Lightyears of infinite revolution

At the door you take a moment to steady yourself, pushing down the feelings lingering in your body. Only once you feel calm do you lift your chin and follow the waiting Kingsguard.

It is a short walk to the royal chambers, and when you enter, you find Daeron and Gwayne seated at a small table, joined by another woman.

Even if you had never seen the small portrait Daeron kept in his room, you would have recognized Alicent. The resemblance between Daeron and her is unmistakable, from the soft shape of their faces to the familiar curve of their nose and mouth.

Both men rise when you enter, though it is Daeron who crosses the room first, his reserve falling away entirely this time. You smile as he takes your hands in his.

“Come,” he insists. “You must meet my mother and sister.”

It is only then that you notice the woman seated on the floor behind the table, her long silver-gold hair falling around her face as she leans over the small child in her lap. The little girl grips a wooden block in her tiny fingers, carefully fitting it into the growing tower. Neither seem to notice your presence.

Alicent rises as you approach. You dip into a short curtsy and then rise. “Your Grace.”

“Daeron has shared much about you,” she says by way of greeting.

Something in her words catches you off guard, a faint coolness carefully concealed beneath her courtesy. For a fleeting moment she looks toward her son before returning to you.

“He has been very eager for you to arrive,” she continues.

“I am pleased to be here,” you reply.

“Please, join us,” Gwayne offers.

He pulls out the chair between himself and Daeron, waiting until you have taken your seat before gently pushing it closer to the table. Only then does he return to his own place beside you as the others settle in.

The table is filled with so much food, it’s nearly overwhelming. You hesitate, unsure where to begin until a small pile of pale, golden pastries at the center catches your eye.

Lemon cakes.

You have not had them in years. Ormund hated the scent of citrus and vanilla. He said they were too cloying.

Eagerly, you pick one up, the sticky glaze clinging to your fingertips. The first bite brings a sweetness you had almost forgotten, a rich buttery taste brightened by the sharpness of the lemon.

You make a small, pleased sound before you can help yourself.

“My uncle said you would like them,” Daeron reveals.

You look to Gwayne, surprised.

He holds your gaze for only a heartbeat and then his eyes drop to the table. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his thumb tracing once along the rim of his cup.

“They were served at your father’s hall,” Gwayne says after a moment. “I remember them being brought out after supper.”

“They were my favorite,” you reply.

Gwayne looks back at you, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.

“I have never seen you eat them before,” Daeron says, breaking the silence.

You glance back toward him. “My lord husband was not fond of them,” you say simply, reaching for another.

Daeron’s smile fades slightly, and you immediately regret the admission. You open your mouth, searching for something lighter to say.

“Helaena, darling,” Alicent calls sweetly. “Come eat. The food is getting cold.”

Her daughter does not answer, continuing to speak softly to the little girl in her lap. Alicent’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she does not call for her again. Instead, she turns back to the table, smoothing her expression into something more pleasant.

“Things will be better once we are in Oldtown,” she says quietly, almost as if reminding herself.

Immediately you look to Daeron, confused, only to find the young King staring intently at his plate. You touch his arm and his mouth tighthens. You know that expression. The way he goes still and tucks whatever he is feeling somewhere out of sight.

“There are difficult memories here for Helaena,” Daeron says finally.

“We will stay until the coronation,” Alicent adds, reaching for his hand with a gentle smile. “After that, I shall return to Oldtown with Helaena.”

The flash of anger you feel at her words catches you off guard. Alicent’s tender expression, the way she reaches to comfort him as though no time has passed between them, only makes the feeling harder to ignore. She has only just found him again. To leave him again seems unimaginable.

When you look across the table you find Gwayne watching Daeron as well, a slight wrinkle of concern between his brow. Perhaps better than anyone, he understands what his nephew has lost.

Absently, your thumb brushes over Daeron's forearm. You are not his mother, nor could you ever take her place. But for years, while she was gone, you did what you could. During the long journey to King’s Landing, you prepared yourself to step aside. To return Daeron to the mother he had spent so many years longing for. You had been glad for it.

Yet now, hearing she means to leave, you are startled by the small, shameful flicker of relief buried beneath your concern. Everything else in your life has been swept away. You are not ready to lose him too.

“The great houses have already begun to arrive,” Gwayne says with a weary sigh, breaking the quiet. “Soon, we will be overrun.”

“So the war is truly over?” you ask.

Daeron lets out a quiet breath.

