Zz

he would absolutely become one of those dads that talks to babies like full grown people. “you can’t just bite people when you’re upset, man. that’s crazy behavior.”

and the babies are OBSESSED with him because he’s constantly carrying them around. one kid attached to his chest while he vacuums, another sitting on the counter while he cooks. he’d build stuff constantly too. little blanket forts, swings in the backyard, eventually a full treehouse that he gets way too emotionally invested in.

he’d love being needed. checks on everyone before he sleeps. doors locked. kids breathing and you still beside him.

then finally he can rest.

Sunlight seeped in through the windows, outside King’s Landing was bustling as it always did—restless, metallic, a little grimy around the edges.

Through one of the windows you could see students scurrying off to class, while others were enjoying the sunlight that had come with spring.

Inside though it was quietly pleasant. Ferns hung from exposed pipes. Fairy lights coiled around black metal beams. Sade was crooning softly through the speakers.

At the table beside you someone was typing aggressively like the fate of the Seven Kingdoms depended on their thesis.

“I mean, when you think about it,” Kiera said, stirring her iced coffee with unnecessary elegance, “you could really use the extra cash.”

It was easy for her to say. When your father managed international investments for one of the largest dye conglomerates in Tyrosh, you didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. calculating whether you could afford groceries and next semester’s textbooks.

You were an international student on a visa that came with built in safety nets and a wardrobe of imported linen.

You loved Kiera — truly. But sometimes she floated a few inches above the ground. Or above your ground at least.

Being a scholarship student at King’s Landing University meant you did not have the luxury of floating.

“Kie,” you said carefully not wanting to offend her. You wrapped your hands around your coffee cup like it might anchor you in some way, “there is absolutely no way I can fit a part-time job into my schedule.” You deadpanned waiting for her reply.

Your planner was color-coded within an inch of its life. Filled with lectures and study blocks. Therapy appointments. Gym sessions you clung to like lifeboats. Pottery on Thursdays because molding clay was the only thing keeping you from pulling out all your hair.

You were surviving, not thriving. And surviving took precision and careful planning.

She rolled her eyes in a way that was affectionate but infuriating. “My mom always says we make time for the things we really want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your mom also has a private driver and three assistants.”

“That is not the point.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, pushing her streak of vibrant pastel hair behind her ear.

“It’s our last year. You’re literally a month ahead of half the class. You could find something flexible. Somewhere you can study while working.” She was absolutely relentless.

“Plus,” she added, “it would look good on your résumé.”

Kiera was the social media manager for the campus. She ran the official KLU student page which was filled with campus tours, interviews and various other content. The page had more than fifty thousand followers.

They paid her well. She thrived on engagement metrics and comment sections. She did not have to maintain a perfect GPA to keep her funding.

“For you,” you said gently, “passing is fine. For me passing is like a ticket back home. My parents would never let me hear the end of it if I got one grade less.”

Her expression softened for half a second before she masked it with a dramatic sigh. “You are so intense.”

“And you are so detached from reality.” You countered.

She grinned. “That’s why we balance each other.”

You checked the time on your phone and felt your stomach dip. Fifteen minutes until Professor Ashford’s two-hour lecture on post-Conquest political structures.

Two hours of fluorescent lighting and his droning voice dissecting the failures of the Targaryen Restoration like he personally witnessed it.

“Can we change the subject?” you pleaded. “I want to forget that I’ll soon be trapped in Ashford’s lecture of torture.”

Kiera winced. “Poor you. Ashford really is unbearable.”

Last semester he’d spent twenty minutes berating a student for citing a Dornish historian. As if bias didn’t exist in every archive from Oldtown to Braavos.

You’d considered skipping his lectures and teaching yourself. But attendance was mandatory. And you needed every attendance point.

King’s Landing University did not care about your anxiety or sleep schedule. It cared about numbers and attendances.

“So,” she said brightening, “Valarr and I are going to a concert Friday. You should come along.” She suggested, visibly looking forward to the idea.

Valarr Targaryen pre-law, perpetually grumpy looking yet somehow always kind.

He and Kiera had met at a Freshers’ Week party three years ago and started dating almost immediately. Everyone had assumed it would implode by midterms. Instead, they’d grown into the campus most beloved couple.

You shared a few seminars with him. He was sharp in debates but gentle in private conversation, the sort of person who’d never condemn you even if he wasn’t particularly fond of you.

“And third-wheel the entire evening?” you deadpanned. “Hard pass.”

She waved a hand dismissively and rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“It is exactly like that.”

She hesitated. And then, as if casually remembering something entirely insignificant added “Aerion’s coming too.”

Aerion Targaryen. Valarr’s cousin. He was a business major and campus menace.

He drove a black sports car that you’d bet all your money on was from his daddy’s pocket.

He wore designer brands like he was perpetually exiting a fashion editorial. He had that sharp, almost predatory beauty the Targaryens were infamous for—snow white hair that caught light in just the right way, violet eyes that held amusement and boredom in equal measure. He held himself as if he were superior to everyone and everything. Always gloating on about how King’s Landing would have never been built without his ancestors.

He also once tried to fight Duncan the Tall (as he was nicknamed for his extreme height), outside a club in Flea Bottom and got knocked flat on his back before security dragged the other guy away.

All bark. No bite.

Still, people gravitated toward him. There was nothing quite like pretty privilege and a deep pocket to gain an appropriate social status.

“Well,” you said evenly, “good luck with that.”

Kiera groaned, collapsing back into her chair. “I was hoping you’d come suffer with us.”

“You’re unbelievable, you really hate me so much that you’d drag me into a friday night with Aerion Targaryen?” Your lip twitched as the words left your lips.

“You could at least keep him distracted.”

You stared at her, completely unconvinced.

“Oh by the Seven,” she laughed. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“You are not.”

She grinned, unrepentant.

“I have pottery Friday,” you said. “And I plan to spend it molding something symmetrical instead of arguing with a Targaryen about late-stage capitalism.”

She snorted. “He doesn’t argue. He monologues.”

Your nose wrinkled but you couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Even worse.”

Rumors clung to the Targaryens like expensive perfume. They were old money of valyrian roots, it was a known fact. Political donors. A family foundation that funded half the city’s art museums and quietly influenced half its policy.

King’s Landing wasn’t medieval anymore. There were no armies and dynasties. But power still moved in bloodlines.

And you were very aware of where you stood on that map.

A scholarship student from nowhere special. Carefully balancing ambition and exhaustion.

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: Ashford – 10:00 a.m.

You inhaled slowly, mentally composing yourself .

“Okay,” you sighed, standing and slipping your notebook into your bag. “I need to go pretend I care about succession disputes.”

“You do care,” Kiera’s eyes moved to you, rising too. “You just pretend you don’t.”

You paused, considering that.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you cared too much.

About grades. About stability. About not falling behind.

The city hummed beyond the café walls. Somewhere in the financial district, deals were being signed that would ripple through generations.

Somewhere in Flea Bottom, someone was counting coins for rent. Somewhere on campus, Aerion Targaryen was likely skipping class because attendance was not mandatory for people like him.

And here you were. Measuring your life in fifteen-minute increments.

“Kie,” you said suddenly, adjusting the strap on your bag, “if I did get a job… it would have to be something super quiet. Flexible. Low-stress.”

Her eyes lit up immediately. “Oh my gods, so you are considering it.”

“I said if.”

She looped her arm through yours as you both stepped out into the cool King’s Landing air. “We’ll find something perfect.”

You highly doubted that.

