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✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY — modern!targaryen au
summary. as a struggling college student at king’s landing university your best friend kiera suggests getting a part time job, and what better opportunity than to babysit her boyfriend’s youngest cousin — aegon known as egg targaryen?
word count. 8.2k
warnings. aegon being an absolute menace and maekar crashing out as usual, english is NOT my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes!!
note. i genuinely had the most fun writing this fic (went a little overboard with the text oops), not really much to say besides that, just hope you enjoy reading!!
next part. series masterlist.
When Kiera first brought up the idea of getting a part-time job, you thought she was joking.
You were seated across from her in The Dragon’s Brew, the campus café tucked between the humanities building and the old red-brick law faculty.
Sunlight seeped in through the windows, outside King’s Landing was bustling as it always did—restless, metallic, a little grimy around the edges.
Through one of the windows you could see students scurrying off to class, while others were enjoying the sunlight that had come with spring.
Inside though it was quietly pleasant. Ferns hung from exposed pipes. Fairy lights coiled around black metal beams. Sade was crooning softly through the speakers.
At the table beside you someone was typing aggressively like the fate of the Seven Kingdoms depended on their thesis.
“I mean, when you think about it,” Kiera said, stirring her iced coffee with unnecessary elegance, “you could really use the extra cash.”
It was easy for her to say. When your father managed international investments for one of the largest dye conglomerates in Tyrosh, you didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. calculating whether you could afford groceries and next semester’s textbooks.
You were an international student on a visa that came with built in safety nets and a wardrobe of imported linen.
You loved Kiera — truly. But sometimes she floated a few inches above the ground. Or above your ground at least.
Being a scholarship student at King’s Landing University meant you did not have the luxury of floating.
“Kie,” you said carefully not wanting to offend her. You wrapped your hands around your coffee cup like it might anchor you in some way, “there is absolutely no way I can fit a part-time job into my schedule.” You deadpanned waiting for her reply.
Your planner was color-coded within an inch of its life. Filled with lectures and study blocks. Therapy appointments. Gym sessions you clung to like lifeboats. Pottery on Thursdays because molding clay was the only thing keeping you from pulling out all your hair.
You were surviving, not thriving. And surviving took precision and careful planning.
She rolled her eyes in a way that was affectionate but infuriating. “My mom always says we make time for the things we really want.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Your mom also has a private driver and three assistants.”
“That is not the point.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, pushing her streak of vibrant pastel hair behind her ear.
“It’s our last year. You’re literally a month ahead of half the class. You could find something flexible. Somewhere you can study while working.” She was absolutely relentless.
“Plus,” she added, “it would look good on your résumé.”
Kiera was the social media manager for the campus. She ran the official KLU student page which was filled with campus tours, interviews and various other content. The page had more than fifty thousand followers.
They paid her well. She thrived on engagement metrics and comment sections. She did not have to maintain a perfect GPA to keep her funding.
“For you,” you said gently, “passing is fine. For me passing is like a ticket back home. My parents would never let me hear the end of it if I got one grade less.”
Her expression softened for half a second before she masked it with a dramatic sigh. “You are so intense.”
“And you are so detached from reality.” You countered.
She grinned. “That’s why we balance each other.”
You checked the time on your phone and felt your stomach dip. Fifteen minutes until Professor Ashford’s two-hour lecture on post-Conquest political structures.
Two hours of fluorescent lighting and his droning voice dissecting the failures of the Targaryen Restoration like he personally witnessed it.
“Can we change the subject?” you pleaded. “I want to forget that I’ll soon be trapped in Ashford’s lecture of torture.”
Kiera winced. “Poor you. Ashford really is unbearable.”
Last semester he’d spent twenty minutes berating a student for citing a Dornish historian. As if bias didn’t exist in every archive from Oldtown to Braavos.
You’d considered skipping his lectures and teaching yourself. But attendance was mandatory. And you needed every attendance point.
King’s Landing University did not care about your anxiety or sleep schedule. It cared about numbers and attendances.
“So,” she said brightening, “Valarr and I are going to a concert Friday. You should come along.” She suggested, visibly looking forward to the idea.
Valarr Targaryen pre-law, perpetually grumpy looking yet somehow always kind.
He and Kiera had met at a Freshers’ Week party three years ago and started dating almost immediately. Everyone had assumed it would implode by midterms. Instead, they’d grown into the campus most beloved couple.
You shared a few seminars with him. He was sharp in debates but gentle in private conversation, the sort of person who’d never condemn you even if he wasn’t particularly fond of you.
“And third-wheel the entire evening?” you deadpanned. “Hard pass.”
She waved a hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
She hesitated. And then, as if casually remembering something entirely insignificant added “Aerion’s coming too.”
Aerion Targaryen. Valarr’s cousin. He was a business major and campus menace.
He drove a black sports car that you’d bet all your money on was from his daddy’s pocket.
He wore designer brands like he was perpetually exiting a fashion editorial. He had that sharp, almost predatory beauty the Targaryens were infamous for—snow white hair that caught light in just the right way, violet eyes that held amusement and boredom in equal measure. He held himself as if he were superior to everyone and everything. Always gloating on about how King’s Landing would have never been built without his ancestors.
He also once tried to fight Duncan the Tall (as he was nicknamed for his extreme height), outside a club in Flea Bottom and got knocked flat on his back before security dragged the other guy away.
All bark. No bite.
Still, people gravitated toward him. There was nothing quite like pretty privilege and a deep pocket to gain an appropriate social status.
“Well,” you said evenly, “good luck with that.”
Kiera groaned, collapsing back into her chair. “I was hoping you’d come suffer with us.”
“You’re unbelievable, you really hate me so much that you’d drag me into a friday night with Aerion Targaryen?” Your lip twitched as the words left your lips.
“You could at least keep him distracted.”
You stared at her, completely unconvinced.
“Oh by the Seven,” she laughed. “Relax. I’m kidding.”
“You are not.”
She grinned, unrepentant.
“I have pottery Friday,” you said. “And I plan to spend it molding something symmetrical instead of arguing with a Targaryen about late-stage capitalism.”
She snorted. “He doesn’t argue. He monologues.”
Your nose wrinkled but you couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Even worse.”
Rumors clung to the Targaryens like expensive perfume. They were old money of valyrian roots, it was a known fact. Political donors. A family foundation that funded half the city’s art museums and quietly influenced half its policy.
King’s Landing wasn’t medieval anymore. There were no armies and dynasties. But power still moved in bloodlines.
And you were very aware of where you stood on that map.
A scholarship student from nowhere special. Carefully balancing ambition and exhaustion.
Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: Ashford – 10:00 a.m.
You inhaled slowly, mentally composing yourself .
“Okay,” you sighed, standing and slipping your notebook into your bag. “I need to go pretend I care about succession disputes.”
“You do care,” Kiera’s eyes moved to you, rising too. “You just pretend you don’t.”
You paused, considering that.
Maybe she was right. Maybe you cared too much.
About grades. About stability. About not falling behind.
The city hummed beyond the café walls. Somewhere in the financial district, deals were being signed that would ripple through generations.
Somewhere in Flea Bottom, someone was counting coins for rent. Somewhere on campus, Aerion Targaryen was likely skipping class because attendance was not mandatory for people like him.
And here you were. Measuring your life in fifteen-minute increments.
“Kie,” you said suddenly, adjusting the strap on your bag, “if I did get a job… it would have to be something super quiet. Flexible. Low-stress.”
Her eyes lit up immediately. “Oh my gods, so you are considering it.”
“I said if.”
She looped her arm through yours as you both stepped out into the cool King’s Landing air. “We’ll find something perfect.”
You highly doubted that.
But as you crossed the busy street toward the humanities building, wind tugging at your coat, the thought lingered in the back of your mind like an unfinished sentence.
Would it really be that bad to drop on of your hobbies and get a job? You’d still keep yourself occupied and at least you’d be earning some extra cash.
Maybe there was a way.
Maybe you just hadn’t seen it yet.
By Sunday evening you were slouched over your laptop, hair still faintly damp from the shower, your new citrus shampoo clinging to you like something clean and hopeful.
You wore your oldest most worn university shirt, the one with the faded gold KLU crest stretched across the front and a pair of soft plaid pyjama pants that had survived three exam seasons and at least two minor breakdowns.
Your dorm room was dim except for the glow of your desk lamp and the city bleeding in through the curtains.
King’s Landing never slept. Traffic hummed along the main road beyond campus. Somewhere farther off, closer to the river, bass from a club pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat.
You had the part-time job website open. Scrolling.
There was dog sitting. Retail assistant at the mall in the Crownlands Plaz — must be available weekends. Bartender in a Flea Bottom cocktail bar—experience preferred. Private tutor for first-year economics. Receptionist. Event staff. Library aide.
Every listing felt like a test you were destined to fail.
Thirty-minute commute to the mall?That was an hour lost every day. An hour you did not have.
Three high-energy huskies? Your nervous system could barely handle your own brain at 2 a.m.
Bartending until midnight? Absolutely not. You needed sleep like other people needed oxygen.
Tutoring? What if someone asked a question you couldn’t answer and you exposed yourself as an academic fraud?
Your mind was efficient at self-sabotage. It wrapped every opportunity in caution tape.
You imagined yourself in a retail uniform, exhausted, grades slipping. You imagined coming home too tired to study, too wired to sleep. You imagined losing your scholarship. Losing the fragile scaffolding you had built your life on.
By the time you reached the bottom of the page, your dinner had gone cold.
You exhaled sharply and shut the laptop. Your brain was utterly exhausted and your eyes were watering from all the blue light.