“It is an uneasy peace,” he admits. “Cregan took his wolves back north, but…” He trails off, staring down into his cup. “If Aegon had not already been poisoned, I do not know if there would have been any words that could have stopped him.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Across the table, Alicent turns away from the conversation, her attention shifting to Helaena. She watches her daughter quietly, almost as though she has chosen not to hear what is being said.

“Perhaps the realm was spared a final battle because of it,” Gwayne says gently, lowering his head to meet his nephew’s eyes.

You squeeze Daeron’s arm, wishing you could offer him more comfort. After a moment, he covers your hand with his.

“We should speak of happier things,” he announces.

“You will wear green again soon,” Helaena says suddenly.

Everyone turns toward her. You’re shocked to find her looking right at you. Then, as if nothing unusual has happened, she turns back to the blocks, carefully placing another atop the small tower in her daughter’s lap.

Alicent is the first to recover, offering a small, polite smile.

“Ah, yes,” she says. “You will need a new wardrobe for the coronation and for what comes next. Black has its place, but it cannot be worn forever..”

“No. Of course, you are right,” you say, suddenly finding you no longer have any appetite for the lemon cakes on your plate.

The mention of a new wardrobe is an unwelcome reminder of the conversation you had only yesterday. Another sign that your future is already beginning to unravel, slipping from your grasp.

Daeron clears his throat.

“I had thought to go riding after we are finished with our meal,” he says, his voice lighter than before. “Tessarion has been restless, and I fear she will take offense if I keep her waiting much longer.”

You smile. “A dragon’s patience is not easily tested.”

“And what of you? Have you decided what you will do today?” His gaze drifts briefly toward Gwayne.

You hesitate. “I think I would like to visit the sept.”

“You should not go alone,” Daeron says immediately. “Perhaps my uncle could accompany you.”

Gwayne lets out the faintest breath through his nose, brow lifting slightly as he stares at his nephew. Daeron only returns his look with a small smile.

“If my lady would welcome the company,” he says, inclining his head, “I would be honored to escort you.”

When you meet his eyes there is no expectation in them. Only patience.

“I would like that,” you admit softly. “If you truly do not mind.”

A quiet warmth settles over Gwayne's features. “Not at all.”

–

The path to the sept is not a long one, but Gwayne still offers you his arm. This close, you find yourself aware of the warmth of him beside you and the faint scent of leather and clean linen, mingled with something distinctly his. He keeps his pace slow, his stride measured to match yours.

You walk in companionable silence, passing surprisingly few servants. Those you do encounter greet Gwayne warmly, their expressions easy and unguarded.

“I must apologize,” he says suddenly.

You look toward him, but he keeps his gaze ahead, his expression thoughtful.

“I never had the chance to offer my condolences for your loss.” He pauses. “Not only for Ormund, but for everything that has changed since.”

Your fingers flex against his arm and you feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath the fabric.

“You have been brought here, your future discussed before you have had time to settle into the present. I imagine that cannot be easy.”

For a moment, you do not know what to say. To have someone acknowledge your situation so plainly is both a balm and a wound. You know you should offer a polite thank you and allow the conversation to move on, as you have done so many times before. But, instead, the truth slips free.

“No. It has not been easy.”

He looks toward you, pale blue eyes steady and gentle . “Perhaps the sept might give you a moment away from all of it.”

“Is that why you go?” you ask.

“Perhaps,” he says after a moment. 

“And you find it helps?”

The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Sometimes.”

“Then perhaps we should ask the Crone for more guidance.”

His eyes shift toward you, amused. “For me?”

“For both of us,” you admit.

Gwayne slows as the corridors open onto the small courtyard of the royal sept. The space is surprisingly quiet, filled only with birdsong and the soft rustle of the breeze. Inside the air is cool, and sunlight filters through colored glass, painting the stone floor in shades of green, gold, and white.

Together, you make your way toward the Crone and kneel upon the thick, cushioned pad laid before her. There is barely enough room for the two of you, leaving you closer to Gwayne than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushes his.

You take a slender candle from the tray and hold it to the flame of the taper already burning in front of the statue. The wick catches, and you set it among the others. Beside you, Gwayne does the same.

You do not know exactly what to ask for. Courage perhaps. Or simply the strength to accept whatever comes next. As you ponder, your attention drifts toward Gwayne. You find yourself wondering what he might be asking of the Seven. His head is bowed, strands of golden-red hair falling across half his face, his lips moving quietly as he murmurs the words beneath his breath.

He looks beautiful.

The thought comes quickly and without permission. You draw a quiet breath and curl your fingers into the folds of your dress, embarrassed. You turn your attention back to the Crone and close your eyes, even as heat burns across your cheeks, a sudden warmth spreading through your chest.

