#ren writes

ONE TIME, when you still enjoyed summer in Bluecove, you spent the afternoon hours swimming and building sand castles and turtles with your mother on the beach. It was the period when most tourists were gone, so the town wasn't as crowded. The day felt so particularly yours, that you didn't have to convince her to stay there a little longer.

Not too far from you sat another family, but you paid them no attention until you plopped down on your towel to eat the popsicles Lia had separated for you, enchanted not to melt.

You were taking it all in, how perfect the day had been, watching the sea and the people, when the boy came out of the water.

His hair was longer back then, reaching below his shoulders, and slightly curled, but his face, as childish as it was, possessed a striking quality that made it hard to forget.

He waved at his mother with an embarrassed smile as she cheered him on for something you don't recall. All that lingered from that memory was how golden he looked, and how his expression changed once his mother looked away.

In the present, he was no longer golden, and called for help from your mother instead of his.

It was the puzzlement that kept you awake, having your face lit by the screen of your phone without actually focusing on what happened behind it. You had already tried a movie, music, a book, staring at the ceiling. Nothing helped forget that Daeron Targaryen was in your home, and how earnestly he had asked for help. Miss Cora, he said, the way your friends used to when you were kids. He was, however, and this was not meant to sound spiteful, a nobody. A stranger and nothing more.

Still, he had showed up in a suit, almost drowned in rainwater, and fought to get the words out.

Who in the seven hells was this guy?

You clicked your tongue, turning off your screen and dropping the phone clumsily on the bedside table.

The dark ceiling did not become any more interesting to stare at this time around, so you stopped trying. Whatever. You would go downstairs, talk to Lia about it until she scolded you for losing sleep, and finally snooze.

Maybe you were getting sick as well, because once again you shivered with nonexistent cold in the room as you got out of the bed. The discomfort gripped you hard enough for you to wrap yourself in the plum coloured shawl that stayed on the door hanger before leaving the bedroom.

But when you peeked into the living room after carefully sneaking downstairs, you saw a mop of red hair instead of brown.

On the cushioned chair facing the couch, sat Rowan. The lamp that illuminated both her and Daeron stood beside one of the shelves—one with “normal” books—, and its warm light was only bright enough to comfort someone who enjoyed a dark room.

Her eyes were cast down, focusing on a place beyond their reach in her mind, but she offered a short, welcoming smile when you called her softly and came in.

“How are you feeling, love?” She asked in a hushed tone.

You glanced at Daeron before answering, not as quietly now.

“I should be asking you that.”

Rowan waved a hand, shaking her head, and told you that she asked Lia to let her watch him first because she couldn't sleep and needed a distraction.

Who were you to judge?

That day had worn out all of you, but Rowan had been hit continuously, and it seemed that it had finally slowed down for her now.

You took a seat on the end of the coffee table, noticing a pair of rubber slippers left at the feet of the couch, definitely for the guest.

You struggled to get the words out, but did:

“I’m sorry for Beesbury.”

A sad smile fluttered across Rowan’s lips when you peered from the corner of your eye.

“At least someone is.”

You didn’t reply.

“I wish he would’ve visited us, at least.”

You nodded.

“I liked his yellow moustache.”

Rowan laughed unexpectedly, then wiped her face swiftly with one hand.

“He always kept it perfectly bleached. It was bizarre.”

The two of you chuckled together, but it quieted quickly and her smile faded.

“You should go to bed,” You said, and continued before she could protest. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Another shiver begged you to lie down, but you tightened your shawl around you as if it was an habit.

“I’ll call if anything happens” You attempted to convince Rowan further, then mumbled. “But it doesn't look like he’s up to much.”

Rowan glared, to which you responded with a large grin, then checked on Daeron, visibly frustrated when he mumbled another incoherent thing in his sleep, and stood.

You watched it silently, tilting your head towards the staircase as she went, and were left alone with Bay and the guest.

“Are you sure you're okay?” She asked, peeking from around the corner the way you did before. “I could make some—”

“Rowan, I’m okay,” You gave her your best sincere smile.

She hesitated, but left for good after a tired “Goodnight.”

Now “alone”, you dropped onto the cushioned chair with a exhale, and the worst chill of the night trapped you in its harsh embrace before you could make yourself comfortable. You shut your eyes forcefully and hunched over, tightening your arms around yourself. It burned your chest, making you breathless for a scary second, but it passed as soon as it came.

That was new. The consequences of walking into the storm, you assumed.

You opened your eyes when you heard sniffing.

Between you and Daeron stood Bay, with her nose in his damp hair, stepping closer to lick his cheek.

“Hey,” You called, alarmed. “What is it with you today?”

But you knew what it was. She had seen him before, hadn't she? And for whatever reason, she liked him that much, the licking his face much.

You ran your palm from her head to her back until you grew tired of it, and scoffed at yourself when you realised you were now stuck with Daeron, staring at nothing again, without any questions answered, and got up to get your phone back. Might as well let the blue light pierce your eyes and keep you awake now that you needed to be.

Another hour into the night passed in the dark room. The storm mellowed into rain, and you didn't feel a single drop of sleep in your body.

On the couch, Daeron winced in his sleep for the first time in a while.

You had seen sickness before, the worst kind, but this was different. He wasn’t just covered by a layer of sweat, highlighting the agony in his face. He was… Asleep. Unable to be woken up.

Leaning over, you asked:

“Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

You turned to Bay, who only made you feel more stupid than you already did by the way she watched you.

“It's like waiting for the stars to speak,” You rolled your eyes, but tried again after a deep breath, concentrating. “Daeron Targaryen, can you give me a sign?”

You waited.

Nothing.

“Can you give me a sign?” You asked Bay. “I could use your animal sixth sense before I blow him up by accident.”

Bay lied down, and huffed.

Alright, then.

Daeron’s left hand twitched again, followed by a groan.

This time, however, you took it in yours instead of just watching.

The palm was warmer than you expected, so you brought your other hand to his forehead. His kind ran hot, you knew, so you wondered if this was fever, or a sign of recovery.

The next time he flinched, his fingers lightly gripped yours for a moment, and you decided to try what you had in mind since he asked for help before.

Bringing the hand near your lips, you concentrated on the sort of spell that your family taught you since you were a kid—quick, harmless, effective—, visualising a candle as you searched for a word. Settling for fire seemed appropriate, but if Daeron was unstable, and needed quite strong magic, you wondered if speaking valyrian would make a difference and reach somewhere deeper. One of the only words you knew in the language was dragon fire, but whispering a fire command to a man made of it didn’t ring like safety, which was the opposite of what you were trying to do. So, you thought about another word, a longer one that you liked the sound of, and repeated it, making sure your breath would directly hit his skin.

“Jorrāelagon,” You whispered, imagining the candle burning out, and closed your eyes. “Jorrāelagon.”

With patience, you repeated the cycle, then took each syllable of the word as you pronounced it, and started over until you lost yourself in the process. The thread of your intents tied your hands together, quieting down what existed outside that hold.

In the end, it was another squeeze of Daeron’s long fingers that pulled you out of the trance.

The disruption caused you to think you failed, but your lips parted when you took noticed the pain in his expression, or rather, the way it was no longer there, replaced by the peaceful look of someone who was merely asleep instead of trapped in sleep.

However, while the change was almost mesmerising, it gave you an understanding of the instability and danger that came with dragon blood. That spell was a simple one, meant to bring serenity to the target. Yet, you could also feel the trickle of calmness settling in your mind, the heaviness and sharp pulls of shivers, that you understood now belonged to Daeron, not you, evaporating.

You dropped the hand with a shaky breath, and jumped back into the chair when his head tilted, staring and waiting for his eyes to open. Thankfully they remained shut, because it all came together with an uncomfortable realisation that doubled the list of questions you had about him, the main one being how could he possibly affect you? You were not supposed to be a vessel for blood magic, dark magic, because you never dwelled in it. You were one with the wind and nothing more.

You reached for one of the pillows on the coffee table to hug it close to your chest, adjusting your position until you felt comfortable, and fixed your gaze on him.

All you had to do now was wait.

The first thing you noticed was the uneventful tranquility blooming in your chest as the morning light woke you up, but you didn’t want to face it yet.

The neck pain was the second, and when you shifted in your seat, the awareness opened your eyes, wide and panicked.

You were not supposed to have fallen asleep.

Luckily, the last person you saw before drifting off was still dreaming before you, except now Daeron looked… Way less like a corpse. Comfortable. At home, even. On his belly, with an arm falling out of the couch and face squished on the pillow, and mouth open.