“Not happening,” you muttered to the empty room. You decided you were just not destined for a part time job.
The idea dissolved as quickly as it had come.
—
The weekend passed gently. You read. You outlined an essay. You reorganized your notes for Ashford’s class because control over formatting felt like control over something.
You lit a candle Sunday night and convinced yourself you were recharging instead of procrastinating your future.
By Monday morning, the job hunt felt distant like something you’d thought about in a fever dream.
You met Kiera before your 11 a.m. lecture at a new bakery that had opened near campus.
It was tucked into a renovated townhouse with ivy crawling up the stone façade and gold-lettered windows that read Honey & Hearth.
Inside everything smelled like butter and sugar.
They had a little patio garden in the back wrought iron tables, pale blue cushions, climbing roses that were probably fake but convincing enough. Students filled the space, laptops open, sunglasses perched on their heads.
The atmosphere was comfortable and light.
You both ordered coffee and pastries, Kiera something elaborate and aesthetic “instagram worthy” as she’d say, you a simple croissant still warm in its paper sleeve.
“So,” you asked between bites, flakes scattering onto the small ceramic plate, “how did Friday go?”
You meant the concert. The one you had so wisely declined.
Kiera’s expression darkened immediately.
“Ugh. Don’t even ask.”
She grabbed a hair tie from her wrist and twisted her bright hair into a messy bun with the kind of careless elegance only she possessed.
“That bad?” You chuckled.
“It was absolutely horrendous,” she continued. “Aerion made a scene. As usual.”
You felt laughter bubbling in your chest before you could stop it.
“I told Valarr I am never going anywhere with Aerion ever again.”
You covered your smile with your coffee cup. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she snapped playfully. “You were supposed to suffer with us.”
“And third-wheel a Targaryen meltdown? I think not.”
She muttered something under her breath and you nudged her knee with yours in apology.
“Well,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “what did he do this time?”
Kiera straightened in her chair, clearly ready to relive every second.
“So you know Tanselle, right? The super tall arts major? Theater and painting?”
Your eyes widened. “Of course I know Tanselle. She’s so sweet. I saw her in that contemporary piece last semester—she was absolutely incredible.”
Tanselle was one of the rare genuinely kind people on campus. Soft-spoken. Creative. The type who genuinely remembered your name and asked about your exams. And not just because she was ‘networking’ or thought your boyfriend was hot.
“Yeah,” Kiera continued, “so we’re at the party, everything’s fine. Aerion’s flirting with some chic by the bar, and then he spots Tanselle across the room.”
She made a dramatic pause.
“And?” You waited for her to continue.
“And he practically lunges at her.”
“What?”
“I’m not exaggerating. He storms over and starts going off about her latest play. The one with the dragon dying in the final act.”
You frowned. “It was symbolic, the whole point of the play—.”
“Tell that to him. He starts ranting about how it’s disrespectful to the Targaryen name, how she’s pushing some anti-monarchy political agenda—”
You blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
Your disbelief curdled into irritation.
“No fucking way,” you muttered. “He cannot be serious.”
“Oh, he was deadly serious.” She took a sip of her coffee.
You imagined poor Tanselle cornered by Aerion Targaryen’s wounded ego and felt your stomach twist.
“What happened?”
“Well,” Kiera sighed, “you know Duncan? Everyone knows he fancies Tanselle, but still hasn’t scrambled together the courage to ask her out. He nearly punched Aerion. Valarr had to physically drag him back before it turned into a full-blown brawl.”
You let out a low whistle. “Seven hells.”
“It was chaos,” she admitted, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Entertaining chaos.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass on witnessing that firsthand.”
She laughed, shaking her head.
“Anyway,” she said, shifting gears, “how was pottery?”
You grimaced. “Canceled. Apparently there was a power outage at the studio.”
She groaned. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. So I just stayed in. Watched Netflix. And I… kind of browsed part-time jobs like you said, but I didn’t—”
You didn’t get to finish. Kiera froze mid-bite, eyes widening dramatically.
“Oh my gods. I completely forgot to tell you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never a good start.”
She leaned across the table, brimming with excitement. “I have literally the perfect opportunity for you.”
Your stomach dropped. “Do I want to hear this?”
“Trust me. It’s perfect.”
She lowered her voice slightly, though not enough to mask the thrill in it. “You know how Aerion has siblings?”
You stiffened.
“Yes.”
“Well. His youngest brother is, like, ten. And Valarr mentioned that his uncle is looking for someone to babysit him. Just part-time. Because he’s always busy.”
Your mind immediately conjured the image of the Targaryen family. Modern royalty of King’s Landing.
Maekar Targaryen—board member of half the city’s financial institutions. His father Daeron was practically a policy architect.
His oldest brother Baelor chaired cultural foundations and appeared on magazine covers like a statesman from another century.
Their surname carried weight.
You’d heard Maekar’s wife had died a few years ago.
The thought flickered through your mind—Aerion as a child. However insufferable he was now, grief at that age left marks.
Kiera kept talking.
“Aegon’s actually sweet. I’ve met him. He mostly plays in the backyard or video games. You’d just have to make sure he does his homework, maybe drive him to practice, make dinner. That’s it.”
She said it like it was nothing.
“You could study while you’re there,” she added eagerly. “And they’d definitely pay well.”
That part lingered. The Targaryens did not do anything cheaply.
“The only family wealthier is the Lannisters,” Kiera added casually, as if that clarified everything.
You pressed your lips together.
“Okay, but if Maekar Targaryen wants someone to look after his son, why not hire a professional nanny?”
Kiera hesitated. “He has.”
That was not reassuring.
“What do you mean he has? And, what happened?”
“And Aegon isn’t exactly fond of them. The last one quit on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
You stared at her.
“What? What do you mean she had a nervous breakdown?”
“No, no, it’s not like that!” she rushed. “He’s not a monster. He just gets bored. Adults bore him.”
“That’s worse.”
She waved you off. “Maekar actually asked me first, but I’m too busy.”
You snorted. “Too busy getting your nails done and curating Instagram posts.”
“Exactly,” she said without shame. “So what do you think?”
You looked down at your coffee. It had gone cold.
Working for the Targaryens. The thought circled in your mind.
Spending afternoons in one of those sprawling estates you’d only seen in society magazines. Studying in marble kitchens and glass-walled living rooms. Getting paid enough to ease the constant pressure coiled in your chest.
It sounded… practical. Dangerous, but practical.
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I’m not even good with kids.”
Kiera rolled her eyes. “You’re patient. You’re organized. You overthink everything. You’ll be amazing.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then you quit. You wouldn’t be the first.”
That shouldn’t have been comforting.You weighed it carefully.
A few weeks, you told yourself. You could try it. Save some money. If it turned into a disaster, you’d fabricate a scheduling conflict and leave.
You inhaled slowly.
“Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “Fine. Sign me up.”
Kiera practically vibrated with excitement. “Yes!”
She immediately reached for her phone.
“I’ll send you Maekar’s contact.”
You swallowed.
Somewhere in the city, in a house much larger than yours, lived a ten-year-old Targaryen who had driven professional nannies to the brink.
And you had just volunteered to be next.
—
You had spent an absurd amount of time perfecting that email.
First draft then delete then rewrite then reword. You had lost count how many times you had redone the entire thing.
You kept it formal but not stiff. Competent but not desperate.
You attached your CV, your transcript, even a short paragraph about your experience tutoring first-years. You debated whether mentioning pottery made you sound well-rounded or just straight up unserious.
By Friday evening, you were so tired of staring at it that you hit send purely out of spite. Fuck it.
The message whooshed away into the abyss of the Targaryen inbox. The rest was in the hands of the Gods.
You were ninety-five percent certain it would vanish into administrative oblivion.
Kiera had given you Maekar Targaryen’s business email—and, helpfully, his assistant’s, “in case he’s drowning in meetings,” as she’d put it. You had addressed both.
Then you spent the entire weekend pretending you didn’t care. Or at least tried to.
You went for a run along the river, the wind sharp against your cheeks. You tried to study but read the same paragraph six times without comprehension. You even considered taking a spontaneous trip out to the Kingswood just to escape your own thoughts.
None of it had helped.
But Monday arrived regardless.
You were sitting in your usual 11 a.m. lecture, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Professor Ashford dissecting something painfully abstract, when your phone gave a small, traitorous ping. The icon of your mail app popped up.
You told yourself not to look. You clicked on it anyway.
Your heart began to pound before you even opened it.
Inbox. One new message.
From: Maekar Targaryen.
Your fingers trembled as you clicked.
The email was brief. Efficient.
We appreciate your interest. After reviewing your application, we would like to proceed. You are hired. Please begin tomorrow from 13:00–19:00. Further details attached.
You stared at the word. Hired.
Professor Ashford’s voice faded into white noise.
You were actually hired.
You were going to be responsible for Aegon Targaryen.
You were going to enter the Targaryen household.
The thought that you were going to inevitably cross paths with Aerion Targaryen crossed your mind for the first time.
Your stomach twisted violently. You hadn’t truly processed that part before.
Tomorrow. 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. That meant shifting one seminar online. Rearranging your week. Rearranging your entire life.
What have you done?
—
You woke at 5 a.m. the next day. Not because you needed to — but because your nerves refused to let you sleep.
You stood in front of your closet like it was a battlefield.
What does one wear to babysit a Targaryen child?
You discarded outfits onto your bed one by one. Too casual. Too academic. Too try-hard. Too plain. You did not want to look like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world.