It takes a moment to settle your thoughts, but thankfully the prayers come easily once you do. They are the same comforting words you learned as a girl, repeated so many times that you no longer need to think of them. Coupled with the warm, earthy fragrance of incense curling through the sept, they gradually ease the tension from your mind and body, wrapping you in a rare sense of stillness.

You remain suspended in that quiet until the final words fade from your mind. For a moment, you do not move, drawing in a cleansing breath through your nose before slowly exhaling through parted lips.

When you finally open your eyes, you find Gwayne already watching you. His eyes linger over your face as though he has forgotten himself for a moment. Your breath catches, and the sound seems to break whatever spell has held him. A muscle in his jaw jumps, a faint flush in his cheeks. He clears his throat and he rises.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I did not mean to disturb your prayer.”

“I am finished,” you assure him.

He offers you his hand, palm open, and you place yours in it. His calloused fingers close gently around yours as he draws you to your feet. His brow creases, and he seems about to say something when the door creaks open.

Gwayne immediately steps back, releasing your hand. The older septon who enters smiles when he sees him, though his attention briefly jumps to you.

“You are later than usual, my lord,” he remarks. “You are rarely accompanied.”

“Lady Hightower wished to pray,” he explains, gesturing toward you.

The septon inclines his head. “Then the Seven welcome you both.”

Gwayne gives a quiet nod, then extends his elbow toward you without meeting your eyes. You place your hand against his arm, and together you make your way toward the doors. He remains unusually quiet as you leave the sept, his posture still rigid, his attention fixed ahead. You find yourself wondering at the change. Only moments ago, there had been a warmth in his expression that is now carefully hidden behind a familiar reserve.

You have spent enough years learning to read a man's temper, but this feels different. There is no fear tightening your chest, no instinct warning you to choose your words carefully. Only a quiet desire to ease whatever has put him so firmly behind his guard.

The impulse surprises you.

“Do you always pray to the Crone?” Gwayne asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“No. Not always, though she often hears my prayers.”

“Which of the Seven do you favor, then?”

You hesitate, all too aware of what most would expect you to say. The Mother or the Maiden. Both you prayed to as a girl, but since becoming a Hightower, you have found yourself lighting candles before someone altogether different.

“The Smith,” you admit.

You expect surprise, but Gwayne only regards you for a moment, his expression thoughtful, as though the answer has given him something to consider.

After a moment, he says quietly, “He endures.”

“Yes,” you agree.

The simple word settles between you, carrying more weight than you intended. Your fingers drift to the ring on your hand and turn it absently around your finger. There is something unsettling about how easily he seems to understand. Not unpleasant, exactly. Only unfamiliar.

You clear your throat, eager to shift the conversation.

“And whose altar do you often light a candle at, my Lord? The Warrior?”

The corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitches. “Once upon a time.”

You glance up at him. “But not anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

“The Maiden.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Does that surprise you?”

“A little,” you confess.

“Why?”

You look meaningful to the sword at his hip, and a quiet laugh escapes him, low and brief.

“Perhaps I pray to her because, after all this time, I still like to believe there is something gentle in this world.”

His words catch you off guard, as does the sincerity behind them. For a man who has spent so much of his life surrounded by swords and war, there is something unexpectedly tender in the hope he carries.

“Daeron chose well in making you his Hand,” you remark. “He will make a good King but he needs the right kind of guidance.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Gwayne says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his expression softens. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”

The teasing takes you by surprise, and you grin despite yourself. “I meant it sincerely.”

“I know,” he assures you. “And I think having you here will do him good as well. He has lost much,” he continues, his tone serious once more. “For all his strength, he is still young. He needs people around him who remember that he is more than the crown he wears.”

“I shall remain here as long as my…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “Situation allows.”

Something passes across Gwayne’s face at that, gone almost before you can read it. “I hope it allows for some time yet,” he says.

The words are quiet, almost casual, but there is a weight behind them that makes your step falter. You nearly stumble before catching yourself, your fingers tightening around his arm.

“For Daeron’s sake, of course,” he adds, shifting his gaze ahead.

“Yes,” you agree. “For Daeron.”

You and Gwayne walk on in silence, but it is no longer the same easy quiet that had accompanied you to the sept. By the time you reach the end of the corridor, your thoughts have become tangled once more, that small knot in your chest tightening as you think of what lies ahead.