You grimaced at the drool, and learned that he was, without question, impressively unaware of his surroundings, and slept as if he had prickled his finger on a spinning wheel.

The ruffling sound of silverware in the kitchen didn’t disturb you. Now that you were out of the storm and didn’t feel both hunted and haunted, you decided to stay put and relax until you were directly addressed later, or Daeron finally woke up from his slumber.

Alas, the world didn’t give a shit.

The front door burst open so abruptly that you leapt like a scared cat. What the hell.

Peeking behind the tall back of the chair, you saw Rowan marching past the passage of the living room with fierce precision. Uh oh.

The murmur began not long after, growing louder and louder by the second until you heard a clear exclamation of “This is madness!”

Your gaze snapped towards the man on the couch, eyebrows shooting up in surprise when he didn’t acknowledge any of it. Not a single movement. Not even a snore. Was he deaf? You should have considered that before.

Regardless the possibility, you got up quietly and tiptoed to the kitchen after one last glance behind your shoulder.

“Keep your voice low, Rowan,” Lia whispered. Then, she saw you entering the room. “Oh, good morning, sweetheart. Everything alright?”

“I’m wondering the same,” you cocked an eyebrow at them.

Lia was already sat at the table, while Rowan stood by the sink behind her, huffing and puffing, and despite the sheer difference in their expressions, both of them had their arms crossed.

“Things are very much not okay,” Rowan retorted.

“Rowan.”

“What?” She bit back at Lia, then looked at you, becoming calmer. “Things are not okay, love. At least not for… Oh. Hello, there.”

Rowan tilted her head, and you knew exactly what she was looking at when you took another step into the kitchen, even before turning around.

At the entrance, was Daeron.

His shirt fell over his frame wrong, slightly unbuttoned and wrinkled by sleep, although perfectly dry. (You hadn't considered it before, but Rowan must have helped while you were upstairs.) His eyes were still adjusting to the brightness of the morning, and there was a mark on his cheek from how hard it was pressed against the pillow on the couch. The sickness, as you had witnessed before, had vanished, although he still looked tired, and you could see some of the unexplainable glow you remembered he had now that he looked alive—something his family was noted for.

He squinted against the sunlight, taking a breath that turned into a yawn as his eyes studied the room, and after a double look, they settled on you. He frowned with a couple of blinks, and muttered tiredly:

“Morning.”

“Good morning, lad!”

Both you and Daeron flinched at the sudden enthusiasm coming from Rowan, which washed away whatever was left of sleep in you, bringing you back to your senses.

You rushed to take a seat beside Lia.

“You gave us a bit of a scare yesterday,” Rowan continued.

The information settled into his head slowly, and he eventually asked “Did I?”

“Oh, yes,” Rowan huffed a laugh. “Don't you remember?”

He sat with that question for a second as well, but the room held its breath with it this time.

“Not really.”

Lia pretended to scratch the side of her head, and sent you a look. Thank goodness. You pursed your lips back. Whew.

“Take a seat,” Lia gestured to the chairs in front of him and stood up. “We were just about to have breakfast.”

“I don't eat breakfast,” He said hesitantly, as if he didn't know if he should have, but took the seat in front of you.

“What?” Rowan asked, perplexed. “You're recovering from a bad cold. You have to eat.”

Daeron frowned, thinking about something.

“I don't feel sick,” He said. “I was having a migraine for days now, but it's gone.”

You looked down at your hands.

“That's good to hear,” Lia said, clearly not understanding how that could be, but covered it up with a lie. “The hot towels worked wonders, Rowan.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Rowan added to the tale just as fast.

You peeked at Daeron.

He didn’t seem to catch up with what he was hearing that well. There was definitely something unstable about him, as Rowan had mentioned before, but it didn't look like it came from magic. His lips did an involuntary move, quivering with a touch of a smirk and fading right after.

The conversation after that unravelled casually, but your suspicion returned in bits.

Your aunts questioned Daeron’s preferences for breakfast—he denied the need to eat again—, your eyes met when he adjusted himself on the chair for a split second before he looked away, and you listened to the meaningless small talk about the inconvenience of yesterday’s weather.

The problem was: they were not asking the right questions.

“Oh, how about some sorbet?” Rowan asked Daeron.

Before he could even get a word out, Lia was getting up again.

“Brilliant idea,” She said, and waved a finger at him as she walked to the cabinet. “Your body is still fighting the infection, so it's good to have something cold.”

They told him about the benefits of cold foods to relieve a sore throat and how lucky he was that they had made raspberry sorbet only two days ago.

While he was busy keeping up with their energy, and clearly struggling, you watched him.

The tiredness in his eyes looked deeper than one restless night, and when he brushed a strand of hair away from his face, you noticed how it shook. But nothing about the way he looked bothered you. The way he carried himself was the problem, and no amount of pretty or tired would blind you to it. He woke up in a strange house after fainting in the yard and didn't look worried enough about the fact that he had no recollection whatsoever of how he got inside, the night spent on the cough, or even where his shoes were. In fact, you noticed that he wore them with his socks when he came in earlier.

You wondered if Lia and Rowan knew something you didn't about him—if they didn't, you were screwed, because they were always a step ahead—, and that prickled your curiosity even more.

You were, possibly, the only one who had yet to understand anything.

The question weighed heavily on your tongue. How did you know my mother? And you silently observed Lia setting four dessert glasses on the table while you considered voicing it.

When you reached for a glass, your hand got swatted away.

“Guests first,” Lia said with an offensive stern flick of her eyebrows.

Rowan, at the head of the table, served each of you, and you didn't hesitate to eat your sorbet when you took it, unlike Daeron, who stared at it with aversion before trying.

The hint of surprise on his face pleased your aunts, who smiled.

“How is it?” Rowan asked.

“Great,” He answered, then smirked as if he had remembered something. “It must be easy to cook with magic.”

It took him a moment to notice that the sentence caused the three of you to freeze. When he did catch up, however, he only licked his spoon clean.

“You're witches, aren't you? Or am I in the wrong house?” His eyes found you, and his tiredness hardened into something else. “What?”

Your expression must have been harsh, because you had to school your entire face into a confused one.

“What do you even mean by witches?” You asked, faking a small chuckle.

The scoff that he replied you with was very much real. Immediately, that uncertainty from before became confidence, even if he looked too tired to exude it. There was a glint in his eyes that told you he knew he had the upper hand, not you.

“It means you’re witches.”

“You must have hit your head pretty hard—”

“I didn't.”

You closed your mouth, irritated.

When you looked at Rowan, who was sitting between the two of you, she was silently watching Daeron. On your left, so was Lia. Perhaps, they were going for the seriously-concerned-for-his-sanity story, because it looked quite genuine.

“How do you know that?” Rowan asked.

His eyes left you, as did the sterness in them, and a beat passed as he considered the question.

“Miss Cora told me.”

You snapped. “That's not true.”

It wasn't meant to be an accusation, simply a thought that escaped you. None of you had ever told anyone the secret. Not ever. But it rang like one and Daeron looked back at his cup.

“Yes, it is.”

A hand rested on your shoulder. When you brushed it off, Lia wasn't looking at you, too distracted by the gears in her head moving.

“We knew she was helping you with something,” She said after a pause. “But not that it involved magic.”

What?

The admission hirt you in a way you hadn't felt in ages. You hated, loathed being lied to, especially when it came from them. But to know they kept a secret for Daeron Targaryen, and that it started with your own mother felt like treason.

Across from you, Daeron paused his ministrations and set the cup down.

“I asked her not to tell.”

He wasn't finished, so you waited for him to elaborate, but you were angry.

“I know it's too late,” He continued, smaller now, like it was hard to get the words out. “But I’m very sorry for your loss. I really am.”

You glared at him. unprepared for when he looked back.

The sea was almost reachable in his gaze when he looked up, glazed blue. The smell of salt. The faint sound of laughter as he walked out of the water. It tugged something in your chest, running up to your throat as you saw his mother’s face from his perspective now, bathed in sunlight.

Oh.

Not only did he know your mother was gone, but he knew what it felt like to not have his around, too.

You looked away.

The mutual understanding was something you hadn't encountered yet, and you had to fight against the warmth it offered.

“It's not too late,” Lia said. “It's nice to meet someone that knew her.”

“I barely did,” Daeron’s eyes didn't know where exactly to stop. He looked embarrassed. “I didn't even expect her to keep the secret from you, to be honest.”