In the end, you chose light wash jeans and a soft V-neck sweater. Clean. Neutral. Competent.
You brushed your hair twice, put on some natural makeup and applied your favorite lipgloss.
You looked friendly, not too try hard, not too trying to fit into the Targaryen picture thing.
After your morning lecture, you boarded the bus heading toward the Red Keep district, it was the most polished slice of King’s Landing.
Skyscrapers gave way to manicured hedges and wide, tree-lined streets. Cars here gleamed. Pavement here shone.
The air itself felt more expensive.
The Targaryen residence was impossible to miss.
Red brick, but not in the harsh way rather deep, smooth, almost velvety.
A sweeping driveway. Iron gates etched with a three-headed dragon sigil so subtle it was almost understated.
Your eyes widened as you approached.
A guard stopped you at the gate. You showed your ID, your email confirmation. He nodded and escorted you through like you were entering a consulate.
If the exterior was imposing, the interior was something else entirely.
Mahogany wood so polished it reflected light like water. Intricate carvings along the banisters. Portraits lining the walls—ancestors, no doubt. You noted a portrait of Aegon the First “Conqueror” his nickname was.
The entire house breathed legacy. Old money forged in fire and blood, translated into marble countertops and designer lighting.
It was silent. Oppressively so. Not a soul anywhere.
You stood in the foyer, unsure whether to move, when footsteps echoed against the polished floor.
“Ah. You must be Aegon’s new governess.” An unfamiliar voice startled you.
The man approaching you was older, grey-haired, dressed impeccably in a white button-up and pressed slacks. His accent was faintly foreign—Lysene, perhaps but you couldn’t be sure.
“I am Maellon,” he said, extending his hand. “Aegon’s tutor. I’ve served this family for over twenty years.”
Governess. That was certainly a way to put it.
You straightened instinctively. “Yes. That would be me.”
He studied you for a fraction too long as if assessing if you really were the right person and not some fraud.
“We have concluded lessons for the day. Aegon is in his room.”
There was something in his expression—hesitation. As if he wanted to warn you.
“Well,” he continued, already stepping backward toward the door, “I am sure Lord Targaryen has left you instructions.”
He had not. No one had done such a thing.
You opened your mouth to clarify, but Maellon was already moving.
“I wish you luck, young lady.”
His lips curved faintly. Not unkindly. Almost… sympathetically.
And then he was gone.
The front door clicked shut behind him and the silence was almost loud at this point.
You slipped off your shoes and ventured deeper into the house, heart thudding.
The corridor stretched endlessly. Doors lined both sides, most closed. The place felt less like a home and more like a museum where you were not meant to touch anything.
You turned left—Maellon had come from that direction.
What if Aegon had escaped? What if he had run off just to spite you?
What if you have failed within the first ten minutes?
Your thoughts spiraled until you heard something behind one of the closed doors.
A faint noise. Electronic and rhythmic.
You followed it to a door at the end of the hallway.
You rapped your knuckle twice on the wood.
The noise stopped instantly. There was no reply.
You tried the handle. Unlocked.
You pushed the door open slowly.
The room was large but lived-in—bookshelves, a sleek desk, a gaming console hooked to a massive screen. There were some posters on the walls, albeit all framed.
It was ridiculously clean for the room of a ten year old child.
In the center of it all stood a boy with pale blond hair almost identical to his brother’s.
He stared at you like you had broken into his home. And in some abstract way perhaps you had.
His gaze was sharp and calculating.
“Hello,” you offered gently. “You must be Aegon.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He was clearly assessing you.
You felt it physically—the way his eyes scanned your clothes, your posture, your expression.
“Hello,” he said at last. His voice was calm. Controlled.
“Are you my new nanny?”
The word felt like a test.
“Yes,” you replied, keeping your voice even. Children could smell insincerity the way dogs sensed fear.
He didn’t move from the center of the room.
“What’s your name?”
You introduced yourself.
He repeated your name slowly, tasting it, like he was testing whether it suited you. Then he raised a single pale eyebrow.
How could a ten-year-old make you feel like you were being evaluated for a corporate position?
“And what do you study?”
There it was again—that unsettling composure. The judgemental tone.
He stood like a miniature executive conducting an interview.
“I go to KLU,” you said, naming your major.
His eyes sharpened. “You must know Aerion then.”
Your stomach tightened. You had no idea what the internal politics of this family looked like.
“Yes, he’s—”
“An asshole,” Aegon finished flatly, spinning back toward his console.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Well,” you muttered under your breath, “at least we agree on that.”
He didn’t hear you—or pretended not to. Either way you were glad he chose not to respond.
The PlayStation hummed back to life.
You cleared your throat. “So. Maester Maellon mentioned you had homework.”
He didn’t even look at you.
“I finished it.”
You glanced at the pristine notebook and textbook sitting untouched on the massive desk across the room.
“I don’t think so.”
He swiveled in his chair slowly, eyes narrowing. “You don’t believe me.”
“I can see your notebook from here, Aegon.”
He scoffed. “I don’t need that.”
You inhaled. So this is how it’s going to be.
You walked calmly to the console and reached for the plug.
“What—hey!” He jumped up. “You can’t do that!”
“Oh yes, I can.” You unplugged it smoothly. “No games until homework is done.”
“You’re such a shrew!” he snapped, face flushing. “I hate you. You’re horrible.”
The words were sharp, but hollow. You could tell he didn’t fully understand the weight of them.
“Oh, I bet,” you replied coolly. “And you’re a spoiled little punk.”
His eyes widened slightly at your boldness.
“You know,” you continued casually, “I have a niece. She does all her homework without arguing. Smartest little girl in all the Seven Kingdoms.”
You absolutely did not have a niece.
He stared at you clearly eating it all up.
“I bet,” he muttered darkly. “My father is going to fire you anyway.”
“Maybe,” you shrugged. “But before that happens, I’ll make sure to tell my niece how lazy Aegon Targaryen is.”
Silence fell between you. He was calculating.
You could almost see the gears turning behind his pale eyes.
“If I do my homework…” he said slowly after a minute, “…will you let me play my PC?”
There it was. Regulation and negotiation.
“Yes. Of course.” You promised him.
He moved to his desk—an enormous slab of polished wood that was, frankly, bigger than your entire dorm table—and grabbed a pencil.
“If you need help—”
“I don’t.”
You folded your arms. “Alright. But I’ll still check it.”
He shot you a look and began scribbling.
You sat quietly, scrolling idly on your phone but watching him from the corner of your eye. He worked quickly. Focused. No dramatics now. At least he was efficient.
After a while he pushed back his chair.
“Done.”
He stood, posture stiff. “Can I please play now?”
Mannered — you noted.
“Let me check.”
“Do you think I’m stupid, miss?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” you replied gently. “I think you’re a student.”
“You’re a student too.” Oh he was quick witted.
“Yes. But I’ve been studying for ten years. You’ve been writing for, what, two?”
“Four,” he corrected immediately. “Since I was six.” There was pride in his tone.
You nodded solemnly. “Impressive.”
You flipped through the pages. Most of it was correct. A few spelling errors. You handed the notebook back.
“Erase those. Rewrite them properly.”
He groaned dramatically but complied. After a few more minutes, you nodded.
“Good job. Now you can play.”
You plugged the console back in. He sat cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand.
“Egg,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“Everyone calls me Egg.”
You softened slightly. “Alright, Egg.”
He seemed satisfied with that.
“Would you like a snack?” you asked.
He stared at you like you’d asked if the Dothraki lived in Westeros.
“Um. Sure.”
“Anything particular?”
“Peanut butter.” Simple.
“Alright,” you said. “Peanut butter and apples.”
—
You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled. Round one: successfully survived.
Now you just had to find the kitchen in this architectural labyrinth.
You walked left. Then right. Opened a door—linen closet. Another, this one was some kind of sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured garden.
Everything gleamed. Everything felt too expensive to even breathe on.
The kitchen had to be somewhere obvious.
You finally found it after passing what looked like three separate dining rooms.
And it was… absurd, like everything else in this house. Well more manor than house.
Marble countertops the size of small islands. Two refrigerators. A pantry larger than your dorm bathroom. Copper pots hanging from a rack like decorative trophies.
You stood in the center of it, momentarily overwhelmed.
Apple and peanut butter. How hard could that be? You weren’t going to let some snob kitchen better you.
You opened the first fridge.
Sparkling water. Imported cheeses. Pre-cut fruit arranged like artwork. No whole apples in sight.
Second fridge. Still no sign of apples.
A thought popped into your head. Produce drawer.
You tugged it open.
Rows of perfectly polished apples, red and green, organized by variety.
Of course they were, riche people were like that.
You grabbed two, then turned to the cabinets.
Which one held peanut butter?
You opened one. Plates.
Another. Glassware.
Another. Some kind of artisanal grain collection.
You muttered under your breath.
“Why does anyone need this many compartments?”
You opened a sleek drawer. Cutlery. Another—spices arranged alphabetically.
You crouched to check the lower cabinets. Nothing but baking trays and mixers that probably cost more than your tuition.
Finally—finally—you opened a tall pantry door tucked beside the double ovens.
Rows of labeled containers.
And there was your peanut butter.
Three different kinds. Organic. Almond. Regular.
You grabbed the regular jar like it was a prize you’d won in battle.
You found a knife after another brief scavenger hunt, sliced the apples carefully on a marble board that probably had its own insurance policy, and arranged everything on a small plate.
You paused. This was ridiculous.
You were scrambling through a palace kitchen to make a snack for a ten-year-old who had just called you a shrew.
And yet — you felt oddly triumphant.
