewelry to  adorn your skin. You search discreetly around the room but cannot find a single robe to cover you up. Had your old septa been here, she’d be harshly scolding you for harboring manners that hardly reflect the dignity of a Lord’s daughter. 

“Your Grace, apologies, I… wasn’t expecting you.”

Baelor smiles, a polite smile that doesn’t truly reach his eyes. His attention strays from you as he looks around, taking in the specificities of your temporary chamber. It feels odd to have a prince of the realm so deeply invested in the scrutiny of your chambers. 

“It is I who apologizes, my lady. I am aware the hour is quite late for such intrusion on my part.” he says, gracefully sauntering inside the room.

You stay where you are, the back of your legs pressed against the vanity desk at the lack of a better place to position yourself. For a moment, you just quietly stand. Eyes following as the heir to the throne carries himself deeper into the room with a security only a man truly confident himself does.

The way Baelor carries himself, chivalrous and humble in equal measure with a confidence that never borders the arrogance, is something you’ve always envied about him. 

You’ve been in his presence many times by now. Spoken to him only a handful of occasions though. Short, amicable encounters full of formalities and pleasantries, the presence of your father and your ladies-in-waiting serving as a helpful buffer in diluting the awkwardness you felt with a man closer to your father’s age rather than your own. 

You were never ingenuous enough to believe that your husband would be a choice of yours. That was a fantasy that never lasted much for the daughters of high-birth Lords and you were no different. For Ladies, marriage was nothing more than a political alliance, the solidification of power and wealth and honor all while trading their father’s name and protection for their husband’s.

Love was rarely involved in such power disputes but that didn’t mean that the possibility hadn’t crossed your mind. Your older sister too went on marrying a man of your father’s choosing - the first son to a Dornish house, a man that only surpassed her age in two years - and she’d grown to love him quite dearly.

But your father’s ambition ran high with you and soon he was rewarded with a marriage offer that no Lord in his right state of mind would refuse. A prince. But not just any prince, but the heir to the throne. 

You vividly remember your father’s furor when such a match was offered, how his chest puffed with pride and honor. 

… and you also vividly recall the extensive warnings you received before arriving in King’s Landing - to behave like a lady, to not disgrace the family’s name, to act accordingly to your status. And the most important: to not displease the prince. 

And so you have been trying. 

Your soon-to-be-husband finds a place near the window, the candles casting a warm lightening over his face, smoothing down the deep lines on his face and the grey in his beard. He turns to the maid with a small nod. 

“You may leave us now.” 

Surprise has your eyes widening. Your lips part as you nearly ask the girl to stay and act as chaperone before catching yourself at the last moment, knowing better than to contradict a prince in the presence of others. Soon he’ll be your husband and he might take it as an offense. 

You resort to anxiously wringing your fingers together, watching as the maid leaves, door gently closing behind her. 

“I… My lady-in-waiting has retired to her own chambers, I believe.” you say with a small voice. 

“Yes, one would expect so.”

You try not to dwell on the implication of his words. Baelor watches you with an impassive expression on his face as he calmly swirls the ring on his left hand. His eyes never leave you, almost as if you are but an open book that he can easily read. 

And while it could’ve very well been an optical illusion from the unstable candlelight, you could’ve sworn that his eyes drop to the neckline of the nightgown for a fleeting moment before they return to your face. 

“I trust the wedding preparations are following well?”

There’s some confusion in your face as you look at him. Has he come all the way to your chamber to question you about … the wedding preparations? Somehow you don’t believe so. 

But regardless, you push out a diplomatic smile, straightening your shoulders. 

“Yes, my prince. Everything is moving accordingly. Queen Myriah and my mother have been relentlessly working on the preparations.” 

You leave out the part where your mother has been obsessively studying each and every detail with a hawk eye, driving everyone - most particularly you - to the point of madness.