The man beside you is Daeron’s choice. Your father may have his own wishes, if you were to ask. And the lords of the realm, with all their competing interests, would no doubt put themselves or their sons forward.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about what your future should be. Yet when you turn the question inward, you find only uncertainty. You cannot even begin to imagine how you are supposed to choose when you have spent so long having the choice made for you.

House of the Dragon Masterlist | Masterlist

You have seen people like them before, though not quite. You’ve seen lords far too proud for the halls they walk through, ladies who smile without warmth behind their eyes, heirs who’ve been taught from infancy that the world will bend itself to their will if they intimidate it enough. 

Titles never impressed you much. Your father had made certain of it. 

A crown, he once told you, did not make a fool any less foolish, and a dragon sigil embroidered over one man’s chest did not make him any less mortal. But still, there is something peculiar about them. 

Prince Baelor is the easiest to understand. The Hand of the King. Firstborn son. A perfect prince. He carries himself like a man who has spent his whole life being watched and somehow learned not to resent it, not too much. You can see why your father likes him more than he likes other lords, more than he likes other knights. Baelor listens when others speak, remaining entirely present for conversations who would bore other people to death, your father included. He laughs when something amuses him, and does not consider the act beneath his dignity. He seems so steady, you think, like nothing could ever break him. He resembles the castle in a way, you laugh at the thought. 

Prince Maekar is… another matter entirely. 

He is his brother’s polar opposite. You cannot decide whether the man is perpetually irritated or if his face had simply decided to stay that way after years of never-ending disappointment. Though he also, like his brother, watches everything. It is a talent, you decide. To be able to pay enough attention to his surroundings, his three sons, his brother, his nephew, your father, and you. All that with just two eyes. Gods. Even as he says nothing, you have the uncomfortable impression that he is measuring the room and finding it lacking in a way. 

His sons are stranger still. 

Prince Aegon, the magnificent child who has not stopped questioning you regarding the castle or the cats he saw by the entrance since he dismounted his horse and all the way into the halls. If he had noticed the way his father glared at him with the intention of silencing him, he paid it no mind. 

Aegon is easy enough, too young to have mastered whatever composure is expected of princes and far too curious to pretend otherwise. You suspect Storm's End will suit him perfectly. 

Aerion is not. You decide it almost immediately. 

Aerion is sharp and cutting in the way of broken glass beneath clear water. You feel the sting when it already drew blood. You had disliked the way he looked at you and further, you had hated the approval in his eyes when your gaze did not meet the ground and remained on his. You can make this work, though, there has to be something to him that could be… appealing enough. Or at the very least, something you could respect. 

You have a new mission now. You are determined to enjoy your father’s nameday celebrations and no overly pampered, ill-tempered princes will ruin that. No matter how pretty they are. 

You think of Daeron. You frown almost instinctively. 

Your meeting with him had been odd, at best. Visibly uncomfortable for everyone involved at worst. And he had given you his name. You had spent enough time around noblemen to know that princes did not simply forget they are princes, if anything— they weaponize it. Men born into that kind of power ended up remembering it and using it even when everyone else wished they would not.  

Unlike Aerion, his staring had not felt like a challenge. Unlike Valarr, it had not felt polite. Yet you could not place the emotion behind the lavender gaze. Was it dread? Perhaps recognition? The real question, the one nagging and eating you from the inside– what could possibly be the reason for him to look at you in that fashion? 

Not that you minded much. You find yourself wishing to have his eyes on you again. 

By the time supper is served, your father has already challenged some knights from the Vale to an arm-wrestling contest, accused a lesser lord of cheating in a game of dice, and loudly informed Prince Baelor that his refusal to participate in either activity is precisely why being the heir to the Iron Throne has made him boring, while the prince quietly laughs into his cup of Arbor gold wine. 

You watch the exchange from your place at the high table, shaking your head as you keep an eye on your father, who had deserted his place beside you a few moments prior to honour his self-proclaimed title of the most entertaining host in the Seven Kingdoms by tormenting the future king without the slightest concern for whatever dignity either of them is supposed to possess. 

Storm’s End has never been particularly good at dignity. 

The great hall is packed tightly enough that you can scarcely make out the tables beneath the seemingly endless assortment of food, wine and ale. Music carries from one end of the hall to the other, apparently, the singers your father had spent the better part of the morning terrorizing had been forgiven for their early crimes against his ears. Servants weave through the crowds with practiced ease, dodging drunken knights, overexcited squires and tipsy lords and ladies, while cats wait beneath the tables for unattended pieces of meat to inevitably find their way to the floor.