Balancing the plate carefully, you made your way back through the maze of hallways, half-worried you’d get lost and starve before reaching his room.
You knocked lightly before entering. Egg looked up from the floor.
You held up the plate like an offering.
“Apple slices,” you said. “With peanut butter.”
For a moment, he just stared at it. Then at you. Assessing the gesture.
Round two, apparently, was about to begin.
Aegon—Egg—balanced the controller against his knees while grabbing the apple bites off the plate.
You sat cross-legged on the rug a few feet away, answering emails on your phone and trying not to look completely out of your depth.
The television glowed against the pale walls of his room.
Onscreen, animated karts sped around a brightly colored track.
He paused the game abruptly and looked over at you.
“Do you want to play?”
He held out the second controller like a challenge.
You hesitated for half a second.
“Sure.”
You had never owned a PlayStation. Growing up, consoles were luxuries reserved for well off families—the kind with extra money after bills were paid. Regardless you accepted the controller as if you’d been doing this your whole life.
He unpaused the game. Mario Kart.
Bright music, and tiny characters. Pure absolute chaos.
You pressed buttons at random, pretending you knew what they did.
“So,” he began casually, steering his character with unnerving precision. He clearly played a lot. “do you have a boyfriend?”
You barked out a laugh, nearly driving your kart off the edge of the track.
“Straight to the point, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s a yes or no question.”
“No. I don’t.”
He hummed, swerving past you effortlessly.
“Most nannies do.”
“Do they?”
“They talk about them a lot. Like I care.”he rolled his eyes.
You grinned despite yourself as your character spun out after hitting a banana.
“One of them wanted to know exactly what time I used the toilet every day,” he continued. “She tried to make a schedule.”
“Seven hells,” you muttered, mashing buttons uselessly.
“I won’t ask you to schedule your bathroom habits,” you assured him.
“Good.”
He threw a blue shell that obliterated your already tragic position.
“You’re terrible at this,” he observed.
“Thank you.” Your lips quirked up in a mock smile.
“Do you want me to teach you?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you going to be condescending about it?”
He considered. “Maybe a little.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “Go ahead.”
For the next twenty minutes, he instructed you with surprising patience.
His little fingers pointing to each and every button and explaining exactly what it was used for.
“No, not that button. That’s drift. See? Like that.”
You followed his guidance, slowly improving. When you finally managed to knock him off first place with a perfectly timed item, he stared at you.
“You did that on purpose!” He groaned.
“I did.” You grinned triumphantly.
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “You’re not hopeless.”
High praise from Egg Targaryen.
As you played, the house remained eerily silent.
No footsteps. No voices. No distant clatter from a kitchen.
“Is it always this quiet?” you asked.
“Yes,” he replied simply, eyes still on the screen.
“Sometimes Daella and Rhae are here,” he added. “Then it’s loud. They blast Taylor Swift and usually bring friends. Father hates strangers in the house.”
There was something in his tone when he said father. Not fear. Not exactly resentment. Just… distance.
“And Aerion?” you asked carefully.
He snorted. “He’s around sometimes, unfortunately.”
“And Daeron?”
Egg’s fingers tightened briefly on the controller.
“He doesn’t live here much.”
You nodded. You’d heard the rumors—Daeron Targaryen had dropped out of university a few years ago. There were whispers about him having a serious drinking problem and going to rehab.
“And Aemon’s abroad,” Egg continued matter-of-factly. “In Oldtown.”
He listed his siblings like items on a shelf. A full house that somehow felt empty.
“I’m bored,” he declared suddenly, dropping the controller.
“You’ve been playing for an hour.”
“I’m still bored.”
You laughed. “Alright, what do you suggest?”
“Outside.” He shot up and ran out the door.
—
The garden behind the house was enormous. Like everything else in this house.
Not just a yard—an estate. Perfectly trimmed hedges. A wide stretch of grass. Stone pathways weaving between flower beds. A pond stood at one edge. There was a small practice goal set up at the other.
You blinked against the sudden brightness.
Egg grabbed a football from near the patio doors.
“Can you play?”
“Define ‘play.’”
He rolled his eyes. “Kick the ball.”
“Yes, I can kick the ball.”
He placed it at his feet and passed it toward you with surprising force. You barely managed to trap it.
“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s see how athletic you are.”
“You’re testing me again, aren’t you?”
He grinned. “No.”
You kicked the ball back, a little too hard. It veered off to the side.
He chased after it, laughing.
“You’re terrible!”
“You’re ten! It doesn’t count!”
“And I’m better than you!”
“Oh, it’s on now.”
For the next several minutes, you ran across the lawn, passing the ball back and forth. You tripped once on uneven grass and nearly took him down with you. He darted around you like a fox, quick and agile.
“You’re slow!” he shouted.
“I have adult knees!” you shot back.
At one point he attempted to nutmeg you, clearly very pleased with himself when it worked.
“Ha! Did you see that?”
“I did. Unfortunately.”
He burst into genuine laughter—the kind that crinkled his eyes and made him look exactly his age.
Not sharp. Not calculating. Just a boy.
After football devolved into chaos, he dragged you toward a small wooden structure near the hedge.
“Obstacle course,” he announced.
“You built this?”
“Mostly.” He was obviously very proud of it.
It consisted of cones, a low bench, and a rope strung between two poles.
“You have to follow my instructions,” he said. “No questions.” Suspicious.
“Fine.”
“Run to the bench, jump over it, crawl under the rope, then spin five times and sprint back.”
“You’re trying to make me dizzy.”
“No.” He giggled again.
You stared at him.
He crossed his arms. “Afraid?”
Absolutely not.
You took off running.
You vaulted the bench (gracelessly), ducked under the rope, then spun in circles until the world tilted sideways. By the time you tried to sprint back, you nearly collided with a hedge.
Egg was laughing so hard he could barely stand.
“You’re evil,” you gasped, clutching your side.
“My turn,” he declared proudly.
You gave him equally ridiculous instructions—hop on one foot, recite the kingdoms of Westeros backward, then cartwheel (he attempted it, failed spectacularly, and blamed the grass).
Soon you were both breathless.
He flopped onto the lawn, staring up at the sky.
You hesitated before lying down a few feet away, grass cool against your sweater.
For a moment, there was no testing. No power struggle. Just shared laughter fading into comfortable silence.
He picked at a blade of grass.
He glanced at you sideways, as if trying to decide if he should say something or not.
“Most of them leave,” he said quietly.
The breeze stirred the hedges. You knew what— who he was referring to, his nannies.
You remembered this boy had lost his mother when he was very young. He probably didn’t remember her at all.
Your heart squeezed at the thought.
You didn’t promise anything. Promises felt too fragile in a house like this.
“Well,” you said lightly instead, “I haven’t left yet.”
He rolled onto his side, studying you again—but this time, there was less suspicion in it.
“Okay,” he said.
Not a challenge. Not a threat.Just… okay.
And for the first time since you’d walked through those red-brick gates, the vast Targaryen estate didn’t feel quite so intimidating.
It felt almost alive.
—
After tumbling around in the grass and laughing so hard your ribs hurt, the sun began its slow descent behind the tall hedges, staining the sky in streaks of amber and rose. You brushed stray blades of grass from your jeans as you both went back inside, breathless and giddy.
“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands together once as if you had everything under control, “I should probably make some dinner. Any preferences?”
The vast kitchen was now glowing beneath the chandelier, all polished marble and intimidating silence.
“Ummm…” Aegon tilted his head standing in front of the fridge. He was serious as if negotiating a state treaty. “I’d like some mac and cheese—” He paused dramatically. “No wait! Chicken nuggets!”
You hesitated. You weren’t entirely sure how pleased Maekar Targaryen would be if he came home to find his son being fed processed poultry in porcelain surroundings that screamed Michelin-starred dinner party. But surely nuggets were better than starvation.
“Alright,” you nodded. “I can do that.”
“Thanks! I’ll go shower and change until then,” he declared, already halfway out of the room.
“Okay…” you called after him, faintly relieved he was at least behaving like a normal ten-year-old.
You opened the freezer—of course it was filled with organic, gluten-free, ethically-raised chicken nuggets. Even their junk food had pedigree. You found pre-cut potatoes and sighed.
“Of course,” you muttered.
The air fryer seemed like the safer option. Wrong choice.
Fifteen minutes later you were still jabbing at the touchscreen settings like it had personally offended you. Meanwhile, you failed to notice one crucial detail: there had been absolutely no sound of running water upstairs.
Eventually, by some divine intervention, the nuggets were done. You placed them carefully onto an ornate porcelain plate that had absolutely no business holding chicken nuggets.
You had just reached for cutlery when the front door opened.
You heard heavy footsteps.
Measured but purposeful.
You froze with the plate of dino shaped nuggets in your hands.
A man entered the kitchen—tall, broad-shouldered, silver-white hair trimmed neatly, beard impeccably groomed.
His suit jacket hung over one arm; his shirt sleeves were rolled just slightly. His expression was carved from stone, a permanent scowl between his brows. He looked terribly handsome in spite of it.
“Who the fuck are you,” he all but snarled at you, “and what the fuck are you doing in my house?”
You nearly dropped the plate.
“I—”
“If you’re another of Aerion’s girlfriends or worse Daeron’s, I suggest you pack up and leave right now.”
“I apologize, sir,” you stammered, heat flooding your face. How do you even break this to him?“You… hired me.”
He stared at you like you’d just claimed you were his long lost daughter.
“And when the fuck did I do that?”
You quickly explained about the email. About Kiera and the babysitting she had mentioned.