But as you crossed the busy street toward the humanities building, wind tugging at your coat, the thought lingered in the back of your mind like an unfinished sentence.

Would it really be that bad to drop on of your hobbies and get a job? You’d still keep yourself occupied and at least you’d be earning some extra cash.

Maybe there was a way.

Maybe you just hadn’t seen it yet.

By Sunday evening you were slouched over your laptop, hair still faintly damp from the shower, your new citrus shampoo clinging to you like something clean and hopeful.

You wore your oldest most worn university shirt, the one with the faded gold KLU crest stretched across the front and a pair of soft plaid pyjama pants that had survived three exam seasons and at least two minor breakdowns.

Your dorm room was dim except for the glow of your desk lamp and the city bleeding in through the curtains.

King’s Landing never slept. Traffic hummed along the main road beyond campus. Somewhere farther off, closer to the river, bass from a club pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat.

You had the part-time job website open. Scrolling.

There was dog sitting. Retail assistant at the mall in the Crownlands Plaz — must be available weekends. Bartender in a Flea Bottom cocktail bar—experience preferred. Private tutor for first-year economics. Receptionist. Event staff. Library aide.

Every listing felt like a test you were destined to fail.

Thirty-minute commute to the mall?That was an hour lost every day. An hour you did not have.

Three high-energy huskies? Your nervous system could barely handle your own brain at 2 a.m.

Bartending until midnight? Absolutely not. You needed sleep like other people needed oxygen.

Tutoring? What if someone asked a question you couldn’t answer and you exposed yourself as an academic fraud?

Your mind was efficient at self-sabotage. It wrapped every opportunity in caution tape.

You imagined yourself in a retail uniform, exhausted, grades slipping. You imagined coming home too tired to study, too wired to sleep. You imagined losing your scholarship. Losing the fragile scaffolding you had built your life on.

By the time you reached the bottom of the page, your dinner had gone cold.

You exhaled sharply and shut the laptop. Your brain was utterly exhausted and your eyes were watering from all the blue light.

“Not happening,” you muttered to the empty room. You decided you were just not destined for a part time job.

The idea dissolved as quickly as it had come.

—

The weekend passed gently. You read. You outlined an essay. You reorganized your notes for Ashford’s class because control over formatting felt like control over something.

You lit a candle Sunday night and convinced yourself you were recharging instead of procrastinating your future.

By Monday morning, the job hunt felt distant like something you’d thought about in a fever dream.

You met Kiera before your 11 a.m. lecture at a new bakery that had opened near campus.

It was tucked into a renovated townhouse with ivy crawling up the stone façade and gold-lettered windows that read Honey & Hearth.

Inside everything smelled like butter and sugar.

They had a little patio garden in the back wrought iron tables, pale blue cushions, climbing roses that were probably fake but convincing enough. Students filled the space, laptops open, sunglasses perched on their heads.

The atmosphere was comfortable and light.

You both ordered coffee and pastries, Kiera something elaborate and aesthetic “instagram worthy” as she’d say, you a simple croissant still warm in its paper sleeve.

“So,” you asked between bites, flakes scattering onto the small ceramic plate, “how did Friday go?”

You meant the concert. The one you had so wisely declined.

Kiera’s expression darkened immediately.

“Ugh. Don’t even ask.”

She grabbed a hair tie from her wrist and twisted her bright hair into a messy bun with the kind of careless elegance only she possessed.

“That bad?” You chuckled.

“It was absolutely horrendous,” she continued. “Aerion made a scene. As usual.”

You felt laughter bubbling in your chest before you could stop it.

“I told Valarr I am never going anywhere with Aerion ever again.”

You covered your smile with your coffee cup. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she snapped playfully. “You were supposed to suffer with us.”

“And third-wheel a Targaryen meltdown? I think not.”

She muttered something under her breath and you nudged her knee with yours in apology.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “what did he do this time?”

Kiera straightened in her chair, clearly ready to relive every second.

“So you know Tanselle, right? The super tall arts major? Theater and painting?”

Your eyes widened. “Of course I know Tanselle. She’s so sweet. I saw her in that contemporary piece last semester—she was absolutely incredible.”

Tanselle was one of the rare genuinely kind people on campus. Soft-spoken. Creative. The type who genuinely remembered your name and asked about your exams. And not just because she was ‘networking’ or thought your boyfriend was hot.

“Yeah,” Kiera continued, “so we’re at the party, everything’s fine. Aerion’s flirting with some chic by the bar, and then he spots Tanselle across the room.”

She made a dramatic pause.

“And?” You waited for her to continue.

“And he practically lunges at her.”

“What?”

“I’m not exaggerating. He storms over and starts going off about her latest play. The one with the dragon dying in the final act.”

You frowned. “It was symbolic, the whole point of the play—.”

“Tell that to him. He starts ranting about how it’s disrespectful to the Targaryen name, how she’s pushing some anti-monarchy political agenda—”

You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

Your disbelief curdled into irritation.

“No fucking way,” you muttered. “He cannot be serious.”

“Oh, he was deadly serious.” She took a sip of her coffee.

You imagined poor Tanselle cornered by Aerion Targaryen’s wounded ego and felt your stomach twist.

“What happened?”

“Well,” Kiera sighed, “you know Duncan? Everyone knows he fancies Tanselle, but still hasn’t scrambled together the courage to ask her out. He nearly punched Aerion. Valarr had to physically drag him back before it turned into a full-blown brawl.”

You let out a low whistle. “Seven hells.”

“It was chaos,” she admitted, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Entertaining chaos.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass on witnessing that firsthand.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Anyway,” she said, shifting gears, “how was pottery?”

You grimaced. “Canceled. Apparently there was a power outage at the studio.”

She groaned. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. So I just stayed in. Watched Netflix. And I… kind of browsed part-time jobs like you said, but I didn’t—”

You didn’t get to finish. Kiera froze mid-bite, eyes widening dramatically.

“Oh my gods. I completely forgot to tell you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never a good start.”

She leaned across the table, brimming with excitement. “I have literally the perfect opportunity for you.”

Your stomach dropped. “Do I want to hear this?”

“Trust me. It’s perfect.”

She lowered her voice slightly, though not enough to mask the thrill in it. “You know how Aerion has siblings?”

You stiffened.

“Yes.”

“Well. His youngest brother is, like, ten. And Valarr mentioned that his uncle is looking for someone to babysit him. Just part-time. Because he’s always busy.”

Your mind immediately conjured the image of the Targaryen family. Modern royalty of King’s Landing.

Maekar Targaryen—board member of half the city’s financial institutions. His father Daeron was practically a policy architect.

His oldest brother Baelor chaired cultural foundations and appeared on magazine covers like a statesman from another century.

Their surname carried weight.

You’d heard Maekar’s wife had died a few years ago.

The thought flickered through your mind—Aerion as a child. However insufferable he was now, grief at that age left marks.

Kiera kept talking.

“Aegon’s actually sweet. I’ve met him. He mostly plays in the backyard or video games. You’d just have to make sure he does his homework, maybe drive him to practice, make dinner. That’s it.”

She said it like it was nothing.

“You could study while you’re there,” she added eagerly. “And they’d definitely pay well.”

That part lingered. The Targaryens did not do anything cheaply.

“The only family wealthier is the Lannisters,” Kiera added casually, as if that clarified everything.

You pressed your lips together.

“Okay, but if Maekar Targaryen wants someone to look after his son, why not hire a professional nanny?”

Kiera hesitated. “He has.”

That was not reassuring.

“What do you mean he has? And, what happened?”

“And Aegon isn’t exactly fond of them. The last one quit on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

You stared at her.