“And you still accepted her help?” Rowan asked.

He paused.

“I had already tried everything.”

“What exactly did she do?” Lia asked.

“She gave me potions to help with… With my head.”

The other three of you exchanged a look.

While witches were generally good at helping with moods and healing, the human mind held mysteries further than magic could reach safely at times. It was not something you did or encouraged due to what each person was capable of. It was forbidden, and bordered on dark magic that couldn't be washed away.

Why would your mother do such a thing? Why would she do it for him?

“What did you want the potions for?” You asked.

“It was more of a need than a want,” He answered.

“So you're not a warlock,” Lia concluded.

A surprised, humorous chuckle left Daeron’s mouth.

“No, I’m not a warlock.”

Rowan hissed quietly and looked at him with a wrinkled expression.

“Were you cursed, lad?”

Another huff came out, but it didn't sound that funny this time. He adjusted himself on his seat.

“Just born unlucky.”

He tried not to make a big deal out of it, but it was written all over him, in the manners he couldn't conceal. One of his hands lightly tapped the table with a finger, and he took a deep breath that didn't seem to agree with him. It was as if he was about to burp, but didn't.

“Now, everything is…” He frowned at his hands. “Distorted. I don't know how it happened.”

“Probably because the potions were having an effect.”

“They were. They helped a lot. That's why I came back.”

Lia leaned in.

“Why didn't you try the front door?”

“I was on a walk.”

“In that?” The question escaoed you, and you eyed him up and down.

He shrugged with an indifferent frown on his lips.

“I arrived earlier than my family, so I thought it’d be better to do this when they weren't home,” There was another involuntary twich from the corner of his mouth. “My father can be quite strict.”

Huh.

Beside you, Rowan scoffed lightly.

“Can he?”

“Rowan,” Lia shushed her.

Daeron’s eyes darted between the two of them, and when they found you, prompting you to look away, he nodded, pursing his lips.

“I see you've met him.”

“We met your brother,” You corrected, earning a kick under the table.

He blinked.

“Aerion?”

An uncomfortable pause followed before you swallowed and looked up at him.

“Yes. My condolences.”

He waved a hand without lifting it from the table, shking his head.

“It's alright.”

You didn't reply.

Another silent moment stretched itself far, eventually interrupted by Lia.

“Do you need a lift home, dear?”

Daeron denied immediately.

“Oh, no,” He shook his head, swallowing. “I have some places to be, and I enjoy the walk.”

The lie was so blatantly obvious that none of you had the heart to point it out.

“Look,” He started again, leaning in and resting both arms on the table. “I can pay you. I’ll even do some work. Whatever it is. I just— I just need them again.”

You frowned at the way his voice shook with a hint of desperation.

“We wouldn’t ask money for something like this,” Rowan explained. “Cora didn't for a reason.”

“Do you know how she prepared them?” Lia asked next.

“No. I thought she would have a recipe somewhere and you could make it. Like a cocktail, I don't know. They tasted like chocolate milk.”

Rowan’s face softened.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

He sighed and nodded.

“Yeah, I should’ve known.”

The conversation died after that, just as the morning grew warmer enough for you to tell the difference. You guessed it must have been around nine.

Daeron calmly planted his palms on the table to get up, bringing your attention back to him.

He thanked you for the hospitality and the dessert, and this time he seemed slightly frantic and frustrated when he escaped without allowing another gesture from your aunts. You lingered behind as you all walked him to the door, letting them do all the talking, and couldn't help but side with him entirely. He clearly wanted to leave, and they could be quite overbearing.

As soon as the door was closed, Rowan turned to you and Lia. She sighed as if the day had already taken everything from her.

“Very truthful lad.”

“Or maybe it didn't work,” Lia contemplated.

“Of course it did.”

“He was immune to our healing.”

“He floated and dried,” Rowan argued. “And he healed throughout the night, didn't he?”

Your nails became an interesting thing to look at when she asked that.

“The poor bastard doesn't even know what to do with himself,” Lia shook her head. “At least he is allegedly honest.”

“It worked, Lia. Stop being stubborn.”

Wait.

You stopped pretending to care about cuticles.

“You enchanted the sorbet?”

“Not the sorbet,” Lia tapped your shoulder, then made her way upstairs. “The cup.”

You threw your arms open in confusion, feeling just as tricked as Daeron.

“And you didn't think about telling me first?”

Lia shrugged. “You were asleep.”

Rowan gestured. “We sent you signals.”

“All you did was wink at me like a creep,” You made a face, then your head took you somewhere else again, and you ached with actual frustration.

“What's the matter, love?” Rowan asked.

Her kindness felt misplaced. What was the matter? It offened you that she couldn't even tell.

“You knew about mom helping him. You and Lia. But not me.”

Rowan’s contemplative expression morphed into understanding, and she nodded.

“We were going to tell you today.”

You scoffed.

“Oh, please.”

Your name was uttered in the way that told you to be quiet and listen, which you did with your lips pressed.

“You were fifteen when it happened.”

Lia’s words from yesterday rang in your mind again.

He’s your age.

He needed the potions at fifteen? That was only a while after you saw him for the first time.

Your browd pinched.

“It was when his mother died, wasn't it?”

“She died a little before the year ended,” Rowan corrected. “But your mother said he was devastated. Lost like he had already lived twice his numbers.”

Some of that came back to you, then. The things you heard about Daeron being the oldest son of Maekar Targaryen, and how gossip about that family flew from whispers, to social media posts, to news websites, and so on.

Between all of the sons of his grandfather’s sons, he had never been heard from as much as his cousins and brothers, Aerion and Aemon, until their mother passed. The gossip was that he had developed an addiction, and stayed at bars until the sun was rising during that specific summer. After that, he was never heard from again. Some said he left school to party at different cities, others that he was sent to a rehabilitation centre. There was even a small amount of people that made up something about his family covering up his deatg. That one was far too much.

“But why the potions?” You asked.

Rowan thought.

“I don't know. But it wouldn't be fair to meddle if we can't do anything for him.”

She was right, but your mind still wandered.

“Do you think it was grief?”

She took her time before answering that one.

“I don't know.”

“Some people have transformed because of it before, haven't they? People like us?”

“I don't think he is like us— Oh, goodness!” She snapped, grabbing your arms and shaking you. “How could I forget?”

“What?!”

Confused, you watched as she zoomed to the back of the house, but you realised as soon as she disappeared.

Truly, how could any of you, including the owner himself, have forgotten about his clothes?

Rowans voice echoed as she made her way back.

“Can you take it to him?”

You froze.

“Me?”

“You're twelve years faster than I am!”

That made no sense.

She returned, shoved the stuff in your arms and shooed you out the door.

“I’m still wearing my pajamas—”

You gasped as magic suddenly pushed you forward.

“Go, go, go!”

“What— I’m going!” You rasped, putting on a pair of slippers left at the door. “Not like I’m being given a choice!”

“You were given steady feet. Use them!”

Ironically enough, you almost tripped down the stairs of the porch after that.

But, much to Rowan’s satisfaction to be right—which she always felt immensely—you spotted Daeron reaching the second last house of your block.

The tall trees cast shattered shadows over the sidewalk, but when he heard you approaching with a loud "Hey!", he turned just in time for sunlight to make him narrow his eyes.

Busy rolling up his sleeves, he had to give you a double look before stopping, and almost stumbled when he did. That was when he noticed the shoes as well, and stepped out of the slippers when you reached him.

“Fuck, I didn't even notice,” He said, picking them up and giving them to you.

“Couldn't have you leaving in that,” You joked.

“Yeah, thanks,” He said, resting a hand on the picket fence to his right so he could put on his shoes properly.

He went on about how his shoes were less comfortable than the ones he had accidentally stolen, but your attention hadn't been on him as he spoke. Instead, you were looking behind you, noticing the police car parked far away, undoubtedly in front of Beesbury’s house.

Your head snapped back at Daeron when asked something.

“What?”

His eyes travelled down with a mirthful smirk, and yours followed.

“Oh!” You undid the tight embrace around his suit with an awkward chuckle, and shoved it in his arms. “Here.”

He didn't wear it this time, only held it in his hands. He studied you, then behind you, probably trying to understand what you were looking at that had you distracted.

He was noisy, wasn't he?

“We didn't really find your phone or anything else yesterday,” You changed the subject, dissatisfied whe he only looked back at you after a moment.