The Targaryens, you observe, are considerably quieter.

Perhaps not Prince Baelor, who seemed perfectly content listening to your father, laughing at stories he has undoubtedly heard before, offering a few comments when Lyonel allows him enough time to speak. His brother Maekar, however, looks as though he has been seated in the middle of enemy territory. His back remains impossibly straight as he eyes your father while he grows his head back, laughing at something a lord from the Reach says. And every so often, his eyes wander towards his sons.

You wonder what he is looking for. 

Prince Aegon has required very little convincing to participate in the festivities. Whatever shyness he possessed upon arriving at Storm’s End it appears he left it at the gates, before the impressive black stones and before the horde of kittens that caught his eye. He is currently engaged in an animated conversation with one of your younger cousins, waving a chicken leg around as he speaks and nearly striking Prince Aerion in the face with it twice. 

The third time, Aerion catches his wrist, and Aegon freezes in place, chicken leg still held aloft like some ridiculous little war banner. You have to bite the inside of your cheek, though your face betrays you, you’re unmistakably amused. 

“Aegon,” Prince Maekar warns from farther down the table.

“I did not hit him.”

“You nearly did.”

“But I did not.

“That is hardly the point.” Prince Maekar responds, sending him a stern look. 

Aerion releases his brother with an irritated sigh and smooths the sleeve of his doublet as though he has narrowly escaped some grave indignity.

You glance between them. A thought crosses your mind. You want to disrupt them, you find yourself feeling as if you need to see them interact further. Surely they're not so well behaved in Summerhall, you've heard stories from servants who quit their station in order to escape the family chaos. 

What better place for chaos than Storm’s End. 

“I think the boy makes a compelling argument.” You state. Several pairs of lilac eyes turn toward you and Prince Maekar does not hide how his brow furrows, as Aegon does not hide the absolute delight on his face to have someone on his side, for once. “He, in fact, did not hit him.”

Aegon nods enthusiastically. “Precisely.” What a funny child, you ponder, you want to keep him here with you and feed him lemoncakes, take him as your squire on your hunting trips to the Rainswood to keep him entertained. You cannot keep him though, you would probably be hanged for crimes against the crown for endangering a prince, or something.

“He nearly struck me with a chicken leg”, Aerion says. Now properly glaring at you as if you have offended him deeply simply by opening your mouth, because how dare you do so in your own home, at your own table. You think he looks like an angry kitten, you find it cute. 

“Nearly being an important word.” You respond, now with an open smirk. You take your time looking at Aerion. He has fire in his eyes. Not due to the mild rage he seems to be experiencing courtesy of your unwanted comments, but it seems to be a fixed state for him, as if he’s been inhabited his whole life by one of the dragons his family used to ride into battle centuries ago. You wonder if he would dare to insult you in front of his family and yours. Gazing into his eyes, you can definitely discern that he wants to.  “And if Prince Aerion is quick enough to catch his brother’s wrist every time, then clearly no lasting harm has been done.” 

Aerion seems either at a loss for words, or is mentally evaluating the possible consequences for jumping across the table and throwing you to the ground. He chooses silence, and when you notice and seem pleased by the fact, he opens his mouth–

You do not let him speak, though.

“Besides, Your Grace, I would think being bested by roasted poultry would be far more embarrassing than being struck by it.” 

There is a brief silence, Prince Baelor’s attention is now solely concentrated in what's transpiring between you and his nephews. He sees you notice, just as he sees you glance at his son, and directs his gaze towards him just in time to see him lowering his head, and to catch the unmistakable shake of his shoulders. Baelor looks at you once again. 

Too late. 

You point at Valarr once. “See? Prince Valarr seems to agree with my statements.” To this, he looks up, caught entirely unprepared, mouth opening and closing while struggling to form a sentence. Little fish, you think. 

“I said nothing of the sort.” He answers, glancing at his father with an expression that betrays the fact that he’s struggling to contain his amusement and is equally frustrated at his own failed attempts. 

“You were laughing.” You respond. 

“I may have breathed somewhat forcefully” He states, his defence poor. There is no anger in his face, his expression is open, and looking at you as though he is evaluating what he believed he knew about you and your character. Finally, he appears to accept this is a lost battle, and surrenders with a small smile directed your way. You may start to like him more, and you wonder what it would take to make him laugh in an undignified manner, another small task added to your list of things to keep yourself entertained during this event.  

But that's for later. You’ll leave him be for now. 