“What? What do you mean she had a nervous breakdown?”

“No, no, it’s not like that!” she rushed. “He’s not a monster. He just gets bored. Adults bore him.”

“That’s worse.”

She waved you off. “Maekar actually asked me first, but I’m too busy.”

You snorted. “Too busy getting your nails done and curating Instagram posts.”

“Exactly,” she said without shame. “So what do you think?”

You looked down at your coffee. It had gone cold.

Working for the Targaryens. The thought circled in your mind.

Spending afternoons in one of those sprawling estates you’d only seen in society magazines. Studying in marble kitchens and glass-walled living rooms. Getting paid enough to ease the constant pressure coiled in your chest.

It sounded… practical. Dangerous, but practical.

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I’m not even good with kids.”

Kiera rolled her eyes. “You’re patient. You’re organized. You overthink everything. You’ll be amazing.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then you quit. You wouldn’t be the first.”

That shouldn’t have been comforting.You weighed it carefully.

A few weeks, you told yourself. You could try it. Save some money. If it turned into a disaster, you’d fabricate a scheduling conflict and leave.

You inhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “Fine. Sign me up.”

Kiera practically vibrated with excitement. “Yes!”

She immediately reached for her phone.

“I’ll send you Maekar’s contact.”

You swallowed.

Somewhere in the city, in a house much larger than yours, lived a ten-year-old Targaryen who had driven professional nannies to the brink.

And you had just volunteered to be next.

—

You had spent an absurd amount of time perfecting that email.

First draft then delete then rewrite then reword. You had lost count how many times you had redone the entire thing.

You kept it formal but not stiff. Competent but not desperate.

You attached your CV, your transcript, even a short paragraph about your experience tutoring first-years. You debated whether mentioning pottery made you sound well-rounded or just straight up unserious.

By Friday evening, you were so tired of staring at it that you hit send purely out of spite. Fuck it.

The message whooshed away into the abyss of the Targaryen inbox. The rest was in the hands of the Gods.

You were ninety-five percent certain it would vanish into administrative oblivion.

Kiera had given you Maekar Targaryen’s business email—and, helpfully, his assistant’s, “in case he’s drowning in meetings,” as she’d put it. You had addressed both.

Then you spent the entire weekend pretending you didn’t care. Or at least tried to.

You went for a run along the river, the wind sharp against your cheeks. You tried to study but read the same paragraph six times without comprehension. You even considered taking a spontaneous trip out to the Kingswood just to escape your own thoughts.

None of it had helped.

But Monday arrived regardless.

You were sitting in your usual 11 a.m. lecture, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Professor Ashford dissecting something painfully abstract, when your phone gave a small, traitorous ping. The icon of your mail app popped up.

You told yourself not to look. You clicked on it anyway.

Your heart began to pound before you even opened it.

Inbox. One new message.

From: Maekar Targaryen.

Your fingers trembled as you clicked.

The email was brief. Efficient.

We appreciate your interest. After reviewing your application, we would like to proceed. You are hired. Please begin tomorrow from 13:00–19:00. Further details attached.

You stared at the word. Hired.

Professor Ashford’s voice faded into white noise.

You were actually hired.

You were going to be responsible for Aegon Targaryen.

You were going to enter the Targaryen household.

The thought that you were going to inevitably cross paths with Aerion Targaryen crossed your mind for the first time.

Your stomach twisted violently. You hadn’t truly processed that part before.

Tomorrow. 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. That meant shifting one seminar online. Rearranging your week. Rearranging your entire life.

What have you done?

—

You woke at 5 a.m. the next day. Not because you needed to — but because your nerves refused to let you sleep.

You stood in front of your closet like it was a battlefield.

What does one wear to babysit a Targaryen child?

You discarded outfits onto your bed one by one. Too casual. Too academic. Too try-hard. Too plain. You did not want to look like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world.

In the end, you chose light wash jeans and a soft V-neck sweater. Clean. Neutral. Competent.

You brushed your hair twice, put on some natural makeup and applied your favorite lipgloss.

You looked friendly, not too try hard, not too trying to fit into the Targaryen picture thing.

After your morning lecture, you boarded the bus heading toward the Red Keep district, it was the most polished slice of King’s Landing.

Skyscrapers gave way to manicured hedges and wide, tree-lined streets. Cars here gleamed. Pavement here shone.

The air itself felt more expensive.

The Targaryen residence was impossible to miss.

Red brick, but not in the harsh way rather deep, smooth, almost velvety.

A sweeping driveway. Iron gates etched with a three-headed dragon sigil so subtle it was almost understated.

Your eyes widened as you approached.

A guard stopped you at the gate. You showed your ID, your email confirmation. He nodded and escorted you through like you were entering a consulate.

If the exterior was imposing, the interior was something else entirely.

Mahogany wood so polished it reflected light like water. Intricate carvings along the banisters. Portraits lining the walls—ancestors, no doubt. You noted a portrait of Aegon the First “Conqueror” his nickname was.

The entire house breathed legacy. Old money forged in fire and blood, translated into marble countertops and designer lighting.

It was silent. Oppressively so. Not a soul anywhere.

You stood in the foyer, unsure whether to move, when footsteps echoed against the polished floor.

“Ah. You must be Aegon’s new governess.” An unfamiliar voice startled you.

The man approaching you was older, grey-haired, dressed impeccably in a white button-up and pressed slacks. His accent was faintly foreign—Lysene, perhaps but you couldn’t be sure.

“I am Maellon,” he said, extending his hand. “Aegon’s tutor. I’ve served this family for over twenty years.”

Governess. That was certainly a way to put it.

You straightened instinctively. “Yes. That would be me.”

He studied you for a fraction too long as if assessing if you really were the right person and not some fraud.

“We have concluded lessons for the day. Aegon is in his room.”

There was something in his expression—hesitation. As if he wanted to warn you.

“Well,” he continued, already stepping backward toward the door, “I am sure Lord Targaryen has left you instructions.”

He had not. No one had done such a thing.

You opened your mouth to clarify, but Maellon was already moving.

“I wish you luck, young lady.”

His lips curved faintly. Not unkindly. Almost… sympathetically.

And then he was gone.

The front door clicked shut behind him and the silence was almost loud at this point.

You slipped off your shoes and ventured deeper into the house, heart thudding.

The corridor stretched endlessly. Doors lined both sides, most closed. The place felt less like a home and more like a museum where you were not meant to touch anything.

You turned left—Maellon had come from that direction.

What if Aegon had escaped? What if he had run off just to spite you?

What if you have failed within the first ten minutes?

Your thoughts spiraled until you heard something behind one of the closed doors.

A faint noise. Electronic and rhythmic.

You followed it to a door at the end of the hallway.

You rapped your knuckle twice on the wood.

The noise stopped instantly. There was no reply.

You tried the handle. Unlocked.

You pushed the door open slowly.

The room was large but lived-in—bookshelves, a sleek desk, a gaming console hooked to a massive screen. There were some posters on the walls, albeit all framed.

It was ridiculously clean for the room of a ten year old child.

In the center of it all stood a boy with pale blond hair almost identical to his brother’s.

He stared at you like you had broken into his home. And in some abstract way perhaps you had.

His gaze was sharp and calculating.

“Hello,” you offered gently. “You must be Aegon.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He was clearly assessing you.

You felt it physically—the way his eyes scanned your clothes, your posture, your expression.

“Hello,” he said at last. His voice was calm. Controlled.

“Are you my new nanny?”

The word felt like a test.

“Yes,” you replied, keeping your voice even. Children could smell insincerity the way dogs sensed fear.