His eyebrow arched skeptically. You concluded it was his assistant who had hired you and sent that email.
“Well,” he said stiffly shifting his weight to stand at his full height, “Aegon has been in need of a new babysitter. After the last one had a nervous breakdown.”
“So I’ve heard—”
And then Aegon appeared. Your heart stopped and you nearly choked on your own spit.
His head was completely shaved. Not trimmed, not buzzed. Shaved.
Gone were the soft silver locks. In their place—smooth, pale scalp. He looked exactly like his nickname. He looked like an egg.
Maekar slowly turned toward him.
“Seven bloody hells!” His voice thundered as his eyes fell upon the boy. “What the fuck is this now?”
You felt tears prick at your eyes. This was it. You were done. You were witnessing your unemployment in realtime.
Before Maekar could explode further, the front door opened again. Laughter echoed in.
“Ooooh, I hear there’s a fine new boy from Dorne—” a girls voice trailed off as she entered the kitchen.
They were both dressed in impeccable plaid skirts and white tights.
Daella and Rhae took one look at Aegon and burst into hysterics.
“You look like a skinhead!” Daella wheezed through laughter.
“Enough!” Maekar snapped at all of them.
They quieted, barely.
“Is this why I hired you?” he roared at you. “To let my son make a freak of himself?”
“I—” you didn’t even know what to say. You thought Aegon liked you. Clearly you were wrong.
“Father.”
Another unfamiliar voice, yet this one was calm, if slightly amused.
Behind the girls stood what you could only assume was Daeron Targaryen.
His hair wasn’t silver pale like the rest of his family’s. It was dirty blonde pulled back into a ponytail.
His expression was amused, hands casually in his pockets.
“I told Aegon to shave his head.”
Maekar looked like he was about to have a stroke. Before his rage could be unleashed any further he sighed.
“I cannot deal with this right now,” he muttered darkly. “I’ll speak to you two later.”
He turned to you.
“And you. Get out of my house.”
Then he disappeared upstairs.
Were you fired? Probably. You looked at the giggling girls. Definitely.
You did not even want to look at Aegon.
The girls grabbed him immediately.
“Come on!” Daella chirped. “We have to post this on Instagram!”
“And TikTok! And Snapchat!” Rhae added gleefully.
They vanished in a flurry of giggles.
You stood there, clutching your dignity by a thread.
Daeron stepped closer, hands still casually in his pockets.
“Rough day,” he said mildly. “Welcome to the Targaryen household.”
“Welcome?” you muttered. “More like goodbye.”
“Oh, don’t be so grim.” He chuckled. “My father is always like that.”
“Well I’m fairly certain your father just fired me.”
“If he wanted you fired,” Daeron said thoughtfully, “you wouldn’t still be standing here.”
“That’s… oddly reassuring.”
You placed the plate down at last.
“Thanks for covering for me.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “It wasn’t a lie.”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
“I told him to shave it. He said he hated being a Targaryen. I said maybe losing the hair would make him feel less like one.”
You stared at him. That was not a sentence you wanted to unpack. You were not in the mood to play family therapist. Because clearly this household seriously needed one.
You just hummed at his words. “Well..” Daeron said slightly awkward. “I’ll clean this up if you want to..” he glanced at the door. “Don’t get me wrong it’s not that I want you out of the house,” he quickly corrected himself. “It’s just — well— you saw my father.” He stated.
“Yeah… I think it’s better if I go.” You agreed.
—
By the time you stepped outside, the sky was fully indigo. The garden where you’d been laughing an hour earlier felt distant now, surreal.
Aegon ran out just before you reached the gate.
“Hey!” You turned albeit everything in you was screaming not to. You were still cross with him, even if he didn’t shave his head to spite you.
He stood there—bald, sheepish, and suddenly very small again.
“Are you… coming back?” he asked.
You hesitated, something in you softeningZ
“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry about the head thing.”
“You could’ve warned me,” you sighed.
A tiny grin tugged at his lips. “It was kind of funny.”
You tried not to smile.
“It was a little funny.”
He brightened.
“Thanks for not treating me like I’m five.”
“That’s because you’re not.”
He seemed to hold onto that.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, “if you don’t come back, I’ll probably get someone who schedules my bathroom breaks again.”
You snorted.
“I’ll… see what happens.”
He nodded once.
“Bye.”
“Bye, Aegon.”
You walked down the long driveway feeling like you’d just survived a medieval trial by fire.
—
When you finally got home, you collapsed onto your bed fully clothed. Then you grabbed your phone.
You:
I am going to strangle you.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Kiera:
?????
You:
You sent me into a HOUSE of silver-haired psychos.
Kiera:
HAHAHAHAHA did you meet the dad???
You:
He told me to get out of his house while I was holding chicken nuggets on fine china.
Kiera:
STOP 😭😭
You:
Aegon SHAVED HIS HEAD. He’s an egg. Literally.
There was a full thirty seconds of typing.
Kiera:
I’M SORRY WHAT
You:
Bald. Completely bald. In front of his terrifying father. I almost died.
Kiera:
…
But are you fired???
You stared at the ceiling.
You weren’t sure.
You thought about Aegon asking if you were coming back. About how he laughed in the grass. About how the house felt quiet in a way that wasn’t normal.
You:
I don’t think so. But if I go back and get publicly humiliated again I’m haunting you.
Kiera:
Worth it. This is elite content.
She was so unserious. You groaned and tossed your phone aside.
You were going to strangle her.
But as you lay there replaying the day—the laughter, the chaos, the shaved head, the absurdity of it all—you found yourself smiling despite everything.
It had been a disaster.
A ridiculous, overwhelming, unhinged disaster.
And somehow… you had a feeling you’d be going back.
©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION
sensitive boxer!choso kamo may your back muscles save me.
boxer!choso kamo tanked hits in the ring. indifferent as flesh met flesh in a messy collision, pushing through whatever cheap shot his opponent threw. whether they landed or not, choso stood solid. pushing forwards to drive his fist towards their skull.
boxer!choso had to be wrangled down for proper evaluation. bloody bruising lips parted as a low string of whimpers and whines left him whenever you glided disinfectant over torn wounds. the nurse on board left to supervising your medical work. like hell choso would let them 'heal' him when all he needed was you.
boxer!choso always walked out shirtless. heavy muscles sculpted by the lights of the stadium. shadows of his body creating sharp ridges that promised unforgiving precision. a coiled legality admired in the community.
boxer!choso flushing a pretty shade of red everytime you caught him without a top. heart rewiring when hed walk from the locker room showers, grey sweats lose around his hips and hair dripping rapidly chilling water. rigid when your fingers skimmed his abdomen, smearing water into his gradually burning skin. how did you always catch him at the worst of times?
boxer!choso known to be on the.. rougher side of the fighter spectrum. slamming the other man around then kneeing him straight in the diaphragm. hold on the guy so sure ugly yellow splotches bloomed beneath his fingers.
boxer!choso kept his hands delicate outside of fights. softly caressing your hip whilst you looked over his damaged skin, fingers thumming against your back shoulder when you two waited for the press confrence to commence.
boxer!choso needed to be told to actually notice the bombard of press and frantic fangirls. somehow the echoing squeals from girls of all ages and rapid fire questions shouted into microphones didnt quite reach his ears. nor his brain.
boxer!choso turned giddy when youd coo compliments at him. well, about him. somehow overhearing you gush about him to his management team — from the other side of the ring, in the midst of a screaming crowd. twitter captioned it, 'boner kamo'. most emotion theyd ever seen from him.
goldenboy!valarr hcs .𖥔 ݁ ˖
he loves seeing you all dolled up looking like a literal princess. he'll be the perfect gentleman all night, holding your hand, kissing your knuckles, but his eyes are promising filth. the second you're home, he's on his knees, lifting your skirt to press his face to your silk-covered cunt, breathing you in like he's starving. he could spend hours between your thighs, just looking at you, his fingers tracing your folds, his tongue flicking out to taste you.
he hates it when other men look at you. he'll wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his smile charming but his eyes cold. later, he'll be extra gentle, almost apologetic, as he fucks you slow and deep, his hands gripping your hips, his murmured praises a desperate attempt to remind himself that you're his. "you're mine, aren't you, baby?" he'll whisper, his voice thick with emotion. "all mine."
he loves to watch you. he loves the way you squirm, the way you beg, the way you fall apart for him. he's not just fucking you; he's worshiping you, and he needs to see every second of it. he'll hold your hand while you come, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes locked on yours, a silent, intimate communion that's more possessive than any rough handling could ever be.
he's a doting control freak. he buys you anything you want, but it's always what he thinks you should have. he'll have your appointments scheduled, your life planned out to the last detail. he loves anticipating your needs. it makes him feel indispensable. before you can say you’re cold, there’s a shawl around your shoulders. before you can admit you’re tired, he’s canceling plans on your behalf. before you can decide you’re unhappy, he’s explaining why you’re not.
he hates surprises unless he planned them. he tracks your moods like weather patterns. if you’re quieter than usual, he notices immediately. if someone looks at you too long, he remembers their face. he adores you. he memorizes how you take your tea. he knows which side you sleep on. he keeps the first note you ever wrote him tucked in his wallet.
if you push back, he doesn’t explode. his voice stays soft. his hands stay gentle. but his jaw locks, and he starts using words like sensible and best for you. he’ll listen to you argue, truly listen, and then calmly dismantle every point until you’re the unreasonable one. "i’m not controlling you," he’ll murmur. "i’m taking care of you. there’s a difference."