You doubt the heir to the throne wishes to know how your mother has been successful in detecting the most insignificant details that could lead to a disastrous wedding ceremony such as the smallest speck of dust hidden in a corner of the Great Hall or the tiniest defect on the necklace you are to wear for the big day. 

Baelor merely nods, a small movement. He takes a step towards your direction and then another, until he’s positioned at the opposite edge of the vanity desk. You stop your hands from writhing, forcing them to still.

His figure grows taller in such imposing proximity and you try not to let yourself stare too openly, even if your eyes keep repeatedly catching the grey in his beard and hair. You try not to dwell on how your own father doesn’t own that much greyness to his appearance despite their close ages. 

“Less than a week now, I do believe.”

Five days, to be precise. Five days until you are wed to a man you know nothing about and become a princess of the realm. 

“Yes, your grace.”

“Husband.” he gently corrects you. “Baelor, if so you prefer.”

You look at him and nod. “As you wish, yo- Baelor.”

The moment of silence prolongs itself. You shift your weight from one foot to another, unsure under the pressure of his gaze. The longer he stares, the more tension gathers in your mind. 

When at last Baelor speaks, it’s not at all what you expected. 

“Many knights seem to admire you.” 

The lightness with which he spoke just moments ago seems to be gone, replaced with something heavier. It sounds like a veiled accusation. Of what, you are unsure. 

“Your presence seemed to evoke more vigor in their jousting.” he coldly remarks. “A commendable effect, I suppose.”

He speaks of today’s tourney. One of the many celebrations prepared in the honor of your wedding. The knights jousted well enough, as they always did, eager for the type of honor and glory that can only be achieved by unnecessary violence. 

Baelor tilts his chin up, one of his hands tracing along the dressing table. 

“It was an entertaining tourney.” you reluctantly reply, not sure of what answer he is looking for. 

He sends you a look you can't decipher.

“It most certainly was.” Baelor casually agrees. “You must’ve found great pleasure with a horde of men begging for your favor.” 

Your eyes widen at that. Baelor does not look at you, instead tracing the edges of your small jewelry chest with a finger. The casual tone contrasting heavily with the tension in his face. 

“You must’ve been quite delighted to be asked for so many favors. That certainly established a new record in court.”

His dry chuckle has goosebumps erupting in your skin. This change in his personality isn’t pleasant. Suddenly, you feel cold. 

“They craved your attention and you willingly gave it to them. Generously so.” he continues, glancing at you. “I watched you smile and laugh and whisper with your ladies as you made eyes at them. Thriving under all the attention that was given to you.”

“I did only what duty required of me.”

Baelor glares at you in a way that has your heart racing. 

“Did duty also required you to whisper with your ladies about those men, to discuss the most handsome knights jousting while your soon-to-be husband stands to the side?” 

Frustration seeps into his voice, but his volume never rises. There’s a certain fire to his eyes, one that screams of jealousy and madness. He couldn’t be more wrong though, for you did not act in such unbecoming ways.

You gave your favor when asked for it. You smiled when necessary. You talked when the occasion demanded so. You acted like a lady. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet your intentions are being misjudged by the man you are to spend the rest of your life wit. 

“... my prince, I-”

“Did it make you happy to have such attention upon you? Or perhaps you were picking out a lover for the future? It would appear half of the realm's knights would gladly take on that offer.” 

“My prince! Baelor. Please, you are mistaken.” you plead, the lump in your throat growing. 

His eyebrows rise skeptically. 

“Am I?” 

“I meant none of those things. Please.” Your voice does not come as steady as you wish it had, small and faltering. “I did not. You.. You must believe me.”

Baelor takes another step closer, disregarding the concept of appropriate distance. Your skin sizzles not just from the proximity, but from the cruel remarks directed to you. He, however, does not appear bothered in the slightest with the distress he’s causing you. 

“I believe in what my eyes show me. And what they showed today was a lady behaving in an unbecoming way. What I saw was the future princess flushing and giggling whenever a knight addressed her.” he says, voice deepening. 