He didn’t move from the center of the room.

“What’s your name?”

You introduced yourself.

He repeated your name slowly, tasting it, like he was testing whether it suited you. Then he raised a single pale eyebrow.

How could a ten-year-old make you feel like you were being evaluated for a corporate position?

“And what do you study?”

There it was again—that unsettling composure. The judgemental tone.

He stood like a miniature executive conducting an interview.

“I go to KLU,” you said, naming your major.

His eyes sharpened. “You must know Aerion then.”

Your stomach tightened. You had no idea what the internal politics of this family looked like.

“Yes, he’s—”

“An asshole,” Aegon finished flatly, spinning back toward his console.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Well,” you muttered under your breath, “at least we agree on that.”

He didn’t hear you—or pretended not to. Either way you were glad he chose not to respond.

The PlayStation hummed back to life.

You cleared your throat. “So. Maester Maellon mentioned you had homework.”

He didn’t even look at you.

“I finished it.”

You glanced at the pristine notebook and textbook sitting untouched on the massive desk across the room.

“I don’t think so.”

He swiveled in his chair slowly, eyes narrowing. “You don’t believe me.”

“I can see your notebook from here, Aegon.”

He scoffed. “I don’t need that.”

You inhaled. So this is how it’s going to be.

You walked calmly to the console and reached for the plug.

“What—hey!” He jumped up. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh yes, I can.” You unplugged it smoothly. “No games until homework is done.”

“You’re such a shrew!” he snapped, face flushing. “I hate you. You’re horrible.”

The words were sharp, but hollow. You could tell he didn’t fully understand the weight of them.

“Oh, I bet,” you replied coolly. “And you’re a spoiled little punk.”

His eyes widened slightly at your boldness.

“You know,” you continued casually, “I have a niece. She does all her homework without arguing. Smartest little girl in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

You absolutely did not have a niece.

He stared at you clearly eating it all up.

“I bet,” he muttered darkly. “My father is going to fire you anyway.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “But before that happens, I’ll make sure to tell my niece how lazy Aegon Targaryen is.”

Silence fell between you. He was calculating.

You could almost see the gears turning behind his pale eyes.

“If I do my homework…” he said slowly after a minute, “…will you let me play my PC?”

There it was. Regulation and negotiation.

“Yes. Of course.” You promised him.

He moved to his desk—an enormous slab of polished wood that was, frankly, bigger than your entire dorm table—and grabbed a pencil.

“If you need help—”

“I don’t.”

You folded your arms. “Alright. But I’ll still check it.”

He shot you a look and began scribbling.

You sat quietly, scrolling idly on your phone but watching him from the corner of your eye. He worked quickly. Focused. No dramatics now. At least he was efficient.

After a while he pushed back his chair.

“Done.”

He stood, posture stiff. “Can I please play now?”

Mannered — you noted.

“Let me check.”

“Do you think I’m stupid, miss?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” you replied gently. “I think you’re a student.”

“You’re a student too.” Oh he was quick witted.

“Yes. But I’ve been studying for ten years. You’ve been writing for, what, two?”

“Four,” he corrected immediately. “Since I was six.” There was pride in his tone.

You nodded solemnly. “Impressive.”

You flipped through the pages. Most of it was correct. A few spelling errors. You handed the notebook back.

“Erase those. Rewrite them properly.”

He groaned dramatically but complied. After a few more minutes, you nodded.

“Good job. Now you can play.”

You plugged the console back in. He sat cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand.

“Egg,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Everyone calls me Egg.”

You softened slightly. “Alright, Egg.”

He seemed satisfied with that.

“Would you like a snack?” you asked.

He stared at you like you’d asked if the Dothraki lived in Westeros.

“Um. Sure.”

“Anything particular?”

“Peanut butter.” Simple.

“Alright,” you said. “Peanut butter and apples.”

—

You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled. Round one: successfully survived.

Now you just had to find the kitchen in this architectural labyrinth.

You walked left. Then right. Opened a door—linen closet. Another, this one was some kind of sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured garden.

Everything gleamed. Everything felt too expensive to even breathe on.

The kitchen had to be somewhere obvious.

You finally found it after passing what looked like three separate dining rooms.

And it was… absurd, like everything else in this house. Well more manor than house.

Marble countertops the size of small islands. Two refrigerators. A pantry larger than your dorm bathroom. Copper pots hanging from a rack like decorative trophies.

You stood in the center of it, momentarily overwhelmed.

Apple and peanut butter. How hard could that be? You weren’t going to let some snob kitchen better you.

You opened the first fridge.

Sparkling water. Imported cheeses. Pre-cut fruit arranged like artwork. No whole apples in sight.

Second fridge. Still no sign of apples.

A thought popped into your head. Produce drawer.

You tugged it open.

Rows of perfectly polished apples, red and green, organized by variety.

Of course they were, riche people were like that.

You grabbed two, then turned to the cabinets.

Which one held peanut butter?

You opened one. Plates.

Another. Glassware.

Another. Some kind of artisanal grain collection.

You muttered under your breath.

“Why does anyone need this many compartments?”

You opened a sleek drawer. Cutlery. Another—spices arranged alphabetically.

You crouched to check the lower cabinets. Nothing but baking trays and mixers that probably cost more than your tuition.

Finally—finally—you opened a tall pantry door tucked beside the double ovens.

Rows of labeled containers.

And there was your peanut butter.

Three different kinds. Organic. Almond. Regular.

You grabbed the regular jar like it was a prize you’d won in battle.

You found a knife after another brief scavenger hunt, sliced the apples carefully on a marble board that probably had its own insurance policy, and arranged everything on a small plate.

You paused. This was ridiculous.

You were scrambling through a palace kitchen to make a snack for a ten-year-old who had just called you a shrew.

And yet — you felt oddly triumphant.

Balancing the plate carefully, you made your way back through the maze of hallways, half-worried you’d get lost and starve before reaching his room.

You knocked lightly before entering. Egg looked up from the floor.

You held up the plate like an offering.

“Apple slices,” you said. “With peanut butter.”

For a moment, he just stared at it. Then at you. Assessing the gesture.

Round two, apparently, was about to begin.

Aegon—Egg—balanced the controller against his knees while grabbing the apple bites off the plate.

You sat cross-legged on the rug a few feet away, answering emails on your phone and trying not to look completely out of your depth.

The television glowed against the pale walls of his room.

Onscreen, animated karts sped around a brightly colored track.

He paused the game abruptly and looked over at you.

“Do you want to play?”

He held out the second controller like a challenge.

You hesitated for half a second.

“Sure.”

You had never owned a PlayStation. Growing up, consoles were luxuries reserved for well off families—the kind with extra money after bills were paid. Regardless you accepted the controller as if you’d been doing this your whole life.

He unpaused the game. Mario Kart.

Bright music, and tiny characters. Pure absolute chaos.

You pressed buttons at random, pretending you knew what they did.

“So,” he began casually, steering his character with unnerving precision. He clearly played a lot. “do you have a boyfriend?”

You barked out a laugh, nearly driving your kart off the edge of the track.

“Straight to the point, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a yes or no question.”

“No. I don’t.”

He hummed, swerving past you effortlessly.

“Most nannies do.”

“Do they?”

“They talk about them a lot. Like I care.”he rolled his eyes.

You grinned despite yourself as your character spun out after hitting a banana.

“One of them wanted to know exactly what time I used the toilet every day,” he continued. “She tried to make a schedule.”

“Seven hells,” you muttered, mashing buttons uselessly.