A boisterous laugh is heard echoing in the hall, obviously belonging to your father. He makes his way back to his seat at your side and continues his previous conversation with Prince Baelor, and everyone at the table welcomes the interruption. You take the opportunity to throw a small piece of bread to Aegon’s plate in order to catch his attention, and offer him a big smile when his gaze finds yours. He offers a smile of his own. 

Across the table, someone shifts. You are immediately drawn to the sound of movement. Daeron.

He is staring at you again, and you find yourself staring back. Ignoring seems impossible now, it would be considerably easier to do so if the prince were not so terribly pretty. The thought comes so suddenly that you almost resent yourself for it. 

He’s beautiful. Annoyingly so. 

His brother and cousin are handsome men in their own ways, certainly. Valarr possesses the sort of beauty singers would compose the most tedious songs about, every feature placed exactly where the gods intended it. Aerion is pretty and alluring in a sharper fashion, something somewhat dangerous lurking beneath the silver hair and lilac eyes.

Daeron is different. 

He looks as though someone had taken all the Targaryen beauty and then refused to polish it. His hair is golden instead of silver, slightly too long and perpetually untidy, falling around his face however it pleases. There are shadows beneath his lavender eyes that ought to make him look sickly and somehow only succeed in making you wonder what he looks like after waking. 

Oh, that is an unfortunate thought. 

You are no blushing maiden, you are well past the typical age when ladies marry, and you are no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. Partly because your father’s moans can sometimes be the reason you fail to rest properly at the hour of the owl. Partly because you have had your share of scandalous paramours yourself. You were not like Lyonel, you were careful, chose your men –and the occasional lady– wisely. Made sure they would not speak of it afterwards, few of them you would now consider good friends. You made certain that type of reputation would not follow you, even if your father insisted there was no need for you to marry, since once he passed, Storm’s End would be yours to rule. So, the wanting is not what spooks you–

It's wanting a prince. You reach for your wine. No longer lost in thought, you gaze at him again. Perhaps you should stop looking. You take a sip. You look at him again. He's still staring.

Strange man. 

Handsome, though.

Very handsome. 

Unfortunately. 

You wonder whether he knows it. Of course he does, men who look like that always know– and princes? Even worse. Yet there is something about the way Daeron watches you that does not feel particularly arrogant. Which might be what bothers you the most. There is no smugness in it, no lazy appraisal of your body, no self-satisfied smile of a man waiting for you to notice his attention. 

He simply looks. As though he cannot help himself. 

And the wine is already catching up with you, head tilted backwards, resting against the back of your chair. Most undignified for a lady. You’re not really a lady, at this moment. 

Now, you feel as if you’re just a woman, looking at a man, who is just a man. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, his eyes immediately drop to his plate.

Your mouth twitches. Interesting. 

Daeron has been with enough women to know when one is looking at him. And enough men, for that matter. 

There is usually a pattern to these things. A lingering glance. A smile held for too long. Fingers brushing his wrist while passing a cup. Finding an excuse to stand closer than necessary. It’s a simple game, comfortable, and predictable. He likes predictable, he knows exactly what to do when desire is uncomplicated. 

He would smile. He would lean closer. Perhaps say something improper enough to make them laugh, let them decide whether the rest of the distance should disappear. There have been serving girls, and tavern girls, daughters of merchants, widows who knew exactly what they wanted from him, young lords who had a preference for dark corners and discretion. He has woken in enough unfamiliar beds to have long since stopped pretending he remembers every name attached to them. 

This should not be any different.

Lady Baratheon is looking at him.

And she’s so beautiful, painfully so. And it should make everything easier. But he remembers the dream, and he feels the same eyes on him now, as the ones he felt when he was getting swallowed by a blood lake and he has yet to know how he feels about it, nevermind what it all actually means. 

She catches him staring. One eyebrow raises. He feels almost compelled to look down. 

Coward. 

Gods, he almost scoffs at himself. 

When has he ever looked away first? Perhaps the problem is the wine, or rather, the lack thereof. He is too sober and his fingers begin to shake when they curl around the cup. The conversation between the families has long been resumed, and across the table, you laugh at something Valarr says. He finds his attention snapping back without willing it to, and before he can stop it. 

You look at ease with Valarr. Worse. Valarr looks at ease with you. Which is absurd, he has known you for less than half a day, surely he is just being polite, it would be rude not to entertain a conversation with the heir of the host and with– in all ways that it matters, the actual head of the household. You must be merely being polite yourself. There is absolutely no reason for the sight to irritate him.

It does so anyways. 