⋆˙⟡ tagged: @capri-cuntz, @ughdontbeboring, @heavengirls111, @phia004
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 ┅ 𝖬𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇! 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘩. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵.
﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
one: ✶ two: ✶ three: ✶
EXTRAS: one: ✶ two: ✶ three: ✶ four: ✶
NOTE: This first chapter’s a little bit of a boring one, but I really wanted to get some of the world building out of the way, so I can really get into all the juicy stuff. This is ofc going to be a series, I can’t do it justice with just one chapter lol I still think this one’s an interesting read either way but please do let me know if it’s missing anything! Enjoy! 😉
You wake at 6:00 a.m.
Not because you have to, it’s become a habit really. It might also be because control of yourself is the one thing in this life that you can regulate.
The sky outside your dorm window at Columbia University is a washed-out, misty blue, Manhattan is still quiet, the city just waking up from its night time slumber. A slumber which you did not seem to have, considering the terrible case of dark under eyes you’ve started to develop.
You lie still for exactly thirty seconds. Surrounded in your white and blue seashell bedspread, a unique pick your roommate said. It just reminded you of your summer home is all.
Then you sit up.
Your room is meticulous but lived-in. Two monitors glow faintly from sleep mode, an extra large whiteboard near your desk is crowded with flowcharts, revenue models, and predictive analytics sketches. Sticky notes line the edge of your bookshelf like a battalion awaiting for your orders.
Most people your age wake up thinking about the next party to get shittered at. You wake up thinking about market share. As boring as it sounds, it’s defined your life.
You pad across the floor, brushing your hair back from the tangled nest it turned into overnight. You open your phone, already checking overnight reports.
User growth: +2.3%
Server latency: stable
Investor inquiry: flagged
You allow yourself a small smile and nod. If your father was here, he’d call this steady, then he’d continue to make a terribly unfunny pun about snowbanks or fringe benefits.
You call this progress promising.
—
6:30 a.m. — Butler Library
You’re first in line when the doors open. On most days your top ten. Number one always means a good day.
You scan around the plaza looking for the cranky old lady that’s been working here since the dawn of time. She caught you eating lunch once, she stalked you for the rest of the month. It still gets you mad thinking about it.
The security guard, Mr. Halpern, gives you a knowing look.
“Morning, future Ms. Billionaire.” He says, tipping his hat that has ‘staff’ embroidered on it.
“Morning,” you reply dryly. “And that’s current Ms. Billionaire to you.”
You hear him chuckle, his voice fading as you quickly walk past him.
You take your usual corner table in Butler Library. Headphones on, and laptop open. The screens synced to your family's company development environment.
Your family’s tech firm, founded by your parents, didn’t really take off until after your mother died, it was supposed to stay small, it was supposed to be stable.
Instead, it became disruptive, something dangerous.
Becoming a growing giant in its own right, threatening companies that have been constant in the market since forever. Especially to firms like the Targaryen Capital.
You run diagnostics on your latest algorithm update, fingers flying over the keys. You built this subsystem yourself, predictive infrastructure modeling designed to outmaneuver legacy logistics firms. Taught by the very best, your mother.
The irony isn’t lost on you.
The largest legacy firm in Manhattan?
Owned by the Targaryens.
—
8:45 a.m. — Corporate scheming
The lecture hall fills with the polished ambition of the masses.
Here in these halls, old money mingles with the new.
You take your seat beside Rohanne Webber, fashionably sharp, razor-minded, and heir to an agricultural biotech empire that pretends it isn’t the monopoly beast that it is.
She leans over, taking her pencils out.
“Are you ready for Langley’s case study?”
“I rewrote it last night, a case study isn’t gonna get the best of me” you reply.
She smirks. “Of course you did, nerd.”
Behind you, a chair scrapes on the polished floor.
You don’t need to turn your head to know who sits behind you everyday of class.
Valarr Targaryen.
Dark chest in hair, with his distinct silver-blond lock. His hair is always slightly loose, his wrist always iced with the latest models of watches. Black polos that he makes look so tempting paired with his toned and defined biceps. Dress pants fitted within an inch of perfection. He moves like someone raised to expect space to clear for him, very…Targaryen.
And in his Defense it does.
Two rows over, Daeron Targaryen, his cousin, laughs loudly at something Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen says. Both men, heir to a venture capital firm known for hostile takeovers. Founded by their father, Maekar Targaryen.
Although they look like opposites, the two brothers are trouble dressed in a very large trust fund.
“Try not to eviscerate anyone today hm,” Rohanne murmurs.
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, “No promises.”
Professor Langley begins. “I hope you all had a light breakfast today, if not, try not to regurgitate it all over my clean floors. We’re covering something new, the topic, Strategic Acquisition vs Strategic Alliance. Someone tell me anything they know about this.”
Your pulse sharpens, you hate being the one to open discussions, because most of the time it is you. So you settle and wait for a possible chance that someone else raises their hand.
Valarr’s gaze is on the board, and so is everyone else’s.
It was quiet.
“Don’t all shout at once.” Professor Langley jokes.
You sigh and raise your hand first.
“Hostile acquisition creates instability in innovation sectors,” you say evenly. “Partnership allows growth without erasure.”
Aerion scoffs audibly. “Everyone knows that’s what small firms say before they get swallowed.”
You don’t look at him. “That’s what outdated firms say before they collapse.”
A low murmur spreads.Then—
“She’s correct.” The voice is calm. Valarr, the young heir himself.
He doesn’t look at you. He addresses the professor.
“Hostile absorption works when legacy firms hold leverage. But in tech sectors with adaptive leadership? It accelerates rebellion.”
Aerion rolls his eyes. “You sound like a bore cousin, defending a small company for what?”
Valarr’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m defending efficiency, and you should know about this already.”
But his gaze flickers to you for half a second. Lucky you don’t catch it.
—
11:00 a.m. — Walk Across Campus
You’re halfway down the stone steps when someone matches your stride.
The shadow looming over you making it obvious who it is, either Duncan or—
“Adaptive leadership?” Valarr says, running his hands through his hair.
‘How does it always fall so perfectly?’
“You disagreed?” You look his way.
“No.”
“You rarely speak in class y’know.”
“I for one find it more effective when I speak when it matters.”
You stop at the iron gates, turning your body to face his. “And today mattered?”
He studies you for a moment, assessing you like the beautiful man he is.
He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck with his hand, eyes looking at anything but you.“Well, you matter.”
His words land heavier than they should.
Before you can respond, Dunk joins you, Duncan “Dunk” the tall, towering rugby build, kinesiology major, soft-spoken, and incredibly stupid. It’s one of the schools seven wonders how he got accepted in, some floating rumours say his adopted father had connections in high places.
“Are you two arguing economics again?” Dunk asks.
“Always,” you reply.
Valarr’s tone is mild. “It keeps things interesting.”
Dunk grins. “You’re both so weird.”
You and Valarr answer at the same time. “I know.”
You glance at each other.
And for a split second, something almost warm flickers there.
Dunk continues to talk about how he had to get his ACL checked out, last night's game must’ve done a solid on him.
His carefree chatter almost makes you forget about Valarr’s words earlier. Almost.
—
2:00 p.m. — Call with Father Dearest
You sit on the steps outside Low Library. The cold stone material, mixed with the cool breeze give you goosebumps.
“Hi Dad.”
“Hey sweetie, how’s my princess doing? How’s campus?”
“Competitive.”
A faint chuckle. “The campus or you?”
“Haha Dad, kinda both but I’m doing fine, the same as always.” You say sarcastically, fidgeting with the laces of your shoes.
“I saw that the Targaryens are moving again,” you say quietly.
“Yeah, you saw huh?”
“Are we okay?”
A pause.
“We’re stable.”
You know your dad, he’s a serious man when it comes to the efforts you and your mom have put in, this wasn’t reassurance, he always sounded like this when he was planning.
“You don’t have to carry this, your mom and I—,”
“I want to.” You always have.
You can hear the sigh he lets out over the phone, “You’ll always be our clever girl, your mom would be so proud.” He says gently.
“I know Dad.”
—
6:00 p.m. — Study Session
You’re in a private study room with Rohanne and Dunk.
Aerion leans against the doorway, obviously uninvited.
“Did you see the market dip?” he asks casually, chewing on a couple of walnuts from his open palm.
“It’s temporary,” you respond without looking up.
“For you,” he clarifies.
Rohanne closes her laptop sharply. “Do you ever get bored of being insufferable?”
Aerion smirks, and shrugs. “Not particularly no.”
A shadow falls across the doorway, Valar again. You pan your eyes to his, and raise your eye brow.
‘This boy and his annoyingly gorgeous face.’
He doesn’t raise his voice. “Aerion.”
Just his name.
Aerion straightens slightly, irritation flickering, but he leaves. “Fine, whatever you say, cousin.”
Dunk whistles softly. “What’re you trying to do? Assert your dominance over us?”
Valarr shrugs, cracking a small smile. “He thrives on reaction, best not give in to his whims.”
“And you don’t?” you ask.
His gaze slides to you, his smile still on his face “Only selectively.”
—
11:47 p.m. — Your Dorm Room
The campus is quiet now.
Your roommate is away for the rest of the week and the weekend.
Quickly changing into a comfortable pajama set, something light and breathable to get you through the hot night. A lace camisole and matching lace shorts.
You sit cross-legged on your bed, laptop open, the glow of the Manhattan night life bleeding through the linen curtains.
You’re reviewing investor projections when a soft knock hits your window.
You freeze.
‘It’s the third floor. There's no way—’
Another tap.
You rise slowly, heart pounding, and pull the curtain aside.