“I didn't bring anything.”

“I figured.”

A beat passed, and he nodded, fixing his eyes on you again.

Now that he wasn't the topic of conversation, he looked at ease. That hidden confidence from before was still there, in the way he felt no shame in studying you when you clearly didn't enjoy being under his microscope, but it wasn't cocky, it was just… Nerve to do so. A lack of shame. Of social skills, perhaps.

“I haven't seen you before,” He concluded.

“Probably not.”

“Then why do you act like that?”

You were so taken aback by the directness that your eyes fluttered.

“What?”

“You keep acting like I did something to you.”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times with the beginning of all the sentences that didn't seem appropriate to give him. That indifference from before was mostly gone now that you had learned enough about him to pretend it.

“Is it because of my brother?”

“No,” You knew the lie sounded like one and closed your eyes, pursing your lips, then opened them with a sigh through your nose. “Sort of.”

“So you just assumed I’m like him.”

“Aren't you here because you assumed my family was like my mom?”

His hair got blown over his face, which he fixed with annoyance.

“That's different.”

You squinted.

“You don't know half of the things your brother did.”

You regretted it as soon as you said it, exactly because of how true it was. It was mortifying to let Daeron know that his menace of a little brother had a bad impact on you.

He paused.

“I know enough.”

There was an obvious story behind the words, and the weight of it passed by his face.

You looked away, half reluctant to the possibility of him reaching you with another memory, half wishing to respect his privacy with it.

“Your mother asked you to stay away, didn't she?”

She had, but the question still managed to surprise you.

“Well, she clearly liked you,” You joked.

Daeron tilted his head and snickered shortly, with the corner of his lips quivering again, then admitted:

“Not around you.”

You didn't know what to say to that, much less what to make of the expression he had when his eyes roamed over you.

The car approaching pulled both of your attentions.

“Morning,” Donnel greeted from inside the vehicle.

He adressed you by your name, then paused before recognising Daeron.

“Mr. Targaryen.”

“Just Daeron,” Daeron corrected. “Mr. Targaryen is my grandfather.”

Donnel nodded, looking between you both.

“I’ll remember,” He said. “Take care, both of you.”

When he was out of earshot, Daeron scoffed.

“That wasn't ominous at all.”

But you watched silently, because you had noticed the gloves on the passanger seat.

Your knowledge about the procedure of a murder investigation began and ended with the couple of movies and a tv series you had binged a few times in your life, but something told you Beesbury’s house had to be revisited by the detective for a reason.

“You space out a lot.”

You looked back at Daeron, shifting in place.

“Gods forbid I ponder.”

Something like amusement crossed his face before he ran his tongue over his lips.

“What was that about?” He asked. “He was looking at us just like you do.”

“I don't look at anyone like that.”

The serenity in his face as he nodded only irritated you further.

He popped the same question from before.

You folded your arms, ignoring his gaze and working out a way to say someone was murdered without sounding too abrupt. The hesitation lasted only a blink of a second, but it had been enough time for him to take notice.

So, you said it just like that.

“Someone was murdered.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn't seem too shocked by the information. He glanced behind you, surveying the street without much interest.

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

You could tell he was trying to suppress a smirk that disturbed you at first, but then something clicked for him, and he looked at you as if he knew something.

“That's why you wanted to know why I didn't try the front door.”

Now, it was your turn to look at him like he was stupid.

“You were in the woods with a murderer on the loose.”

His smirk faded, and he immediately said something to defend himself, something about how he wouldn't have done that if he knew, but a light turned inside your head.

“Did you see anyone in the trail?”

Daeron, who had been clearly interrupted, thought before replying.

“I couldn't see anything, to be fair. It was just me, mud, and a migraine.”

Disappointing.

“You spaced out again.”

“I’m thinking.”

He lifted a hand in his defence.

To your left, beyond the picket fence, and past charming beach house behind it, were the woods. The trail there connected all eight houses on the long block of your side of the street, and if someone had used it as an escape route after killing your neighbour, that would indeed make Rowan the last person to be seen with him.

When you looked back at Daeron, he had his gaze fixed on you again with way less indignity than a normal person should have.

“You have a staring problem.”

He shrugged.

“Just waiting for you to stop thinking.”

Suddenly, you became too aware, as if a camera paned out to show you the scene you were in.

You had been standing on the sidewalk in your pajamas, accompanied by a suited up Daeron Targaryen for long enough to make it look like you were keeping each other company, after he left your house in shoes that weren't his, missing his own and his suit.

“I have to go.”

A laugh left him when you said it, short and quickly ceased by an ahem sound, and you could only stare, because it didn't even sound like belonged to him for the short moment it lasted. Then, he nodded.

“Well, thank you for saving my life…” He breathed. “Your mother never told me your name.”

You hesitated, but crossed the threshold and told him.

He repeated it.

“I guess I won't be seeing you?”

You huffed.

“Nope.”

You meant to run to your aunts with an idea, but what you heard while you kicked off your slippers caused a delay in the reaction.

“Of course I didn't tell Donnel about that,” You heard Rowan say. “There’s nothing— Yes, I said that but you out of all people know I wouldn't!”

You stood in place, still holding the slippers Daeron had given back, listening.

Rowan was on the phone with someone.

Was that the sequence to what had caused her to boil with anger before? She was about to share some information before Daeron interrupted.

“I won’t lie if it means helping Beesbury, and you shouldn't either, so make up your mind, Hardyng.”

notes : now more daeron ✊

more daeron socials because friend liked them <3

notes : in case someone gets my ass, lia is an actual background character in akotsk (lia the lovely), not an oc of mine. i'm working with CRUMBS here to include female characters in the fic. love y'all and hope you enjoy it!

-------

A MAGPIE awaited you at the back porch when you arrived from the beach. Black, white, blue. Mostly harmless, were it not in that specific house, where omens weren't taken lightly.

Rowan, your aunt, halted with a short gasp, prompting you to do the same with one of her outstretched arms. Lia, your other aunt, stumbled into the other. Her attention, unlike yours, had been on the trees since she called a change in the weather as the three of you took the trail that connected the backyard to the beach back home.

“It's alone,” Rowan warned. Then, she waved a hand in the direction of the visitor. “Shoo!”

Except it did not move.

A sigh left your lips at the stubbornes of the small creature. You were, in all honesty and a tad of shame, exhausted after the couple of hours spent sharing Bluecove’s summer with tourists. The magpie stood bellow your current list of priorities.

Rowan swatted away the hand you offered to the bird.

“Foolishly optimistic, love,” She said, and looked down again. This time, she meant it. “Shoo.”

Yet, despite the animosity coming from your aunt, the bird decided to target you, forcing you to duck with a strangled and surprised Ah! when it swooped in your direction, missing your face by very little. There was no time to recover from the sudden movement, either, because as soon you stood, you found yourself stumbling up the steps of the porch and crossing it clumsily towards the door, led by Rowan’s pull on your arm.

It was Lia who shut the door behind you all with a sigh.

“Tragic,” She declared. “Now, we have to watch our backs for the rest of the day in case we stub our toes.”

She was only mocking her sister’s behaviour, of course, but she possessed a voice that could make soup recipes sound like poetry. Her jokes could strike as stern criticism on occasion when you didn't know her well.

The chuckle that bubbled out of you was brief, but Rowan’s green glare shimmered when she removed her sunglasses.

“The last time a magpie appeared in this house, one of us spent the night in a hospital bed!”

That must have occurred many years ago, since the memory was unknown to you, but you wouldn't dare to interfere even if it wasn't. One thing you did not enjoy was to involve yourself in your aunts’ casual disputes.

That day wasn't the day for it either. Your shoulders were already begging for the pressure of the shower head over them.

Carefully, you rested the chair, the one you attached yourself to like a lifeline this morning, against the small pile of two on the wall. Being in public had been enough for today, you had concluded, as humiliating as it sounds.

“Lies,” Lia removed her own sunglasses, pointing them at Rowan. “That was the one before the last. The actual last time—”

“Your date memorisation isn't the best, Lia.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The argument unfolded as the three of you got rid of your bags and sandals (sand inside the house bothered Lia to no end) and, much to your relief, the opportunity to make your escape and shower first showed itself then, when your aunts were distracted by the ongoing discussion about Rowan possibly mistaking three different magpies for the one in the past.

Their voices faded as you tiptoed your way through the first floor to the front entrance.