“I won’t ask you to schedule your bathroom habits,” you assured him.

“Good.”

He threw a blue shell that obliterated your already tragic position.

“You’re terrible at this,” he observed.

“Thank you.” Your lips quirked up in a mock smile.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you going to be condescending about it?”

He considered. “Maybe a little.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Go ahead.”

For the next twenty minutes, he instructed you with surprising patience.

His little fingers pointing to each and every button and explaining exactly what it was used for.

“No, not that button. That’s drift. See? Like that.”

You followed his guidance, slowly improving. When you finally managed to knock him off first place with a perfectly timed item, he stared at you.

“You did that on purpose!” He groaned.

“I did.” You grinned triumphantly.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “You’re not hopeless.”

High praise from Egg Targaryen.

As you played, the house remained eerily silent.

No footsteps. No voices. No distant clatter from a kitchen.

“Is it always this quiet?” you asked.

“Yes,” he replied simply, eyes still on the screen.

“Sometimes Daella and Rhae are here,” he added. “Then it’s loud. They blast Taylor Swift and usually bring friends. Father hates strangers in the house.”

There was something in his tone when he said father. Not fear. Not exactly resentment. Just… distance.

“And Aerion?” you asked carefully.

He snorted. “He’s around sometimes, unfortunately.”

“And Daeron?”

Egg’s fingers tightened briefly on the controller.

“He doesn’t live here much.”

You nodded. You’d heard the rumors—Daeron Targaryen had dropped out of university a few years ago. There were whispers about him having a serious drinking problem and going to rehab.

“And Aemon’s abroad,” Egg continued matter-of-factly. “In Oldtown.”

He listed his siblings like items on a shelf. A full house that somehow felt empty.

“I’m bored,” he declared suddenly, dropping the controller.

“You’ve been playing for an hour.”

“I’m still bored.”

You laughed. “Alright, what do you suggest?”

“Outside.” He shot up and ran out the door.

—

The garden behind the house was enormous. Like everything else in this house.

Not just a yard—an estate. Perfectly trimmed hedges. A wide stretch of grass. Stone pathways weaving between flower beds. A pond stood at one edge. There was a small practice goal set up at the other.

You blinked against the sudden brightness.

Egg grabbed a football from near the patio doors.

“Can you play?”

“Define ‘play.’”

He rolled his eyes. “Kick the ball.”

“Yes, I can kick the ball.”

He placed it at his feet and passed it toward you with surprising force. You barely managed to trap it.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s see how athletic you are.”

“You’re testing me again, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “No.”

You kicked the ball back, a little too hard. It veered off to the side.

He chased after it, laughing.

“You’re terrible!”

“You’re ten! It doesn’t count!”

“And I’m better than you!”

“Oh, it’s on now.”

For the next several minutes, you ran across the lawn, passing the ball back and forth. You tripped once on uneven grass and nearly took him down with you. He darted around you like a fox, quick and agile.

“You’re slow!” he shouted.

“I have adult knees!” you shot back.

At one point he attempted to nutmeg you, clearly very pleased with himself when it worked.

“Ha! Did you see that?”

“I did. Unfortunately.”

He burst into genuine laughter—the kind that crinkled his eyes and made him look exactly his age.

Not sharp. Not calculating. Just a boy.

After football devolved into chaos, he dragged you toward a small wooden structure near the hedge.

“Obstacle course,” he announced.

“You built this?”

“Mostly.” He was obviously very proud of it.

It consisted of cones, a low bench, and a rope strung between two poles.

“You have to follow my instructions,” he said. “No questions.” Suspicious.

“Fine.”

“Run to the bench, jump over it, crawl under the rope, then spin five times and sprint back.”

“You’re trying to make me dizzy.”

“No.” He giggled again.

You stared at him.

He crossed his arms. “Afraid?”

Absolutely not.

You took off running.

You vaulted the bench (gracelessly), ducked under the rope, then spun in circles until the world tilted sideways. By the time you tried to sprint back, you nearly collided with a hedge.

Egg was laughing so hard he could barely stand.

“You’re evil,” you gasped, clutching your side.

“My turn,” he declared proudly.

You gave him equally ridiculous instructions—hop on one foot, recite the kingdoms of Westeros backward, then cartwheel (he attempted it, failed spectacularly, and blamed the grass).

Soon you were both breathless.

He flopped onto the lawn, staring up at the sky.

You hesitated before lying down a few feet away, grass cool against your sweater.

For a moment, there was no testing. No power struggle. Just shared laughter fading into comfortable silence.

He picked at a blade of grass.

He glanced at you sideways, as if trying to decide if he should say something or not.

“Most of them leave,” he said quietly.

The breeze stirred the hedges. You knew what— who he was referring to, his nannies.

You remembered this boy had lost his mother when he was very young. He probably didn’t remember her at all.

Your heart squeezed at the thought.

You didn’t promise anything. Promises felt too fragile in a house like this.

“Well,” you said lightly instead, “I haven’t left yet.”

He rolled onto his side, studying you again—but this time, there was less suspicion in it.

“Okay,” he said.

Not a challenge. Not a threat.Just… okay.

And for the first time since you’d walked through those red-brick gates, the vast Targaryen estate didn’t feel quite so intimidating.

It felt almost alive.

—

After tumbling around in the grass and laughing so hard your ribs hurt, the sun began its slow descent behind the tall hedges, staining the sky in streaks of amber and rose. You brushed stray blades of grass from your jeans as you both went back inside, breathless and giddy.

“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands together once as if you had everything under control, “I should probably make some dinner. Any preferences?”

The vast kitchen was now glowing beneath the chandelier, all polished marble and intimidating silence.

“Ummm…” Aegon tilted his head standing in front of the fridge. He was serious as if negotiating a state treaty. “I’d like some mac and cheese—” He paused dramatically. “No wait! Chicken nuggets!”

You hesitated. You weren’t entirely sure how pleased Maekar Targaryen would be if he came home to find his son being fed processed poultry in porcelain surroundings that screamed Michelin-starred dinner party. But surely nuggets were better than starvation.

“Alright,” you nodded. “I can do that.”

“Thanks! I’ll go shower and change until then,” he declared, already halfway out of the room.

“Okay…” you called after him, faintly relieved he was at least behaving like a normal ten-year-old.

You opened the freezer—of course it was filled with organic, gluten-free, ethically-raised chicken nuggets. Even their junk food had pedigree. You found pre-cut potatoes and sighed.

“Of course,” you muttered.

The air fryer seemed like the safer option. Wrong choice.

Fifteen minutes later you were still jabbing at the touchscreen settings like it had personally offended you. Meanwhile, you failed to notice one crucial detail: there had been absolutely no sound of running water upstairs.

Eventually, by some divine intervention, the nuggets were done. You placed them carefully onto an ornate porcelain plate that had absolutely no business holding chicken nuggets.

You had just reached for cutlery when the front door opened.

You heard heavy footsteps.

Measured but purposeful.

You froze with the plate of dino shaped nuggets in your hands.

A man entered the kitchen—tall, broad-shouldered, silver-white hair trimmed neatly, beard impeccably groomed.

His suit jacket hung over one arm; his shirt sleeves were rolled just slightly. His expression was carved from stone, a permanent scowl between his brows. He looked terribly handsome in spite of it.

“Who the fuck are you,” he all but snarled at you, “and what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

You nearly dropped the plate.

“I—”

“If you’re another of Aerion’s girlfriends or worse Daeron’s, I suggest you pack up and leave right now.”

“I apologize, sir,” you stammered, heat flooding your face. How do you even break this to him?“You… hired me.”