You let out a relieved sigh.
It’s fucking Valarr, standing on the narrow exterior ledge with a dopey look on his face, acting like this is completely reasonable and normal.
You unlock the window immediately.
“Are you insane?” you whisper as he slips inside.
“Probably.” He grunts, hauling himself inside and out of the night air.
Once inside he leans close to you and covers your hand that’s on the window latch, and pushes it, closing the window softly.
He’s not wearing a jacket, just a cream coloured undershirt and a dark sweater with the Targaryen crest on his chest. His hair slightly wind-touched.
“You couldn’t text?” you ask.
He leaned on your desk, arms crossed, “I did.”
You glance at your phone.
Three missed notifications. You were too deep in code to hear them.
“Oh shoot, okay then, what are you doing here?” you ask quietly.
He ignores your question and studies your room, the whiteboard, the charts, the glowing monitors.
“You never stop do you?”
“That’s not an answer, Valarr.”
He steps closer.
Close enough that you can see the faint tension in his jaw.
“My father is meeting yours tomorrow.”
Your stomach drops, and your mind rushes to the worst thoughts.
“For what.”
“An agreement.”
The word feels sharp.
“What kind of agreement?”
His voice lowers.
“One that could possibly bind our families.”
Silence stretches.
“Okay then, I don’t know what you're trying to do with this riddle me this crap, but I won’t press further if you can’t tell me.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears.
“So, back to my question, what do you want?” you ask carefully.
For once, Valarr Targaryen doesn’t look composed.
He reaches out slowly, fingers brushing your wrist.
“I just wanted to see you, and I need to tell you that lots of things will be changing in the following weeks. I don’t want to decide knowing that…”
“Knowing what?”
“That if this, whatever it is between us becomes…strategic—”
His thumb presses lightly over your pulse.
“—it won’t be because I didn’t fight it.”
The air between you shifts.
“You climbed three floors just to tell me that?” you whisper.
“Yes.”
You search his face.
“For the company?” you ask softly.
A beat.
“For you.”
Your breath catches, and he steps closer. Close enough that he forces your back to hit the edge of your bed.
The city hums outside while the Valarr Targaryen, heir to a large legacy, raised in marble halls and boardrooms, presses his forehead lightly to yours.
“You work too hard, gets me so worried sometimes,” he murmurs.
“So do you.”
A faint exhale of almost-laughter. “Probably.”
His hand slides to your waist, and his fingers climb under your loose camisole.
His actions are slow, and deliberate. Just like everything else he does.
And when he finally presses those lips of his against yours, kissing you, it isn’t rushed.
It isn’t careless, and it feels, oh so inevitable.
Outside your window, Manhattan never stops moving. But inside your dorm room, time does.
—
Valarr kisses like he debates, measured, and passionate. His hand at your waist wanders, scaling your whole body.
You’re the one who shifts first.
Your hands slide from his chest to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his sweater. It’s soft, warm. He feels solid under your touch, steady in a way that makes your pulse race harder.
“You’re so reckless,” you murmur against his mouth.
“For climbing the building?” he asks quietly.
“For coming here at all.”
His lips brush yours again, slower this time. “I calculated the risk.”
“You calculated it,” you echo, breath catching when his hand moves higher along your back, itching to free you from your clothes. “That’s worse.”
A faint, almost-smile ghosts across his mouth.
“Probably.”
He kisses you again, deeper now.
Your computer screen dims and eventually turns off, plunging half the room into shadow. The only light source is the fairy lights in your room, and the city light spilling through the curtains, painting warm silver against his hair.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“Your father’s meeting mine tomorrow,” you remind him.
“I know.”
“And you’re here instead of preparing for whatever that means.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I’ve been preparing my entire life.”
“And what if this becomes…strategic?” you ask softly.
His gaze sharpens. “It won’t feel like that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The confidence in his voice makes your stomach flip.
Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the cool line of his hair. He inhales sharply, barely noticeable, but you feel it.
That tiny loss of composure.
“You don’t lose control,” you whisper.
His eyes darken slightly. “I’m not losing it.”
“Then what is this?”
He leans forward more, laying you down on your bed as he grabs his sweater from behind, taking it off in one solid motion. His shirt is plain, no designs.
You don’t have enough time to study him further because he repeats the same action that he did with his sweater to his shirt. Leaving a very shirtless Valarr looming over you.
“This,” he says quietly, “is me choosing.”
Your heart stutters, and you try not to just drool over his toned body. But you give yourself some leeway and let your gaze fall down his body.
“Choosing what?” You gulp.
“You.”
The word settles between you, heavy and warm.
You try to keep your composure. You really do.
The air feels thinner now.
Charged.
You take the first step this time, wrapping your hands around his neck, and pulling him down to kiss you.
His restraint is fraying at the edges. His hands under your camisole tug the fabric away from your skin and over your head, leaving your chest bare.
“Careful,” he murmurs, though his voice is lower now, rougher at the edges.
“Why?” you challenge softly.
He pauses.
Then, near your ear: “Because I’m already having a difficult time behaving.”
The admission sends warmth rushing straight to your face.
You tilt your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw. “You climbed three floors. I think that ship sailed, besides it’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
A quiet exhale, almost a laugh, leaves him.
He lifts your legs and places them on the bed, making you fully lay down. He climbs onto your bed, over you. He starts lightly kissing the valley of your breasts, hands cupping the mounds, his fingers occasionally teasing the buds, which drag a whine out of your mouth.
He starts to migrate downwards, kissing your skin along the way, eliciting more sounds from you.
“Still so sensitive aren’t you? So much sound already and I haven’t done anything yet.”
If the redness of your face hadn’t engulfed you completely, it has now. “Just take off your pants already, it’s not fair.”
He chuckles and pulls back just enough to look at you in all your wantone glory.
There’s something different in his expression now.
Less of the polished heir, and more of him.
He leans back down to kiss you. “My sweet girl, as much as I’d love to have my way with you right now, you should sleep,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You break into my dorm room, give me the female equivalent of blue balls, and now you’re being responsible?”
“Yes…besides you have a—”
“God Valarr! You can’t leave me like this!” You huff and pull your underwear back on. So much for being a gentleman.
You flail your arms trying to grab the rest of your clothes when Valarr crashes down on you and grabs your waist, trapping you to his chest.
You try to free yourself, but he doesn't budge.
“We have a test tomorrow, and it’s already past midnight. It'll be Friday anyways, come hangout with me over the weekend and then I'll show you what I can really do.”
You groan, you forgot all about that test. Maybe he did have a point, Valarr had a habit of finishing something till the very end once he got too deep in. You’d know.
You snuggle closer to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin surrounding you.
His hand lingers at your waist, thumb brushing lightly against your side. It's almost absentminded, except it isn’t. He’s very aware of what he’s doing.
“You’re thinking too much,” you say softly.
“I always am.”
“About…?”
“About you.”
That catches you off guard.
He leans down, pressing a slower kiss to your lips this time. So tender It steals your ability to form a witty response.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again.
“Stay,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Funny you think I was gonna leave,” he says.
—
The executive floor of Targaryen Capital is quieter than the rest of the building. A stark contrast from the bustling halls filled with fresh interns, and accustomed employees.
Assistants move like clockwork, they work swiftly and in sync to open the doors, closing it softly after the group of men walk into the private office. They don't linger any further.
Your father is led not to the standard boardroom, but to the legacy office. It belongs to Daeron II Targaryen, current CEO and patriarch of the Targaryen family.
The man isn’t the biggest fan of the financial press, or any type of press for that matter. Little is known about him, and unlike his grandchildren he prefers to stay discreet, he controls the family from afar.
Inside, the office feels less corporate and more dynastic, dark wood shelves, and leather-bound ledgers.
A portrait wall is the most noticeable thing in the room, generations of silver-haired predecessors staring down like silent jurors.
Daeron II stands near the window when your father enters.
He turns slowly. He looks less like a CEO and more akin to a king.
“Sir,” he greets your father evenly.
“Mr. Targaryen.”
Baelor Targaryen stands to the side of the desk, his usual role being a primary negotiator for his father in his absence. But not today it seemed. The matter with your father urged for a more special appearance.
Daeron gestures to the chairs.
“Please, sit.” Your father obliges, making himself comfortable in the leather chair.
Daeron folds his hands atop a thin leather portfolio.
“Your expansion into municipal AI infrastructure has increased 18% this quarter.”
Your father nods once. “Yes, it has.”
Daeron nods, “very impressive indeed. You’ve secured contracts previously considered stable under our management.”
“Competitive bids,” your father corrects.
Daeron inclines his head slightly. “Competitive, yes.”
The tone of his voice is neutral, but not approving.
Baelor speaks next. “You’re moving faster than projected.”
Your father doesn’t deny it. “We don’t intend to plateau.”
Daeron studies him. “And do you intend to survive this pace you find yourself in?”
There it is. This wasn't concern from a fellow company competitor, this was a test.
Your father’s voice remains calm. “We didn’t build this to collapse under pressure.”
“No,” Daeron agrees quietly. “You built it to disrupt.”
Silence settles, and Baelor breaks it by sliding a folder across the desk.
Inside lay a proposed collaboration framework, data-sharing agreements, minority stake investments, and territorial limitations, among other things.
“We’re prepared to offer controlled partnerships in select markets. A very good deal on your part,” Baelor says.
“In exchange?” your father asks.
“Stabilization,” Daeron answers. “You reduce aggressive bids in our legacy strongholds.”
“Which are?”
Daeron lists them evenly. They are, coincidentally, the most profitable regions.