And you are not helping the situation. You seem intent on making Valarr laugh again, over-articulating with your hands as you tell some random story, accompanied with some quips from your father here and there. Of course you like Valarr. Everyone likes Valarr. He is handsome and courteous and knows how to properly introduce himself to a lady without staring at her like some half-witted stable boy who has never seen such a pretty face before in his life. 

He must have been staring daggers at his cousin, causing him to turn his attention from Lyonel to himself. “Are you well, Daeron?” He says, as he looks at him with a strange look on his face.

“Perfectly fine. Thank you, cousin.” He answers. Gods, make him shut up. 

Valarr says nothing, he merely smiles that little smile of his when he’s being a polite little shit, and tilts his head sideways while he continues to look at him. After a moment, he looks away, paying attention to Lyonel and yourself once again.

Insufferable cunt.

You have stopped pretending not to watch Daeron. At least not openly. You do possess some dignity, regardless of what your father has taught the realm to expect from House Baratheon. But curiosity has always been among your more persistent weaknesses, and Prince Daeron Targaryen has become something of a question you would very much like answered.

Why has he looked at you that way in the courtyard? You doubted he had not seen his fair share of pretty ladies, and his look was no one of a flustered boy.

And why does he keep doing it now?

Why had he given you only his name?

Why does he look so exhausted? And why does he keep drinking?

And why, by all Seven gods, does he look so lovely when irritated? This last question being considerably less important than the rest. 

His cup is empty once again, and you are not the only one who noticed. A servant approaches with a flagon of Dornish red. Daeron glances towards it. For the first time all evening – and unbeknownst to you, probably his entire life– he hesitates. He places two fingers over the rim. 

“No, thank you” His eyes are not on the servant, rather on the table. The servant pauses before bowing and moving away. You blink. 

Suddenly, from beside you, comes a yell that makes your ears ring. “You are too quiet!”

You close your eyes. There is no need to look, you know precisely whom your father is addressing. He entirely seems to know.

Daeron slowly raises his head, and looks at your father. “Am I, Lord Baratheon?”

Your father responds immediately. “Yes!” He points accusingly at him from several seats away. “You’ve been sitting there looking miserable and barely saying a word for half the night.”

“Father,” you murmur. “You cannot just tell that to a guest.” You spare a glance to Prince Maekar, who had seemed about ready to jump at his son’s defense, even if you suspect he had thought the same thing himself. 

“I can if he looks miserable.” Your father replies without even looking at you. His eyes still fixed on Prince Daeron.

Daeron stares back. For one terrible moment, you wonder whether you are about to witness a diplomatic incident over roasted boar. But then Daeron’s mouth twitches. 

“I assure you, Lord Lyonel, this is simply, and unfortunately, my face.”

For a second, everyone is quiet at the table. Unbeknownst to you, due to your lack of overall assessment of the members of the royal family, you notice entirely too late that Prince Baelor seems flushed, slightly red in the face, and his eyes are a bit glazed over. 

It is him who laughs first. And it’s as polite a laugh as he can manage without making an absolute fool of himself in front of the guests, who are about almost all of the most important lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.  

Baelor’s laugh, though not the loudest, triggered a chain reaction from everyone at the table, including yourself. Perhaps excluding Maekar. And Aerion was… nowhere to be found, for some reason. You’ll make sure the servants and the knights keep an eye on him. 

Your father slams one enormous hand against the table and you quickly grab your wine cup in a panic, to stabilize it. “I knew I liked you!” Once again, yelling in your ear while gesturing at Daeron, who almost looks regretful. When you glance towards him, his eyes find yours at the same time. He smiles this time.

There it is. You had wondered about that mouth. A mistake, apparently. He looks much prettier when he looks happy. 

Terrible. You are going to have to do something about this fascination before it becomes embarrassing. Yet you refuse to be the one who looks away first. His smile slowly fades, though he does not look displeased. Quite the opposite, if the sudden flush creeping towards the tips of his ears is any indication. 

Oh. 

Your amusement deepens. How easy it is to gain a reaction from the prince, you find yourself wanting to explore more, to push, to see how far this goes, even if it's unwise. You tilt your head.

Daeron swallows. 

She knows, Daeron realizes with mounting terror. 

She knows he finds her attractive, even worse, she finds it amusing.

There is something almost challenging in the way she stares at him now, as though she has discovered some secret about him and intends to poke at it simply to see what happens. He should dislike it. 

He does not. 

He has flirted with women far more forward in their approaches than this. Women who have climbed into his lap before bothering to ask his name. He has been propositioned in taverns, corridors, gardens, once rather memorably during his grandfather’s nameday feast by someone whose husband had been sitting less than a table away. None of them had made him nervous.