He stared at you like you’d just claimed you were his long lost daughter.

“And when the fuck did I do that?”

You quickly explained about the email. About Kiera and the babysitting she had mentioned.

His eyebrow arched skeptically. You concluded it was his assistant who had hired you and sent that email.

“Well,” he said stiffly shifting his weight to stand at his full height, “Aegon has been in need of a new babysitter. After the last one had a nervous breakdown.”

“So I’ve heard—”

And then Aegon appeared. Your heart stopped and you nearly choked on your own spit.

His head was completely shaved. Not trimmed, not buzzed. Shaved.

Gone were the soft silver locks. In their place—smooth, pale scalp. He looked exactly like his nickname. He looked like an egg.

Maekar slowly turned toward him.

“Seven bloody hells!” His voice thundered as his eyes fell upon the boy. “What the fuck is this now?”

You felt tears prick at your eyes. This was it. You were done. You were witnessing your unemployment in realtime.

Before Maekar could explode further, the front door opened again. Laughter echoed in.

“Ooooh, I hear there’s a fine new boy from Dorne—” a girls voice trailed off as she entered the kitchen.

They were both dressed in impeccable plaid skirts and white tights.

Daella and Rhae took one look at Aegon and burst into hysterics.

“You look like a skinhead!” Daella wheezed through laughter.

“Enough!” Maekar snapped at all of them.

They quieted, barely.

“Is this why I hired you?” he roared at you. “To let my son make a freak of himself?”

“I—” you didn’t even know what to say. You thought Aegon liked you. Clearly you were wrong.

“Father.”

Another unfamiliar voice, yet this one was calm, if slightly amused.

Behind the girls stood what you could only assume was Daeron Targaryen.

His hair wasn’t silver pale like the rest of his family’s. It was dirty blonde pulled back into a ponytail.

His expression was amused, hands casually in his pockets.

“I told Aegon to shave his head.”

Maekar looked like he was about to have a stroke. Before his rage could be unleashed any further he sighed.

“I cannot deal with this right now,” he muttered darkly. “I’ll speak to you two later.”

He turned to you.

“And you. Get out of my house.”

Then he disappeared upstairs.

Were you fired? Probably. You looked at the giggling girls. Definitely.

You did not even want to look at Aegon.

The girls grabbed him immediately.

“Come on!” Daella chirped. “We have to post this on Instagram!”

“And TikTok! And Snapchat!” Rhae added gleefully.

They vanished in a flurry of giggles.

You stood there, clutching your dignity by a thread.

Daeron stepped closer, hands still casually in his pockets.

“Rough day,” he said mildly. “Welcome to the Targaryen household.”

“Welcome?” you muttered. “More like goodbye.”

“Oh, don’t be so grim.” He chuckled. “My father is always like that.”

“Well I’m fairly certain your father just fired me.”

“If he wanted you fired,” Daeron said thoughtfully, “you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

“That’s… oddly reassuring.”

You placed the plate down at last.

“Thanks for covering for me.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “It wasn’t a lie.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I told him to shave it. He said he hated being a Targaryen. I said maybe losing the hair would make him feel less like one.”

You stared at him. That was not a sentence you wanted to unpack. You were not in the mood to play family therapist. Because clearly this household seriously needed one.

You just hummed at his words. “Well..” Daeron said slightly awkward. “I’ll clean this up if you want to..” he glanced at the door. “Don’t get me wrong it’s not that I want you out of the house,” he quickly corrected himself. “It’s just — well— you saw my father.” He stated.

“Yeah… I think it’s better if I go.” You agreed.

—

By the time you stepped outside, the sky was fully indigo. The garden where you’d been laughing an hour earlier felt distant now, surreal.

Aegon ran out just before you reached the gate.

“Hey!” You turned albeit everything in you was screaming not to. You were still cross with him, even if he didn’t shave his head to spite you.

He stood there—bald, sheepish, and suddenly very small again.

“Are you… coming back?” he asked.

You hesitated, something in you softeningZ

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry about the head thing.”

“You could’ve warned me,” you sighed.

A tiny grin tugged at his lips. “It was kind of funny.”

You tried not to smile.

“It was a little funny.”

He brightened.

“Thanks for not treating me like I’m five.”

“That’s because you’re not.”

He seemed to hold onto that.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, “if you don’t come back, I’ll probably get someone who schedules my bathroom breaks again.”

You snorted.

“I’ll… see what happens.”

He nodded once.

“Bye.”

“Bye, Aegon.”

You walked down the long driveway feeling like you’d just survived a medieval trial by fire.

—

When you finally got home, you collapsed onto your bed fully clothed. Then you grabbed your phone.

You:

I am going to strangle you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Kiera:

?????

You:

You sent me into a HOUSE of silver-haired psychos.

Kiera:

HAHAHAHAHA did you meet the dad???

You:

He told me to get out of his house while I was holding chicken nuggets on fine china.

Kiera:

STOP 😭😭

You:

Aegon SHAVED HIS HEAD. He’s an egg. Literally.

There was a full thirty seconds of typing.

Kiera:

I’M SORRY WHAT

You:

Bald. Completely bald. In front of his terrifying father. I almost died.

Kiera:

…

But are you fired???

You stared at the ceiling.

You weren’t sure.

You thought about Aegon asking if you were coming back. About how he laughed in the grass. About how the house felt quiet in a way that wasn’t normal.

You:

I don’t think so. But if I go back and get publicly humiliated again I’m haunting you.

Kiera:

Worth it. This is elite content.

She was so unserious. You groaned and tossed your phone aside.

You were going to strangle her.

But as you lay there replaying the day—the laughter, the chaos, the shaved head, the absurdity of it all—you found yourself smiling despite everything.

It had been a disaster.

A ridiculous, overwhelming, unhinged disaster.

And somehow… you had a feeling you’d be going back.

“Take Nova to her father,” Vicrul ordered, prying little Nova off his leg and causing her to whine. He gently shuffled her over, and passed her off to another Knight. “Cardo and I will take care of this.” He added, pointing at you. 

You took a step back and threw your hands up in front of you in a surrendering gesture. “Hey, wait wait, hold on a sec,” you sputtered out as they approached you. 

Vicrul and Cardo ignored you, grabbing your arms and pulling you in the opposite direction. They halted instantly as Nova let out a high pitched shrill and had hurriedly jumped in front of you. 

“Stop!” Nova yelled, standing her ground and holding her little hand up. “That’s my friend and I want her to help me find daddy.” 

Nova glared up at the two knights and stomped her foot to make her point. The knights looked at each other and sighed, shaking their heads before letting you go. 

“He’s not going to like this,” Cardo muttered to Vicrul. 

“Do you want to deal with another one of her tantrums?” Vicrul countered. 

Cardo grunted, “Ren’s already pissed she was able to wander off, no need to get Tiny all worked up too.”

Nova squealed with excitement when they agreed to let you come with them, and you were almost positive she just saved your life– or at the very least extended it a little longer. This little girl easily had these men wrapped around her finger. 

Nova held your hand again and skipped along beside you as you walked through empty corridors. You were surrounded by the Knights on all sides, and Nova acted as though that was perfectly normal. She was still just as chatty as before, this time telling you all about Knight's, sharing their names and the cool pointy weapons they carry. She not so quietly whispered to you that Uncle Vicrul was her favorite, but that was a secret so the other Knight’s feelings didn’t get hurt. You couldn’t help but smile and promised not to tell the other Knights, playing along as if they couldn’t hear. 