Your father closes the folder gently, he had no intention of becoming a simple lamb to the slaughter, not the kind of example he’d like to set for his daughter. “You’re asking us to cap our growth.”
“We’re asking you to ensure your longevity.”
“That sounds more like containment to me.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens slightly, if Daeron is displeased he doesn't show it, his expression staying settled like stone. “It is a balance.”
Your father leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “With all due respect,” he says calmly, “your company has enjoyed dominance for decades. We’re offering something innovative, efficient, and adaptable.”
“And volatility,” Baelor counters.
“Innovation always appears volatile to those invested in tradition.”
Daeron’s gaze sharpens faintly. “You speak as though we are obsolete.”
“I speak as though markets evolve, which we all know is true. The only consistent thing in this market is change gentlemen.” your father embellished his words with his arms, ending in a clasped state over his legs.
Daeron stands slowly and walks toward the window. “When my grandfather led this firm,” he says quietly, “he was told modern banking would render our methods outdated.”
He turns slightly. “We adapted.”
Baelor watches your father carefully. “You mistake us for rigid,” Baelor says. “We are not.”
“Then compete, and prove so with numbers,” your father replies.
“We have been,” Daeron says.
Baelor opens another document from behind his back. “Litigation review,” he says. “Regulatory compliance audits, potential patent disputes.”
Your father doesn’t blink. “We’ve anticipated that.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“You think we’re unprepared.”
“We think you’re becoming too ambitious.”
Your father sighs, shaking his head, “and ambition seems to concern everyone these days.”
“Unchecked ambition destabilizes markets.”
“Or it reshapes them,” your father retaliates.
Silence again, a little longer this time. None of the partnership proposals have landed, every offer has been deflected, and every concession reframed as weakness.
Despite the temperature in the room not rising, the three men in the room can feel the sweat of tension.
Daeron returns to his seat.
His voice softens, not kindly, but strategically. Your father proved to be a harder hurdle to jump over. They’d have to use another sense of leverage.
“You have one child.” It’s not a question.
Your father narrows his eyes. “Yes.”
“A daughter?”
“Yes.” Your father twists his wedding band under the table, away from the prying eyes of the two bloodthirsty dragons in front of him. He can't afford to show any signs of weakness. ‘Bastard already knows I have a daughter.’
“She attends Columbia.”
“Yes.” He’s starting to sound like a broken record.
Baelor speaks carefully now. “My son does as well.” If they were placed in a different setting, his words might’ve seemed like they held warmth.
“They’re in the same program I hear,” Baelor continues. “The same environment, competing in the same simulations.”
“And?” your father asks.
Daeron studies him. “We do believe that the next generation shapes perception.”
“Of what?”
“Of stability.”
Your father says nothing.
Daeron folds his hands. “Markets react not only to numbers,” he says calmly. “But to optics, signals, and of course alliances.”
Alliances.
The word lingers.
Baelor continues the thought. “A public demonstration of cooperative intent between our families would immediately stabilize investor confidence. Perhaps even boost our many ambitions”
Your father meets his gaze directly, and he speaks. “You’ve exhausted structural agreements.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve threatened regulatory action.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re concerned about perception.”
Daeron doesn’t deny it. “Perception shapes valuation after all.”
“And valuation shapes power I suppose,” your father replies.
“Exactly.”
Your father stands slowly. “So what is it you’re actually proposing?”
Baelor glances briefly at his father, and Daeron answers carefully. “How about a more permanent signal of unity.”
Your father’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “My daughter is not fodder for business.”
Baelor speaks quickly. “Nor is my son.”
“Then don’t frame them as leverage.” Your fathers voice itching to reach a higher octave.
Daeron holds your father’s gaze. “We are discussing futures. Survival” he says.
Your father doesn’t sit back down. “We built our company without your backing, and we will continue to do so.”
Baelor stands now as well. “And if escalation becomes inevitable between us?”
Your father’s answer is immediate. “Then we escalate, as is business.”
Every business path has failed. Only one strategic avenue remains.
Daeron’s voice lowers slightly. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“No,” your father agrees. “It isn’t.”
They shake hands again. This time, the grip is deadly firm.
—
When your father leaves, Baelor remains standing beside Daeron’s desk. “He won’t concede,” Baelor says quietly.
Daeron nods. “No he wont.”
“And direct competition will damage both sides.”
“It will.”
Baelor exhales slowly. “Then we’re left with-”
Daeron raises a hand slightly. “Not yet.”
Baelor studies him. “You’re considering it.”
“I’m considering all viable solutions.”
“And you believe-”
“I believe,” Daeron says calmly, “that legacy survives through adaptation. Just like our ancestors have always done, we will adapt. As is the way of the dragon.”
—
The letter arrived just before dusk.
Not by email, and not by assistant, but by courier.
Your father knew it mattered the moment he saw the envelope. It was heavy, thick cream stock, unadorned except for a faint silver embossing in the corner. A three-headed dragon, subtle enough to be mistaken for decorative filigree by anyone who didn’t understand what it meant.
He dismissed his assistant with a quiet thank you and closed the office door himself. He did not open the envelope immediately.
Instead, he set it on his desk and walked to the window.
Three days earlier, he had sat across from Daeron II Targaryen, and his son Baelor in a room lined with portraits of dead men who had built wealth like fortresses. They had negotiated cleanly to no avail.
Every offer had failed.
He returned to his desk and broke the seal. The paper inside was heavier than necessary.
He unfolded it once, and began to read.
—
The letter acknowledged the rise of his company.
It stated plainly what none of them had wanted to concede in person, that prolonged competition would erode confidence in both parties.
Then, halfway down the page, the letter shifted.
Conventional agreements have proven insufficient, it said.
Direct rivalry threatens generational stability. Therefore, a permanent alliance is proposed.
His gaze slowed.
A formal union between our eldest son, Valarr Targaryen, and your eldest daughter.
He could feel his hands tremble. He read the sentence again, then the paragraph below it.
The union would signal stability. Consolidate legacy and innovation. Protect valuation. Prevent regulatory opportunism.
They just had to disguise it as business. He set the paper down.
The office suddenly felt smaller.
He had anticipated many kinds of escalation. Lawsuits, market manipulation disguised as compliance review.
He had not expected this. No, that wasn’t true. He had expected it.
He had just hoped they would not move that piece.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
When his wife had died, he had promised himself one thing: that their daughter would inherit power, not dependency.
They had built the company for that reason. So she would never be cornered, never reduced to bargaining collateral.
And yet here it was.
God, his wife would’ve killed him if she was still here.
He picked up the letter again. It didn’t say what would happen if he refused.
It didn’t need to.
Markets were fragile, and regulators were fickle.
And the Targaryens were patient.
His company could survive the coming war. But survival was not the same as thriving.
And the casualties would not be counted only in numbers.
He turned to the final page. Two signatures.
Daeron II Targaryen. Chief Executive Officer.
And beneath it, Baelor Targaryen. Executive Director.
The father and the heir.
He imagined his daughter’s face if he showed her this. He could imagine the sharp lift of her chin, and the wrinkle of her nose that she definitely inherited from her mother.
The anger.
Because she was his child.
He exhaled slowly. Then pulled a blank sheet toward him.
If they wanted permanence, they would not get it cheaply.
He wrote carefully.
He made it clear, without writing the words, that his daughter would not disappear inside a dragon’s shadow.
The response came the next morning.
Not by courier this time, but by private line.
He read it alone.
Every condition he had placed to protect his daughter had been agreed to.
He set the document down and stared at it for a long time.
Then he reached for the phone. The call connected almost immediately.
“Baelor,” he said.
A pause on the other end. “Yes.”
There were a dozen ways to begin.
“We accept.”
“It will be handled discreetly,” Baelor replied. “Until a formal announcement benefits both parties.”
“See that it is.”
“It will be.”
Then the line went dead.
Your father remained seated, the phone still in his hand. Outside, traffic moved in steady lines of red and white.
Somewhere in Manhattan, you were likely bent over your laptop, unaware that your future had just been drafted in ink.
He looked down at the letter once more.
A marriage.
He closed the folder and locked it in his desk drawer.
Then he stood, because he still had to tell you. His darling girl. He could picture it now, you’d berate him for bartering your life with a boy you most likely hate. But then you’d agree that the plan was ingenious and you you’d see that you wouldn’t be attached to the Targaryen heir for long, you could divorce once the marriage had been settled, and earn yourself enough coin to hurt your husband's pockets while doing so.
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can you write a drabble for loser!aerion? maybe him being all pathetic and begging for sex with his gf
ugh you guys spoil me with loser!aerion he’s just my type
he would be begging you all day, clutching your side like a lovesick puppy. when you sat poolside in the tiniest bikini he’d ever seen, trying to catch a tan. but he stood blocking the sun with his arms folded, eyes unable to fix upon yours when you looked like a glazed donut.
“let me fuck you.” his tone would be dominant, like he was trying to force himself into victory.
“later.”
“come on, baby. please.” he would whine, quickly becoming putty in your hands. “you look so good.”
usually playing into your looks got you into bed, he knew exactly how to make you feel good. but you were adamant on making him wait, loving the way he whined in your ear all day. begging to let him fuck you, to use your body to make himself feel good. and make you finish until you were both on the verge of collapse.
“hm. convince me.” you folded your arms.
he was on his knees beside you within seconds, hands cradling your cheeks to crane your head to look at him.
“i’ll make you feel so good, like i always do.” he whispered, his lips swollen as they quivered in desperation. “i’ll eat you out until you push my head away. promise i’ll be so good.”