“I did not think you to have such a greedy appetite for masculine attention.”

He looks at you, something like disappointment and anger in his eyes. 

“Though I suppose even a pretty face must hide some sort of deficiency.”

You lower your head, unable to meet his eyes anymore. Tears prickle your eyes and you furiously blink, though some of the wetness slips between your lashes. This is perhaps the most humiliating moment in your life. 

A shiver runs down your spine when he reaches out to you, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart thrums in your chest. 

“Look at me.” he instructs you. You obey him, albeit reluctantly. 

“I will not have my wife behaving like a lowborn girl every time a man displays the smallest of attention towards her. You are to be a princess of the realm. A queen, one day. A wife.” he calmly says. His eyes flit to your covered middle. “And soon enough, the mother of my children.”

“As such, you are to correct your behavior. If need be, I can gladly ensure some septas to accompany and instruct you on an honorable code of conduct.”

Shame and mortification settle on your face. You can only imagine the court’s gossip if that ever were to happen. To have septas publicly correcting you to smile with less sympathy towards knights or to not indulge in the ladies' gossip. Your mother would surely have a heart stroke with such dishonor. 

Baelor looks at you, something in the hard-edges of his expression softening. 

“But….that surely won’t be necessary. Correct?” he asks, with the same tone of a teacher willing to give a student a second chance to prove themselves. 

You don’t hesitate, nodding your head. 

“Yes… I mean, no.” you gulp, “No, it won’t be necessary.”

Baelor nods slowly, pleased.   

“Good.” he says with an intonation that declares the end of the conversation. 

“It’s quite late. You must go to sleep now.” 

You weakly nod, only to wince when Baelor ends the distance between you.  

His lips press against your forehead, his beard tickling at your skin. Something you would easily consider a sweet, gentle gesture if only he hadn’t slaughtered your character with cruel words even before you are wed.

His hand presses to the back of your head, smoothing down your hair even when he parts a moment later. 

“Good night.”

‘The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable’

The same words you’ve been hearing for the past ten minutes on a repeated loop and your despair grows dangerously every time you are forced to listen to them.

It hurts - in more ways than one. There’s no effort to stop the tears from running wildly down your cheeks, the battle long lost because as soon as the nurse told you with an apprehensive expression that your baby had been discharged by his father, the dam in your eyes had broken. 

A ugly sound escapes from your lips and you bury your face in your hands, nails digging into your skin. You feel sick to your stomach, chest squeezed tight by invisible hands. You feel as though you can’t breathe, struggling to take in oxygen. 

Dismissed calls and ignored messages.

That’s the silent treatment Aerion is giving you - something you normally would not mind, had he not taken your newborn with him. You flinch at the sharp pain in your womb, nearly doubling down over yourself.

Labour was bad enough to make cramps seem like a poor joke. It was excruciatingly painful, one of the worst pains of your life, something you never wish to repeat again. But the awful pain seemed to dull away from the moment your small, sweet boy had been placed in your arms. He had cried and squirmed, his minuscule face twisted as he made himself the center of the attention.

He had the smallest little hands and feet you had ever seen, those tiny fingers and cute nose. And while he had inherited his father’s hair and eyes, he seemed nothing like him. You could feel it, that hot feeling in your heart that told you he was not Aerion’s son. He was your son, your sweet son. 

And now he's gone.

Taken away by Aerion to god knows where. Your little Maegor is only a few hours old and Aerion has already begun with his selfish antics.

He’s always been cruel - with his words, with his actions. But this? This takes cruelty into heights that never dared to cross your mind even in your worst fantasies. 

You bawl at that, at how misery seems to follow you wherever you go.

At how nothing in your life ever goes right. What’s supposed to be a happy day is now ruined, shattered into a million irreconcilable pieces that stab at you. Anxiety and concern are eating you alive, gnawing at you like a disease. 

Newborns need dark, soothing places to get back from the shock of entering the world. Aerion doesn’t possibly know that. He knows nothing about babies despite coming from a big family and having an obscene amount of younger siblings. 