The only thing Lady Baratheon did was to raise one single eyebrow and suddenly he cannot remember where to put his hands. Ridiculous. 

Their staring contest continues a few seconds more and at last, he looks away. When he spares her one more glance, she is already looking away. He exhales, he did not notice he was holding his breath in the first place. He looks at Lyonel now, he is speaking with you in more hushed voices. He watches the way you answer to him without hesitation. The manner in which you interrupt him when he talks. The way Lyonel interrupts you back. Neither appears offended. 

At one point, he reaches and steals something directly from your plate. 

You slap his hand away. 

And Daeron holds his breath. 

“You have your own,” he hears you say “why do you always have to take things from my plate?.” You do not sound angry, not really. Vaguely irritated, perhaps. This seems to be a recurring thing. 

“Your food always looks better!” Lyonel tells you with a big smile, while he chews whatever food he was eating. He seems to be trying to irritate you purposefully, he notices. He wants to keep watching. 

“It is the same fucking pie!” You answer him, now more indignant, but with a smirk still. 

“Then you have lost nothing.” He’s beaming now, as he appears to have outsmarted you. 

An impressive feat, Daeron thinks.  

You take a second to glare at your father, while Daeron cannot seem to look away from the two of you. What a peculiar relationship the two of you have, he ponders, almost sadly. He had never seen anything like it. 

You take a piece of your pie and place it on your father’s plate. You look at him now, no longer vexed at him. In your eyes, he finds a warmth he had not seen in his siblings, or in himself, for a long, long time. 

Something uncomfortable settles beneath Daeron’s ribs, and his chest begins to ache.

He cannot remember the last time he touched his father without being instructed to.

The feast grows louder as the evening wears on. Ale loosens tongues. Music becomes faster. Somewhere below the high table, two knights begin arguing over which one of them has the better singing voice, despite neither possessing any evidence of having one at all.

Your father is delighted. Prince Maekar looks less horrified than he had an hour ago, which you consider remarkable progress.  Baelor has surrendered entirely, though he had not drunk any more wine after the incident. Aegon has acquired one of the cats, it’s the white one with orange and black spots, a fluffy one, it's one of your favourites. Aerion has disappeared. Valarr has relaxed enough to lean back in his chair. 

Daeron is watching you once again. 

And for all the times the two of you have played this little game in the course of the evening, it has yet to lose its novelty. 

You catch him staring, he does not look away. Good. You give him a smile, not the smile you offer guests, nor the polite curve of the mouth that is expected of Lady Baratheon. You offer him something smaller. More intimate. You decide to do something different this time around. 

You lean forward. He mirrors you immediately. 

“Prince Daeron” you say to him.

Daeron’s eyebrows raise, surely he must not have been expecting this. You do not blame him. “My lady?”

Finally, a conversation. You had begun to think you might have to drag one out of him. “Are you enjoying Storm’s End, my prince?”

You observe as his eyes flicker briefly onwards the chaos surrounding the both of you. A serving boy is currently attempting to retrieve a sausage from beneath the table while being thwarted by three cats. Daeron appears to consider his answer. 

“I haven’t decided, my lady.” He says. 

“Oh?,” you respond. “You have been here for hours.”

“I like to be thorough.” 

Oh, I’d wager, you think.

“And what have you discovered, your grace?” You place a hand beneath your chin to support yourself, as you stare at him with nothing short of want. Gods, this fucking wine. 

His eyes return to yours. “That Baratheons are loud.”

You do not know half of it.  You smile. “Took you hours to discover that?”

His mouth twitches once again. “And impertinent.”

Fuck

“That one took you longer?” you ask him. 

“Only slightly.”

You laugh at that. Lazily. 

He watches you do it. Once again, that strange intensity. As if he knows all about you already, every one of your secrets, and he’s just waiting for you to tell him. You can recognize his own want beneath it, as well. He is not a subtle man. Your stomach tightens pleasantly.

You know that type of look. But there is still something else behind it, something that does not belong to simple attraction. You need to know what it is. 

Odd man. 

Pretty, though. 

Gods, so very pretty. 

a.n: fuck i need himmmm. give it up for these two who managed to have an entire conversation without bursting into flames!!!! woohooooo

 get ready for the insane amounts of aura farming that reader is gonna be doing next episode when she leads the hunting party into the rainswood, daeron won't know what fucking hit him omg

also there's some of u that i tried to tag and couldn't:( hopefully u see the post anywayss