The staircase of the house was sturdy, spirling up to another two floors with multiple rooms. You skipped the single step of it that creaked, but the self satisfactory smile growing on your lips dissipated when you caught the sight of one of the many mismatched frames on the wall.

That one stood out on purpose.

The black and white picture was kept in an intricately carved frame of your choice. You loved it, but perhaps you were so used to it that you had not given it much thought lately, so the epiphany hit you hard: Both you and that version of your mother were the same age now. No longer would you have to look up at it, or imagine how it was to be a young woman like her.

Her laughter could almost be heard, in the most literal sense of the word. With some effort, you would even be able to feel the sunlight’s warmth from that specific day, and the colours coming to life around you as if the memory belonged to you. Other witches could if they tried, too.

Instead, you ran to your bedroom. Clothes, you reminded yourself. That is what you needed at the moment. Clean clothes, not to let reminiscence pull you down.

It was weird to grieve. While your mother could never be forgotten on purpose, she was no longer there to be remembered at every moment, either, and you were not the kind of person that missed what wasn't around, which only made it harder to not suffocate whenever you saw her face again.

As you scrubbed your body clean in the shower, you wondered if she did know, somewhere out there, that you tried to enjoy the beach for the first time since she passed, and choked up again.

The right things insisted upon runing into the wrong ones these days, and they all upturned with you.

All was well as you refilled your bowl, or so you told yourself. Who knows. A few hours into the afternoon seemed to have calmed your heart enough.

The day before, you were washing the dishes while listening to music when the sudden recollection of a sweet smell reached your nose, the one of tiramisu with strawberries, making you think of when would be the next time you would eat it.

Now, it was on the table.

Your family was funny like that, but Rowan would say you were funnier than most. While magic depends on practice and intention, the sort that reaches witches unexpectedly enjoyed your attention. It offered hints you never asked for, thoughts that didn't belong to you, or melodies you had never heard before. Sometimes, they even arrived from times that no longer mattered.

Beside you came an entitled whine.

You rolled your eyes, looked down at Bay, the dog, and told her in all seriousness:

“Absolutely not.”

Her only response was to stare with her big, round eyes.

“If I give you chocolate, you die. You hear me?"

Usually, your aunts didn't mind your discussions with Bay about her health, since you all knew she was only a medium sized rescue with fear of pan noises that didn't quite understand that gluttony doesn't equal safety. That day, however, you received an elbow on the side from Rowan, who you could tell had been thinking about the magpie since she saw it.

Lia had told you about how paranoid that specific bird made her before, but you deemed it an exaggerated joke at the time because Rowan wasn't one to get jumpy easily. Rather, she did that to others and felt pleased with herself for it. But Lia was right. You caught her inspecting her surroundings since she returned from her shower, and yelped when the bottle of honey dropped from the counter. She was clearly convinced there would be a repercussion for the bird’s visit.

“Sorry,” You said. Then, you rushed to point your spoon at the tiramisu when you noticed she was about to spill out words of paranoia. “This is delicious, by the way. So good.”

It wasn't a lie. Coincidence or not, you had been craving it for longer than you were aware of, so you stuffed your mouth again.

“Wait,” Lia stopped, staring at the tiramisu, and squinted. “Is this the glass bowl, Rowan?”

“The one and only,” Rowan nodded with pride.

The corners of your mouth twitched. You recognised it the moment you saw it, too.

For the past two months, Rowan had complained about wanting the glass bowl back. She had lent it to your neighbour, Beesbury—Humfrey, but everyone called him by his last name—for “the weekend”, only for him to never return it. It was a ridiculous feud, really. Rowan would pass by him on the street with a smile and a Good morning, Beesbury!, pretending not to think about what you knew she was, and complain as soon as we she entered the house. How does a chocolatier not own a bowl? She even stopped you to ask if he had mentioned the sacred object after one of your rare encounters with the man last week.

“He finally remembered, then?” Lia mused.

“Oh, no, no,” Rowan waved her off. “I asked for it back.”

A beat.

“What?” You and Lia asked simultaneously.

Rowan shifted her gaze between you two.

“What’s the problem?”

“You asked him?” You questioned her further. “Like, asked?"

“Not threathened?” Lia added.

That earned a scoff from Rowan. She gathered her next bite with enough force to make metal clink against ceramic.

“I would never threaten Beesbury. Not seriously.”

You and Lia exchanged a look. Though you both found this amusing, there was slight suspicion about Rowan’s manners behind it.

Letting go of a two month long grudge while being nice about it? Her? Hm… It was hard to believe.

“So, you did,” You bit back a chuckle. “Unseriously.”

“I may have mentioned twisting his neck if he broke my bowl, but he knows I would never.”

There it was.

“Right,” Lia mocked with a nod, gesturing her spoon around. “Not seriously.”

“Correct.”

The instant you were about to add to the joke, the doorbell cut you, and two pairs of eyes turned your way at once.

With a small groan, you pushed your chair back.

“Don’t eat mine,” You warned as you left the kitchen.

“Hurry up and I won't,” Lia singsonged.

In response, you snapped your fingers once, and the strawberry in her spoon leaped out of it to hit her nose. You didn't need to look back to know it worked because Rowan’s cackle rang through the first floor in confirmation.

Bay was already at the entrance when you arrived, sniffing under the door with anticipation. The usual for her. You were only lucky she wasn't one to bark every time she heard the bell.

When you opened the door, something uncomfortable settled in you.

Inspector Donnel lifted his badge.

“Afternoon.”

His undecipherable expression made you hesitate. Still, it wasn't as unpleasant as the presence of the man beside him, one officer Roland. He was almost a decade older than you, only a few years younger than your aunts, and had been working for the police department of Bluecove for about two or three years.

You struggled to make something concrete out of the way he peeked into the house, but it surely was not admiration. So, when Bay quickly escaped through the gap you widened for her, the way he startled with a hand on his chest made you feel slightly better.

“Good afternoon,” You greeted back.

Donnel acknowledged it with a nod.

“Any of your aunts home, miss?” He asked, eyeing behind you.

“Who's asking?”

The question didn't come from you, but Rowan. Her voice echoed before she arrived, quickening her pace towards the entrance.

Something shifted then.

Her expectation could pass as simple confusion for a stranger, but it was in the way she glanced at you briefly before positioning herself partially between you and the officers... She had been waiting for something that would prove her intuition right.

The answer to her question rolled out of Roland’s mouth with practiced indifference.

“The police department,” He said. “We would like to—”

“Roland,” Donnel cut.

Roland’s face fell at the same time your eyebrows picked up. Okay, so it isn't just me.

Donnel continued:

“I’m sorry to bother you, but we are conducting a few interviews,” He glanced between you. “Unfortunately, one of your neighbours’ body was found this morning.”

The silence dangled heavily for a second, interrupted by the sound of Lia’s approaching steps.

“Did I hear that correctly?” She asked as she joined you at the door, licking dessert off one of her fingers.

“Heavens,” Rowan whispered, bringing a hand to her chest.

There was another brief pause before you asked:

“Who was it?”

The name already sat in your mind before it was even uttered, as if the question itself confirmed a guess that had been lingering around waiting. The sort of veiled clue you were used to.

“It was Humfrey Beesbury.”

It was a brief conversation, but one long enough to spark the fire in Rowan’s eyes. Only this time it ricocheted when she tried to use it in her favour.

Donnel and Roland were brought to the kitchen for a quick chat, and every step deeper into the house felt like an intrusion. Donnel explained the situation on the way, and received immediate reactions of shock from your aunts. Oh, dear. This is horrible.

The news turned the sweet taste of dessert bitter in your mouth, and the glass bowl on the table seemed to stare back when you got there.

Apparently, the body was found that morning, while you were ignoring the buzz of summer around you. The situation only became more complicated from there, but it was not expanded on by the officers.

Donnel, Contrasting Roland’s carelessness, treaded his eyes less explicitly through the walls. His attention didn't pass by unnoticed, however, and neither did his intentions.

It was around the time you are all sat at the table, when Rowan explained that the glass bowl was what she visited Beesbury for, that the conversation began to sound like an interrogation.

Across from the three of you, Donnel explained that Rowan was the last person to be seen with the victim, and the sight wasn't pretty.

“Donnel,” She sighed sharply through her nose, massaging her eyes with her thumb and pointer before dropping her hand. Then, she shook her head. “I would never harm Beesbury.”

“The witness said you were a bit loud, Rowan.”

“I am always loud,” She explained. “But I would never kill anyone over a bowl!”