What if Aerion leaves your son in the sun and his fragile skin gets burned?

What if Maegor gets hungry and Aerion tries to feed him something solid? Babies can’t drink water, right?

What if his diaper gets dirty and Aerion refuses to change it?

Your mind conjures up the worst possible scenarios that have you hyperventilating of terror. All you can think about is little Maegor crying his lungs out and Aerion ignoring him. 

All you want is to have your son back in your arms, safe and sound and away from Aerion.

You just want your son! 

The ache in your lower half hikes up and you try to calm yourself down, wiping the tears with a hazy movement. Your phone pings and you scramble to grab the device, swiping over the screen, heart faltering with hope. 

You visibly deflate at the long message that your sister just sent. That she’s happy and can’t wait to visit you in the summer and something else you don’t bother reading. You can’t bring yourself to worry about her right now. 

Instead you exit the conversation and click on Aerion’s icon.

All the messages you sent him are far from being answered, not even marked as ‘read’. This is punishment, you know it is. Aerion promised you’d regret pushing him away and now he’s delivering his promise in the most cruel way he found. 

Beneath him is Maekar’s contact. Aerion’s father. 

The tall, ill-humored man that barely acknowledged your presence when Aerion first introduced you at a family party. The same man who still wouldn’t acknowledge you even when later that same night he had to pull Aerion away from you after he had just delivered a stingy slap to your cheek for something so insignificant you can’t even remember.  

Maekar knows about Maegor.

He knows you were carrying his first grandchild given how he’s the one who paid the private hospital for you to give birth on. And although he doesn’t have much interest in you, he has to have some power over his son… right? 

Aerion always played nice in front of his dad - well, most of the time. 

Maekar has to help you, because you don’t know what else to do. 

There’s no hesitation as you click on the call button. It rings for a long time but no one answers the call. Same as Aerion. You try again. And again. Your hand grips the phone so tightly you fear it’s gonna damage it. 

For a brief moment you consider calling the police.

Tell them what happened, how Aerion stole your son. That has to be some sort of crime. But the memories of the police officer appearing at your apartment resurface, of that one night when things got too intense and too loud and someone called the police on the account of a woman’s screaming.

It’s still fresh in your memory at how quickly the man recognized Aerion and how easily he accepted his excuse of a small couple argument and how you were just prone to melodramatics at the smallest thing.

It also didn’t go unnoticed by you the fat volume of bills Aerion slipped to the man’s hand, a small apology for his trouble as he had said. 

Who says the same story won’t repeat itself?

–

Thirty-eight minutes later, you find yourself at the gate of Aerion’s private condo.

Cold wind blows at your face, the darkness of the sky indicating the likeliness of rain soon enough. Despite the cold weather, your skin feels humid. You feel uncomfortably hot, your body’s temperature so high that you almost believe it to be a furnace.

It took one hell of an argument with the doctor to get you discharged and while you wanted nothing more than to stay under observation and care of their medical team, your priority isn’t your health, it’s your son. 

You’re aware of how messy you must look with your sweaty face and oily hair, still looking very much pregnant even though right now there’s no baby nestled inside you.

You feel as bad as you look, dizzy and with a persistent ache in the right side of your temple. The taxi driver kept glancing back at you the whole drive, asking if you were alright and if the address was right. He must’ve suspected that this lavish, exclusive part of the city is not where you belong. Even the guards at the gate give you a weird once-over but allow you to enter. 

“I’m here for Aerion.” you hiss when entering the lobby, more than ready to both scream and beg at the pretty receptionist to be let inside. To your surprise, she only smiles and nods before guiding you to the private elevator leading to Aerion’s penthouse as though she had been waiting for you to show up. 

During the short elevator ride, your legs nearly give up. Exhaustion clings to you, the few hours you got to rest after labor not enough to make you feel better. Your whole body is tense, uterus suffering as though someone is stabbing you. 