When you all filed into a turbolift, Nova started jumping up and down, chanting, “We’re almost there. We’re going to see daddy!” 

You wiped the sweat from your free hand on your pant leg and tried not to let your nerves show too much. You had actually hoped to never have to formally meet the Supreme Leader, knowing how merciless and violent he tended to be. The rumors ran rampant throughout the First Order, and you never wanted to find out which ones were true. 

Nova must have sensed your anxiety. She looked up at you, brown eyes full of concern, “What’s wrong?” She asked tugging on your sleeve. “Aren’t you excited to see daddy too?” 

You heard a low chuckle come from one of the Knight’s behind you, no doubt having picked up on your fear the entire time you were with them. There was a reason no one had ever heard of the Supreme Leader having a child, and you were about to find out first hand what happens to anyone who might find out. 

Clearing your throat, you forced a smile and squeezed Nova’s hand a little, “Nothing’s wrong, Miss Nova. I’m happy your daddy’s friends could help us find him and get you back to him safely.” 

Not a complete lie, but she didn’t need to know that you were internally freaking out about coming face to face with the Supreme Leader after learning a very very big secret of his. 

As the lift finally slowed, Nova was ready to dart through the door before it even opened. When it eventually swooshed open revealing the massive room, Nova let go of your hand. She pushed past the two Knights standing in front of you, and took off sprinting towards the person sitting on the throne. 

“Daddy! We found you!” She screamed excitedly, and jumped right into his arms as he met her at the bottom of the throne’s dais. 

The Supreme Leader lifted her up with ease, holding onto her tight, kissing her temple, and smiling at the little girl. That smile dropped instantly when he looked up to see you approaching with a Knight on either side of you. His eyes flicked from you to the Knights and they narrowed in question. At the same time, Nova twisted in his arms and pointed back at you. 

“Daddy! Look! I made a new friend. She helped me find you when I got lost.” 

“Did she?” He asked, a brow raised. “That was very kind of her.” 

Nova nodded her head enthusiastically, grinning really big, “Uh huh. She’s really nice. I like her.” 

You smiled, wringing your hands nervously, the Supreme Leader not taking his eyes off of you, eye you up and down. He was handsome, even more so than you remembered, it was almost a shame he hid his face beneath that helmet he usually wears. 

Nova started to squirm around until he put her down, and she ran back over to you. You didn’t miss how the Supreme Leader tried to stop her by grabbing the back of her robes, but she was a quick little thing and got just out of reach. 

“C’mon,” she urged, grabbing your hand and pulling you forward. “Come say hi to my daddy.” 

You hesitantly followed until you were standing directly in front of Kylo Ren, Nova standing between the two of you waiting impatiently for you to speak. 

You bowed your head slightly, “H-Hi, I’m Officer—“ 

“Sweetie,” Kylo Ren cut you off, looking down at his daughter. “Can you go with Uncle Cardo and Kuruk while your friend and I talk?” 

Nova crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back away from her father, leaning against you, “No, I don’t want to,” she said firmly, brow furrowed. “I want to stay with my friend and show her my TIE fighters.” 

The whole situation was extremely awkward. The Supreme Leader was trying not to lose his cool, and you were trying not to give him any more reason to want to kill you. 

“Miss Nova,” you said hesitantly, looking up at Kylo Ren quickly before continuing. You probably shouldn’t help get her out of the room because that means your death is likely to come as soon as she’s gone, but maybe, just maybe, if you showed him that you could be trusted, he would spare you. 

Nova looked up at you with wide eyes and you crouched down to her level and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Can I talk to your daddy really quickly and then you can show me your TIE fighters?” 

“You promise you’ll come see them?” Her eyes went soft and it took all that you had not to say yes immediately to that little face. 

You looked up at Ren again for approval, not wanting to make a promise you won’t be able to keep. He moved his mouth around in consideration before releasing a sigh and nodded once reluctantly. 

You returned with a half smile and looked back at Nova, “I promise I’ll come see them soon.” 

Nova squealed again and clapped her little hands, “Yay! And you can meet Moony, and have snacks, and see my room, and play ships with me.” 

You couldn’t help but giggle at how precious she was. She would have gone on and on if her father had not cut her off, “Alright, Nova. Time to go.” 

Cardo came forward to collect the small child. “C’mon Tiny,” Cardo said as he effortlessly picked her up. “Let’s get you back home.” 

“Bye daddy!” Nova waved over Cardo’s shoulder and said goodbye to you as well. 

“Stay with her until I return, and keep her out of the kitchen,” Kylo instructed. “The nanny droid had an accident that still needs to be cleaned up.” 

Cardo nodded in acknowledgment before leaving with the other Knights. Only one stayed behind, Vicrul, who hovered not far behind you. 

Once the lift door closed and it was only the three of you, Kylo Ren turned and made his way up to his throne. He sat down, leaning back into the solid stone backrest, and stared you down. Although your entire being was shaking with fear, you tried your best to stand as still as possible. 

“Name.” He said, and you quickly offered your name and rank. 

The Supreme Leader pulled up your file on his data pad. He wouldn’t find much aside from your notes about your family, your academy records, and previous assignments. He took a moment to read over your file before addressing you again. 

“You’re good with kids.” He stated. 

You weren’t sure if that was supposed to be a question, but you responded anyway. “Y-Yes, Sir. I have younger sisters who I looked after often before enrolling in the academy.” 

Kylo Ren hummed. 

“Sir, I know there’s a reason no one knows about Nova’s existence,” you said, hoping you could explain that you understand how important it is to keep this secret. “I can assure you that I will keep this to myself.” 

“My daughter’s existence has been kept hidden for nearly five years for her own safety. The only people who know are myself, my Knights, her doctor, and now you. Tell me why I should trust you and not simply kill you right now?” 

If he was smart, he would kill you. Yes, you were loyal to him, to the First Order, but the more people who know about Nova, the greater the chance of the wrong person finding out. You were still going to fight for your life while you still could. You had no reason to use this information, and you certainly didn’t want any harm to come to Nova. 

“Sir, I know I’m just some random officer that you can easily dispose of, but I would never do anything to put that little girl in danger. You have enemies, some within your own Order, and I know that is why you have to keep her hidden. I would protect that child with my life, just as I protected my own family.” 

It was true. Nova reminded you so much of your younger sisters when they were her age. You protected them when war broke out on your home planet, and by enrolling at the academy, you ensured they would live a good life far away from the violence. 

Kylo Ren hummed again and set aside his datapad. You swallowed nervously, not sure what he was thinking. As he approached, you took a step back and backed into Vicrul’s solid frame. 

Panic started to take over and you were caged in. You were going to die, this was it. “I-I understand you have to do what you think is right for your daughter, but please, p-promise me my family won’t suffer because of this. They rely on my credits to survive. Promise me they’ll be taken care of.” You didn’t care if you looked foolish with your pleas, as long as your family continued to be better off after you were gone. 

When Kylo Ren didn’t respond, simply looking down at you, weighing his options. You closed your eyes, holding back tears and waited for it to be over with. Suddenly there was a firm, but not entirely painful grasp around your neck and your eyes flew wide open as you were yanked forward. 

Kylo Ren’s face was mere inches from your own as he spoke. “My daughter has taken a liking to you, and as of this morning is in need of a new caregiver, someone I can trust to watch after her when I‘m away.” You did not like where this was going, but you had a feeling your choices were going to be very limited. 

“Sir, I—“ you stopped talking when his grip tightened. 

“I believe you will be a good fit to fill that position,” he continued. 