“I'm not saying you killed him, Rowan. But we need to ask for a statement."

Ugh.

You glanced at Bay, who was lying down near the kitchen door that led outside, and extend a hand down the table for her to come. As the conversation unfolded, you petted her brown fur in an attempt to soothe your anxiety.

A breeze that belonged to the end of summer arrived a bit early as the talk turned to “Where were the three of you last night?”

The three of you?

When you looked up at Donnel, movement caught your eye, and you found Roland’s piercing gaze upon you.

“What?” You asked, refusing to be perceived as uncomfortable as you actually felt.

He only looked at you up and down before turning away, and you were certain of how clueless he was then, because none of you had any involvement with the sudden death.

“I will come with you to the station,” Rowan told Donnel. “But my sister and my niece were at home the entire time. I’m sure your reliable witness hasn't said anything about them.”

Donnel glanced at you and Lia with something to say, but decided against it.

“Shouldn't Lia go with you?” You asked.

“If there truly is someone dangerous out there, we aren't leaving each other alone.”

Donnel hummed lowly in agreement, getting up.

“This won’t take long, ladies. We’ll try to bring Rowan back as quick as possible.”

Rowan got up as well.

“Good,” She said, still not entirely satisfied with the situation, then gestured for the men to start walking and glanced at you and Lia. “I’ll be back soon.”

"As you should," Lia said, attracting another look from Donnel.

As they left the kitchen, Roland tilted his head to look at the sky out of the window.

“I think it's going to rain.”

“Then you better bring me home before that,” Rowan said. “You’ve seen how the front stairs are.”

“It’s a pavilion and a half,” Donnel said in good humour, but was only reciprocated with a hum from Rowan.

The door got locked not longer after that, and the aftermath of a simple doorbell ring loomed uncomfortably over you and Lia.

She finally broke the moment by pulling the tiramisu bowl closer and taking the spoon from her empty bowl.

“It will be alright.”

You couldn't tell if this was an attempt at comforting you or herself more at first, but she started eating the dessert from the glass bowl itself with a worried expression in confirmation.

“They will interrogate Rowan,” She continued, thinking out loud. “And she will come back, and we won't have to think about this anymore.”

She turned to you, so you looked back, meeting a small, optimistic smile that made her cheeks look full and happy.

“Lia, it was Beesbury.”

Her smile fell.

“I know.”

You both looked away awkwardly.

“But trust me, sweetheart, this is a misunderstanding. Rowan has nothing to do with it.”

“I know she doesn't, but… I don't know, I don't feel good about any of it. Don't you feel it too? Something is wrong. Rowan was right about the magpie warning us—”

“No. I won’t hear about birds any longer. What happened to Beesbury was tragic, but that's it,” Lia sighed, setting down her spoon, and recomposed herself before continuing. “I think I’ll call our lawyer and wash the dishes.”

“Good idea,” You replied, but your mind was empty of a real opinion on the matter.

Lia could be quite unpredictable under stress, which was the total opposite of you. You never had problems that were thrown at you like this. And as you became aware of how clueless you were, the bad feeling settled in entirely.

You took your spoon as well.

To the stars through hardships.

The clouds gathered impressively fast while you reorganised your wardrobe.

Your bedroom was located at the far back of the second floor, so you spotted the tall trees beyond the fence of the backyard, which had already begun their dance, and how sunlight dimmed into grey as the first drops of rain could be heard with the music playing only slightly louder.

The sight of nature’s performances are rightfully cherished by people, and you were no different, not immune to the comforts that come with them. But, sometimes, when you are born a witch, there is a catch. Some of them are bestowed abilities that make them too familiar with certain gimmicks of the world’s magic, and as one that could hear what travels with the wind, you were prone to become a target of a storm’s spirited manner.

“Mind your business today, will you?” You asked the world outside and shut the window closed to continue your light work in peace.

And yet, you couldn't help but fall back into the thoughts you had been trying to ignore since you ate the tiramisu with Lia earlier.

Why would someone kill Humfrey Beesbury?

You had checked the news when Lia left the room to contact their lawyer, and none of the repetitive reports had informed how exactly he died. They informed where he came from, mentioned his family's business, spoke of how he was loved by the community of Bluecove, and how dedicated he was to the culinary business there.

What you knew of Beesbury didn't differ much from that, which was why you were trapped in the repetitive questions.

It was the sound of a door slamming that woke you up from it. You hurried to open yours, because no matter how loud your aunts could be, they were adamant about not hitting doors.

“Guys?” You called into the hallway when you didn't catch the sound of conversation.

“In the kitchen!” Lia shouted back.

You frowned, throwing the shirt you were folding on your bed and leaving the room.

When you found Lia in the kitchen, she was alone, resting her backside against the counter and pitching her nose.

Although you knew it wasn't at you—or at least you hoped so—, you still hesitated when you saw a rare glimpse of ire in her eyes when she lifted her gaze.

“What happened?” You looked around. “I thought Rowan was back.”

A clap of thunder interrupted Lia before the words left her mouth, and the hairs of you arm jumped when the wind picked up right after.

“Your silly aunt locked herself in her bedroom with a spell.”

You inhaled.

Rowan was upset enough to stay away?

The house would become a pandemonium if the two got into a big fight, so you ignored the part of you that wanted to lock yourself in your bedroom as well until they decide to make up.

“What exactly happened?” You tried again, pretending casualness as you found the spices you knew Lia preferred in her tea.

She made her way back to the table, took a seat, and rested her head in her hands with a sigh.

“More than one person told the police she was the last person to see Beesbury,” She told you. “And, for now, no one has a motive to have committed the crime except her.”

“What?” You snapped, frowning. “She didn't kill him over a bowl. They have to understand how ridiculous that sounds.”

Lia seemed to pick up some of your tension then, because when you reached for the kettle on the counter, she was observing you with a softer expression, the way she always does when she prioritises your well being over the harsh truth.

You didn't like it one bit.

“They will,” She said, then swallowed. “Eventually.”

The sky growled, and the next thunder that came was the sort that wakes you up in the middle of the night, blinding the view you had of the yard outside for a split second.

A cinammon stick fell from your grasp as a sudden wave of dizziness took over you. You exhaled slowly, unable to brush off a sensation that grew as the dizziness passed, as if exchanging points of energy, causing the back of your neck to become heavy with a feeling. You feared someone would grab it if you let it linger for another second.

“Who did they interview?”

You were not sure why you asked that specifically. You just needed a distraction.

“I don't know because Rowan didn't want to talk. That fool.”

Outside, the wind played a dreadful tune while Lia shared that there wasn't only a police car parked at Beesbury’s house, but the street looked empty besides that.

I’m gonna die.

You froze.

Unlike the storm, the words sounded as if they stood in the room with you, breathing on your neck. The worst kind of message, in a raspy, unknown voice.

You glared out the window as you filled the kettle. Winds have a terrible sense of humour if this is their idea of a joke.

Distracted by all of the sounds, you almost let it fall too when Lia called you.

“What?” You asked with an embarrassing stutter.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

After a screeching noise of the chair against the floor, you let Lia hug you sideways without saying anything as you turned off the faucet.

“I know this is a shock,” She said.

Oh, well.

To be the target of emotional magic was a fear you didn't even dare to bring it up, since you had successfully avoided the unpleasantness for years, so you let her believe she's entirely right about the sudden death being all that bothered you.

The last time it happened, it lingered; a painful pull in your heart that had no color, shape, or even felt like a pull. It was just… there, so intense you couldn't get rid of it with any sort of spell for an entire month. It happened during winter break, so you had the privilege of staying home for almost the entirety of that period.

“But we will—”

“Lia!”

The yell came from upstairs, followed by two barks, a noise that only Percival, the crow, could make, and thumps that you were unable to decipher.

You and Lia simply looked up in an attempt to make sense of anything.

“I’m going to strangle her,” Lia muttered to herself, then slapped her own mouth lightly and rubbed your arm again. “That was poor timing, wasn't it?”

You offered a clipped smile in response, but the noises returned, wiping it off with confusion. What was Rowan doing up there?

“Oh,” Lia lifted a finger when the thumps become a pattern. “Here she comes.”

Kettle forgotten, you watched the kitchen entrance and beyond, listening to Rowan abusing the floorboards with her careless running.

“The backyard!”

You peeked through the kitchen window.

Chaos rules the view, but that wasn't the first time it did, so you couldn't comprehend what the fuss was about. Did a tree fall? Did the pots break?