When the door to Aerion’s apartment opens, you unceremoniously push past the maid and storm inside, head and eyes going left and right as you try to find your baby. 

“Aerion!”

The living room is empty.

Same with the kitchen, the cinema room and his office.

Every division that comes up empty has anxiety bubbling inside you, the fear of Aerion taking Maegor to one of his family’s many houses. You wouldn’t know where to go next, if he has taken your son somewhere else. You don’t even know where Maekar lives. 

You have just barged into one of the guest rooms, throat feeling raw from calling out for Aerion when you realize that it’s been modified into a nursery.

There’s only a small, dim light in the room, the blinds and curtains closed shut. Desperate and in dire need of confirmation, you run to the crib and tears of pure relief begin to roll down your cheeks at the sight of little Maegor soundly asleep. 

“Oh, Maegor. Mommy is here, I’m here.”

He squirms when you pick him up and cradle him to your chest, kissing his head repeatedly. He looks fine, lost in the world of sweet dreams. You squeeze him a bit harder than you  should, lost in relief of having your baby back in your arms. 

“Must you be so loud?”

When you turn around, Aerion is by the door.

Looking well-rested and dressed more presentably than any new father ever should. Looking far more presentable than you - then again, he was not the one who spent nearly five hours going through the most indescribable, agonizing pain nor was he present while you birthed his son. 

Rage surges through you at the sight of Aerion and with one hand holding Maegor to your chest, your remaining one reaches for the table next to the crib. Your fingers grab te first thing you see, a baby powder package, and you hurl it towards Aerion. It misses spectacularly, hitting the wall with a loud sound and a small explosion of white powder.

He only chuckles at your missed strike and insolently raises his eyebrows. 

“You monster!” you yell at him. 

Maegor suddenly fusses and you look down at him, worried. 

“If you’re going to be hysterical, then let’s do this outside without him.” Aerion proposes, opening the door wider. “No need to disturb his sleep.”

You clench your jaw, glaring at him with teary eyes. 

“I have nothing to speak with you. Fuck you, Aerion.” you spit, voice shaking as an array of emotions devastates you on the inside. “I mean, how could you- Why? Why would you do this? Why would you steal Maegor away from me?”

Aerion crosses his arms, leaning back against the door with a much too relaxed stance. 

“Since when is it stealing if I’m the boy’s father?” he wonders. “I have a right to him just as much as you do. More, if we’re being honest.”

You shake your head, bitterly scoffing at his audacity. Some things never change. 

“Maegor is my son and we’re leaving.” you declare, “Stay away from us, Aerion. It’s not like you care about us anyways.”

Aerion doesn’t move away from the door when you walk closer and you give him a hard glare. 

“Aerion.”

He pushes his lips together, the sharp angles of his face narrowing. 

“You can leave if you want to.” Aerion says before nodding with his head towards the little baby you are still protectively holding against your chest. “But he stays here.”

Your heart drops at those words.

No.

This has to be another of Aerion’s cruel, insensitive jokes but when you look at him, there’s not a single shred of amusement in his face.

“Wha-”

“Like I said. You may leave.” he repeats calmly, pushing himself off the door. When he takes a step in your direction, you mirror him by going backwards. “But you’ll be going alone, I’m afraid. Maegor is going to stay here with his father.” 

Your fingers tighten around Maegor, with fear that your son will get snatched out of your hands. Aerion raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

“Door is right over here. I believe you know the way out. Or perhaps you’d like security to escort you out.”

“No, you… You can’t do this.” Your voice comes out uncertain and shaky unlike what you intended. To show weakness in front of Aerion is like teasing a shark with the taste of blood. 

Aerion scoffs, irritation flaring up. “Oh, so now you’ll be telling me what I can or cannot do?”

“He’s my son-”

“As he is mine.” he interrupts you. “And who do you think the court will favor - a jobless young mother or me, a Targaryen who can actually afford a roof over the child’s head?”