Percival arrived first, landing gracefully on the back of a chair, followed by Bay, who ran past you and Lia with a bark. Then, came Rowan, causing your eyes to widen.

She wore a purple raincoat that covered down to her calves, pointy hood over her head and all, but before you could ask, another two were thrown in yours and Lia’s direction, and she had ran away like a mad grape.

“There is a body in the backyard!” She shouted again.

“What!?” You and Lia screeched in unison and followed her after grabbing the coats on the floor.

“Rowan?” Lia asked, worried. “What are you doing— ROWAN, STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Instead, Rowan opened the door to the backyard and practically leapt over the porch with olympic speed.

The weather came in forcefully through the passage, making you shiver again, and something tiny and uncomfortable hit your eye.

“THE SAND!” Lia bellowed.

You had no words for the scene in front of you.

Rowan was a woman on a mission against what was already a raging storm. Rowan, who complained about walking to the nearest store when it drizzled because “umbrellas don't do the work properly” even though she could enchant them to.

Lia tried to make sense of the wind blowing her long hair in every direction, pulling her limbs like puppet strings, while doing her best to keep up and button up her orange raincoat.

Finally, you decided to wear the one offered to you with haste. It was a green so bright that you wondered how you had never noticed it in the house before.

Still closing it, you walked out the door, telling Bay to stay when she approached, which she did. The dog was unrestrained only when it favoured her.

The storm engulfed you instantly. It whipped, rumbled and took what it could from you, drenching your face and what was exposed of your legs underneath the coat.

Your aunts became louder the nearer you got.

“Rowan, get back inside this instant! Leave it!”

“He appeared out of nowhere!”

Another wave of dizziness slowed you down just as thunder built in the distance, and you tripped the moment it striked, managing not to fall by sheer luck.

“Who is it?” Lia shouted.

“I can't tell!” Rowan shouted back. “He's a bit fancy!”

Fancy?

“Do you think he was hit by lightning?” You asked, slightly disoriented, and finally came to a stop.

The three of you stood over the long male body on the grass, unmoving. Rowan wasn't lying when she said he looked rather fancy, either. For whatever reason, he wore an oversized black suit, matching slacks, and expensive leather shoes.

When your brain made the connection of why his face didn't seem too foreign, your heart beat with recognition.

No, you thought. Not him.

Six or seven years ago, you had seen him drenched in seawater, and he looked just like he did now, except younger. His nose was the same, only smaller, as was the slope of his slightly parted lips. That was a faint memory, the only one you had of him, but you were certain. The man was Daeron Targaryen.

In the summer heat, you expected rich guys like him to wear a polo, at most, but you couldn't judge him for it right now.

“Is he dead?”

“He looks dead,” Lia answered you with concern that made you feel worse. “Look at his mouth, he must have drowned in—”

As if on cue, Daeron convulsed to his side, causing the three of you to startle with a collective yelp. With a couple of painful sounding hacks, he emptied himself of whatever amount of rain was in his body, and fell back into his previous position.

You held your breath when his eyes briefly flickered open and found you, reinforcing what you already knew: this couldn't be anyone else.

His hand twitched near your feet before he gave in to unconsciousness again.

The silence after was uncomfortable.

“Not dead, then,” You said with an impressed frown on your lips, pretending not to be terrified and relived all at once.

Rowan gestured to him with exasperation.

“Help me bring the boy inside."

It’s not the kind of thing you can say no to.

“Wait!”

But Lia did.

“There is a murderer on the loose and you want us to bring a stranger inside?”

“Lia, this is not the murderer,” Rowan pointed an open palm at Daeron. “He wouldn't be able to trespass the protection spell if he had any bad intentions.”

“He could be a warlock!”

You leaned down, studying his face, which appeared too disturbed for someone that had simply fainted, and frowned when he mumbled something incoherent.

“We can discuss this inside,” Rowan decided. “I won't let someone die in the property when I’m already being suspected of one murder!”

“What if someone sees us?” You asked, taking notice of the tall house to your left.

It was dark, expensive, and relatively new compared to most houses on Aros St. And, unlike the house to your right, which had been vacant for the past week because Mr. Mallister had traveled to visit his family, it had been occupied by different residents every summer rather than locals.

“All windows are shut,” Rowan said.

You glanced at her, then looked again with a dumbfounded Huh? when you noticed the binoculars she held on her face as she surveyed the neighbours.

“Where did you—”

“Shall we?” She interrupted.

You and Lia exchanged a look, but she ultimately gave a nod, and you returned it.

Ignoring the fear taking over you—and repeating shit, shit, shit in your mind—, you positioned yourself between Daeron Targaryen's ankles and gripped them tight. On the other end, Rowan and Lia held him by the arms.

With more frustration than you expected carrying a body would demand, the three of you managed to drag the very much still alive—or hanging there—man inside the house.

“Careful on the steps!” You warned.

As soon as you were sheltered from the rain, you dropped the legs and shut the door behind you. Your aunts, on the other hand, let Daeron down gently, so his hanging head wouldn't hit the floor harshly, and Bay immediately stepped in to sniff the evaluation of his character when they let go.

You tried to pull her away before she attacked because the only time she did that she hadn't been wrong in her judgment, and if you knew one thing about Targaryens, it was that they were sketchy. However, all she did was sit, tilt her head, and lift one of her long paws to hit Daeron’s face with undoubtedly more strength than she realised was appropriate for showing affection.

Your aunts gasped at it.

“Bay!” You hissed, and kept her beside you when she came, scratching the side of her neck.

“Please.”

The voice was so small that you couldn't help but stare, and you knew it wasn't a coincidence that his voice sounded familiar. You brought your hand to the spot between the back of your neck and shoulder, where it had breathed into before. I’m gonna die.

“M-Miss...”

“Oh,” Lia rested a hand on her chest. “There's three of us, sweetheart.”

You made a face at the kindness, letting your hand fall.

“This is Daeron Targaryen, you know.”

The expectation of being answered with horrified looks was crushed by two Oh’s of recognition, as if the information was the missing piece to the puzzle your aunts were trying to solve.

“That's right,” Rowan nodded. “The eldest. Oh, he looks so different.”

Were you hallucinating the pity crossing Lia’s eyes?

“He’s your age,” She said.

You squinted. “Why would I care how old he is?”

“I beg your pardon?”

You lifted a hand in defence. “It wasn't supposed to come out like that.”

But then you added:

“I don't trust those people, is all.”

That reminded them why you were acting this way. You could see it crossing their faces.

“And don't have to,” Lia said. “We understand.”

“It's alright if you forgot.”

“Yes but no,” Rowan didn't elaborate. “Now, love, pick up some towels and a blanket. We will take him to the living room.”

The task was welcomed. You needed the distraction, or else you would stare at Daeron until he woke up, with a curse on the tip of your tongue.

Unlike the tan skin in your memory, he was sickly pale, with sand blond hair sticking to his face and a painful expression. Harmless and hurt. Regardless, a part of you, and it was larger than you would like to admit, couldn't let go of suspicion based on the simple fact that he was his brother's brother.

Why was he even there?

You unbuttoned your coat and let it fall to make your way to the laundry room on the left, then to the second floor again for a blanket, and when you got down, the sensations from before had quieted significantly. The dizziness was gone, and so was the strange fear, but something else pulled you down. You couldn't reach the cause no matter how far you stretched your thoughts, but it made your head spin and your breath quiver.

In the living room, you almost bumped into a floating Daeron.

He remained in the air while Lia organised the couch for his drenched body by removing all of the pillows. It was big enough for him to sleep in comfortably, but he looked the opposite of that. In fact, in the short time you were gone, he appeared to have worsened.

“Is this because of the protection spell?”

His mouth quivered, and his chest rose and fell unsteadily for a moment under his white shirt, almost transparent now. He only sported that and the slacks, suit and shoes discarded somewhere you couldn't see. Probably hanging on the interior clothesline already, next to your gardening gloves.

“I’m not sure,” Rowan said without looking up from the old spell book she was flipping through. “If he came in, that can't be the case.”

Lia sighed, motioning for you to bring her the stuff you carried, and took the first towel for her own wet hair.

“You can't disable the protection spell, Rowan.”

“Lia,” Rowan gestured to floating Daeron. “This boy is withering away.”

“Because of the weather,” Lia finished stretching out the blanket, so you helped her with one towel while she took the other. “He wouldn't be able to float if he was immune to our magic.”