Aerion keeps going, merciless in his quest to humiliate you. 

“Or perhaps you’d like to explain it to me how exactly do you plan on clothing and feeding my son when you haven’t got a single dime to your name. No money, no job. You’ve got nothing.” he states. 

Maegor moves in your arms, little legs flailing and you bounce him by instinct, hoping to calm him down - and yourself. The fire and energy are both draining out of you insanely fast, leaving you unprotected against Aerion’s threats. You’re frankly exhausted, both mentally and physically. 

“Aerion, please…”

You flinch out of habit when he closes the gap between you, one hand coming to pick at a messy hair strand and tuck it away from your face. He twists his nose as his eyes take notice of your sweaty, unkept appearance. 

“Maegor is staying here.” he repeats, voice softening. “But so can you.”

His offer takes you off-guard, even if in hindsight you should’ve seen it coming. 

“A child needs both parents, doesn’t it? Everything you and Maegor need will be given abundantly. A roof, comfort, nannies. Whatever you want. Just think about it. We could be the happy family you’ve always wanted.”

The only way you could ever be a happy family is if Aerion is not involved, but right now that’s not something you can afford to say out loud. 

Aerion’s smile turns colder. “Or if you prefer we can take this to court and they’ll decide who gets to keep the boy. I’m sure you’d be allowed to see him once a month, at least.”

His hand hovers over Maegor’s small head, fingers gently caressing the tufts of pale hair. You want to slap his hand away from your son before he contaminates him with his venom. 

“And Maegor here, well, he’d be raised by nannies and governesses. He’d grow up to hate you, the mother who was never around. Who didn’t care about him enough to stick around.” 

"Is that the future you want for our son?"

You look at him, trying to see any sign that he might be bluffing, an empty threat like he has done many times before. You find no warmth or compassion in his pretty face.

Only a cold, calculative expression of someone who has played this game before and knows that victory is imminent. 

It feels like a miracle has graced you, like the Seven have finally answered your prayers. It feels as though there might be some light in the middle of the dark path your life has taken ever since marrying Aerion.

You feel lighter, happier. You are so happy you could cry and sing and dance all day and night in the halls of Summerhall. 

For the following weeks, you become a rather dedicated wife.

You tend to every whim of Aerion’s with patience, listening as he barks orders and insults around. You ensure that the maesters’ instructions are followed thoroughly, that the medicines are given at the correct timing.

You do everything in your power to ensure a fast, good recovery - but only because the sooner Aerion is recovered, the sooner his father will put him in a ship and send him on his merry way to Lys. Oh, how you rejoice at those thoughts.

Years. If the Seven wish so, Aerion can stay there for years.

That’s the fixed thought that keeps you sane as Aerion throws his wine at you for not rushing to his side with enough haste or when he insults your womb as being weak for not yet carrying the seed of the dragon. 

But you endure, much like you have been enduring for the past year since you’ve taken him as husband. 

A moon and half passes before Aerion’s wounds begin to heal and the bruises begin to fade. And so the preparations for his Lys departure swiftly begin. And then the hopes you had so earnestly harboured come crashing down.  

It happens when you are overseeing the maids storing Aerion’s belongings into the travel chest. You have them take nearly all of it, wanting little to nothing to stay behind to remind you of him.

Then Aerion walks in with a limp on his leg and a purple shadow on his cheek, demanding to know if you are so slow in the head that you haven’t even started preparing your own dresses for travel. If you intend to become a whore and walk completely bare in Lys. 

Your heart drops to your stomach, you can’t even hide the devastation from your face as Aerion keeps going with the insults. Because, no, you are not meant to join him in Lys, are you? No. No. You are to stay and wait in Summerhall. 

And Aerion only sneers, mocking you because why in the name of the seven kingdoms would his wife be allowed to stay behind? That you only have a place in Summerhall if your husband is by your side. That he’ll have you dragged by the hair all the way to Lys if there is such necessity.