“He is of dragon blood. They are naturally unstable, no matter how strong they can be.”

“So why don't we just try to heal him?” You asked, taking a seat on one arm of the couch with a tired sigh through your nose.

“We can't fully heal his kind with normal magic.”

“I still think it's the worst idea imaginable to disable what is protecting us from danger,” Lia muttered as she walked to the velvet green armchairs and settled down, then clapped twice.

Magic obeyed her command, bringing Daeron to the couch. You had to jump out of the way so his feet wouldn't kick your head in the process.

Rowan closed the book loudly, and set it on the coffee table, which caused the pile of pillows Lia made to crumble.

“What do we do, then?” She asked, picking up a pillow and bringing it to set under Daeron’s head.

He started muttering again.

“Help me...”

None of you spoke for a moment, letting him try.

Lia leaned in a little with Rowan, but you didn't. An ice cold scrape ran down your back, forcing you to hold onto the back of the couch not to fall.

Finally, you asked yourself, truly, what Daeron Targaryen could be searching for in your house. Why there? He wasn't a friend. Not even an acquaintance. And your anxiety had to be lying to you to convince you that he was there to harm, because the protection spell never failed before.

So why was he asking for help on your couch?

“Miss Cora.”

Rowan and Lia jumped back.

The truth, no matter how unexpected, didn't stop the world from spinning. Instead, it was you who stopped. All you could do was stare at the floor. Did you hear that correctly?

You turned to your aunts for an answer, but they seemed equally surprised when you questioned why Daeron was asking for help from your mother.

NEXT CHAPTER coming soon

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notes : feel free to let me know your thoughts <3

ALSO it won't happen again but since i kinda baited you guys into a daeronless chapter, here's a peek into his priv (i don't mention it in the fic so you're basically his priv moots yay):

But this was entirely her own doing. Shen Yuan had known what she was asking for when she had invited Luo Binghe over again. It had felt almost presumptuous, reaching out to a woman so utterly beautiful and so incomprehensibly willing to see Shen Yuan again, despite the pathetic and nervous picture that she had presented during their first time.

Shen Yuan was an utter noob to all of this girl stuff! She’d never kissed a girl before, let alone one as effortlessly gorgeous as Luo Binghe! What is she supposed to do, when she shows up on Shen Yuan’s doorstep with a pink oversized sweater and a little pleated skirt, socks hugging her thighs and a pretty cherry smile, food in hand as if ready to become Shen Yuan’s personal chef? Shen Yuan had almost expired on the spot! Leave some charm to the rest of the mortals please, Binghe!

Shen Yuan is thankful that the date is in her own apartment; it prevents her from making a fool of herself in public every time Luo Binghe says something even a little bit flirtatious.

And—as much as she can barely even admit it in her own head—maybe she had been hoping for something like what had happened that first meeting. She had been flustered and tense the whole afternoon, flushing each time Luo Binghe had walked over to flirt with her or let her taste the sauces as she cooked, each time thinking—would this be when Luo Binghe kissed her?

In the end, the kiss had come entirely out of the blue, taking her off guard and flustering her beyond her capacity to take it. How could Luo Binghe be so pretty and sweet and utterly brazen, to lean in and kiss her like that? It was unfair! No one should be able to take her off guard so utterly!

But Luo Binghe doesn’t seem to care about what is fair, because she kisses Shen Yuan slow and deep and leaves her breathless, and when Shen Yuan throws away what’s left of her dignity and suggests that they move somewhere more comfortable—she’s ready plenty of erotica, she knows that much—Luo Binghe leaps at the occasion.

Which leads her to where Shen Yuan is now, pressed down into the couch cushions by Luo Binghe straddling her waist, stretched out so her ample chest squeezes against Shen Yuan’s much more modest one, warm pillows that Shen Yuan’s brain snags on like velcro, unable to stop thinking about them. She still remembers the feel of them in her hands, what it had been like to cradle and press her fingers into the plush softness, and her fingers are landing on Luo Binghe’s thighs and squeezing over the elastic of her socks before she can catch herself. 

Luo Binghe kisses her again and again, making a noise of delight and pleasure when Shen Yuan squeezes her thighs, making her jolt—and then do it again, just to make Luo Binghe make that sound once more.

How can one woman be so captivating? Shen Yuan doesn’t know.

She tastes like strawberry chapstick and kisses like she’s ready to devour Shen Yuan whole.

It’s all Shen Yuan can do to kiss back; she barely notices when Luo Binghe’s fingers inch under the hem of her shirt. They play across the waistband of her pants before pushing up further, caressing her sides and belly, and her head goes fuzzy at the warm trails that Luo Binghe’s fingertips leave. It isn’t until her hands drift up even further, starting to push her blouse up a telling amount, that Shen Yuan realizes what is happening, and she immediately tenses.

Luo Binghe pauses, lifting her head to look Shen Yuan in the eyes, hands curling around her ribcage. Her fingers are so long.

“Yuan-jie?” she asks.

Shen Yuan wonders how humiliating this will be when Luo Binghe realizes her presumptuousness. 

Unwilling to look her in the face, Shen Yuan tilts her head back. “You’ve done it before,” she says, voice affecting casualness as if there’s any way to be casual about a beautiful woman straddling her lap and trying to take off her shirt. “What are you waiting for?”

Luo Binghe’s face fills with excitement as she leans in—instead of kissing her on the lips, she ducks her head down to mouth around Shen Yuan’s collarbone, then ducks her head even further down to stretch the fabric of her top, mouthing against the top of one of her breasts. She’s much less filled-out than Luo Binghe is, to the point that she wants to push Luo Binghe’s head away and grouse at her to get on with it already!

She tenses as hands push her blouse up even further and Luo Binghe’s fingertips brush against her bra; Luo Binghe exhales against her skin, moving back to look as she rucks the fabric up the rest of the way, pushing it up far enough to bunch under her arms.

Luo Binghe’s eyes go wide, and Shen Yuan feels a little bit like she might die.

“Yuan-jie…” Luo Binghe trails off breathlessly, and Shen Yuan jolts when Luo Binghe runs her thumb over the curve of her breast, right over the lacy fabric of the lingerie that she’d purchased in that Victoria’s Secret, the same set that Luo Binghe had first ravished her in.

It was just—when she’d been getting ready, the words that Luo Binghe had said back then kept echoing in her mind! She’d wanted to see Shen Yuan in them again—and when Shen Yuan had been getting ready earlier, her mind overthinking everything, she’d caught on the set bunched in the back of her closet and been unable not to think about it.

She didn’t have any other cute underwear; that was her first time in a store like that! And if nothing happened between them and it was just an innocent first date, Luo Binghe would never know!

She didn’t properly consider the reverse; the situation where Luo Binghe realized that Shen Yuan had put on pretty lingerie just in anticipation of this very thing, like she’d planned on it, utterly shamelessly. Her face burns with embarrassment as she squirms under Luo Binghe’s touch, realizing just how presumptuous she’d been. 

What Shen Tang also notices is the way that her brother stares at Luo Binghe as well. He stares in a more blatant way than he ever would have in the past, partially as if he can’t stop looking at Luo Binghe, as if his presence is a balm to some malady that Shen Tang didn’t know existed, and partially as if he’s simply appreciating the view.

Luo Binghe preens obviously with every glance.

Shen Yuan sits next to Luo Binghe on the couch and Shen Tang watches in utter amusement as Shen Yuan can’t stop touching Luo Binghe. It’s not obvious—it’s a quick pat to his knee when he gets up to get Luo Binghe a drink, or a brush of fingers as he passes the glass over, or even a little playful tug to the ponytail that Luo Binghe has his hair in—complete with a hair band that Shen Tang definitely recognizes as Shen Yuan’s. Shen Yuan doesn’t stop talking with Shen Tang, and Luo Binghe listens more than he speaks, but the entire atmosphere is. Well.

When he arrives at Aang’s home, the young monk is waving off a tall, severe-looking man wearing official’s robes. The sight of him makes Sokka stop dead as anxiety shoots through him; an official in the village means nothing good. A new census would be ideal, though it’s not the right time of year—new taxation or tallying of grain is more likely, both options that make the empty bellies in the village ever emptier. 

The man shoves past Sokka rudely as he walks past, making Sokka go hey! reflexively.

The official pauses and turns to eye Sokka, who straightens up and offers a stiff nod of his head. After a long, nerve-wracking moment, the man rolls his eyes and huffs, turning to leave.

Sokka lets out a long, relieved breath.