“But—“ You wanted to explain that you were supposed to start the Admiral’s program next month, but he probably knew that from your file, and didn’t particularly care. He was in charge and you would do what he commanded. 

“Your new assignment will start immediately.” He said, releasing you from his grasp. “You’re allowed to refuse, but I would advise against it.  I’d hate to have to inform my daughter that you couldn’t keep your promise you made to her.” 

Shit. There really was no choice to make. A part of you was terrified at the thought of being responsible for taking care of the one person in the galaxy the Supreme Leader cared for, but another part was honored that you were being trusted and found capable of looking after her. It wasn’t exactly the job you envisioned for yourself when graduating from the academy, but it was one that you did not plan to fail at. 

“I only make promises I intend to keep, Sir.” 

A flash of a smirk was seen on the Supreme Leader’s lips followed by a nod. “Vicrul will escort you to your quarters to pack your belongings and bring you to your new rooms.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect complete discretion,” He warned.

“Of course, Sir.” 

Not like you could tell anyone at this point. With Vicrul as your new shadow, no one would come close to you. 

This was not where you saw the day heading when you woke up that morning, but becoming the Supreme Leader’s nanny might be a nice change of pace from the bureaucratic nonsense in working with High Command. Besides, how hard can it be to look after one little girl?

general warnings: 18+, slow burn, smut, Noah’s cocky and confident lol, bro loves eye contact and tension, teasing, lots of flirting

THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT REAL PEOPLE IN FICTIONAL SCENARIOS. I AM NOT IMPLYING THIS IS HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE IRL OR THAT THIS SITUATION WOULD HAPPEN. IT IS FOR FANFIC PURPOSES ONLY!

chapter one || chapter two || chapter three || chapter four || chapter five || chapter six || chapter seven || epilogue

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You’re sitting in your local Costa, sadly picking at an overpriced, sad sandwich and lukewarm coffee. Chains are never your first option if you can help it, but this small town doesn’t have a local cafe open past 10am.

Another sigh, you could do it so much better, you think, grimacing at a bite of soggy bread. As a baker, you know good bread and this, this is not good bread.

How difficult can it be, really, you sip from your cup; musing.

You could do it, you think, you already have a steady business as an online bakery and a presence at the closest local markets, known for your delicate bakes with pretty decorations.

The savoury side of things though…you know what’d you’d do, sandwiches with homemade focaccia, doorstep thick toast, savoury pastries.

It’d have to be right though. The voice pops up unbidden and you bite your lip, your need for perfection is both a blessing and a curse.

You abandon the remnants of your sandwich and head home thoughts churning.

In your kitchen, you create a focaccia, flaky salt, good olive oil, rosemary and cherry tomatoes.

Once it’s cooked you realise you don’t have the right meats and you drag yourself to the store, you stand in front of the deli meats aisle for longer than you want to admit, until your fingers start to get a little numb and you take home a selection and painstakingly try a little of everything with the bread and nothing's right, nothing works.

You hiss in frustration before cutting a large chunk and wrapping it in wax paper and grabbing your keys.

You know you must look like a crazy person, stomping into the butchers and dropping the bread on the counter in front of the mountain of a man who works there, the bottom half of his face covered by a black mask.

“I need help” you say shortly “I’ve tried the supermarket meats and it’s not right.”

He stares at you, shocked, confused, you can’t tell.

“Look, you're an expert right?” A slow nod. “Good. I’m fed up with having no good cafes so I’m gonna do it myself but I’m a novice at savoury, so taste that.”

You wave a hand irritably at the wax-paper wrapped focaccia “and please tell me what meat is supposed to go in it.”

There’s a beat, two, before callused hands are unwrapping the bread and tearing a chunk off, corner of the mask lifting to accommodate before being lowered.

A moan. “I know” you say, slightly smug “so I’m not putting it with mediocre fillings”

The man hums, swallowing, before turning to a leg of something along the back counter and cutting a thin slice, dropping it onto a paper plate before handing it to you.

“Try that” he rasps, you take the plate and try the meat, it’s salty, slightly smoky and so much better than whatever you brought from the supermarket and combinations throw themselves into your head.

You’re unaware of the butcher staring at you.

“How much will I need to make at least ... .four sandwiches?” You half ask, half demand.

“Bout 15 slices” he replies after a moment's thought.

“Great, that then please,” you say sweetly, “and you can keep the rest of the bread.” You add on when you’ve paid and have the wrapped meat in your hand before almost running out of the shop to get home.

Simon stares for a long time, before devouring the rest of the bread.

The next few hours are spent in your kitchen, every surface covered in pans and bowls. The meat he’s given you, you learn, is called Serrano and it’s so good. 

You’re lucky enough to have a garden and a greenhouse and you pull some rocket from the soil dropping it into a colander for later. Back in your kitchen you create a chilli jam, not too spicy with a slight acidity to balance the salt. 

A quick google suggests that manchego is a common pairing but you worry that it will make the finished sandwich too salty and you bite your lip, scouring your fridge. Burrata. You’d brought it to make your own pizzas but…you wouldn’t need all of it. 

You catalogue what you have in your head, salt from the meat and the bread, acid from the jam, fat from the cheese and heat from both the jam and the peppery kick of the rocket. 

You layer the sandwich and wrap it in greaseproof paper, pulling it tight before cutting it in half with a large bread knife. 

You smile at the cross section and take a bite. The flavours explode on your tongue and you grin, victorious. It’s so much better than the sad toastie you started your day with.

You tidy your kitchen, decanting the rest of the chilli jam into sterilised jars and carefully storing the meat and cheese before washing your paraphernalia. 

You’re about to become that poor butcher’s worst nightmare, you think ruefully as you start to compile a list of other things you’d want to stock. 

You feel so guilty in advance that you assemble a peace offering, the other half of the sandwich, a jar of your new chilli jam and a caramel brownie. Is it weird if I bother him again? You shake the thought away, you have questions and your brain needs them answered. Now. 

You pack your offering into a box and head back out, chucking a notebook and pen into your bag as you pass the countertop. 

The man behind the counter looks surprised to see you, if the slight raise of his eyebrow is any indication. 

“Alright?” He asks slowly.

“Yeah,” you chuckle slightly nervously as you introduce yourself, “I think I’m probably about to become your worst nightmare.” 

“Doubt that” he mutters, “‘m Simon.” 

You nod “Simon, it’s nice to meet you.” A smile, you brandish the box containing your peace offering. 

“I need to ask you some questions about, well, everything meat so here’s a…” you stumble over your words. “Gift? In return for the annoyance I’m probably gonna cause you.” 

The man, Simon, takes the box from you and flips open the lid, “this the sandwich you made?” He asks, fishing it out with one large hand, you nod as he unwraps the paper and takes a large bite. 

His eyes close momentarily as he chews and swallows “gonna bring me one of these every time you’ve got a question love?” 

Your brain stutters momentarily over the pet name and you feel your face get warm. 

“Um, yes?” You offer as you will your face to cool down, watching as he takes another bite and groans in appreciation. 

“Best sandwich I’ve ever had.” He tells you and you can’t help but preen at the compliment. 

“Thanks,” you whip out your notebook “so, if I wanted to make a quiche with ham in it but also sandwiches, would I need different styles?” The pen is pushed against your lip as you think “Oh and I know there’s a ratio of fat to meat for everything but if I wanted to do sausage rolls and scotch eggs would they need to be different too?” 

You realise Simon is staring at you and you shuffle your feet, ears going hot, waiting for the inevitable comments about you being ‘weird’ or ‘too much.’ 

They don’t come. 

You force yourself to meet his gaze, steeling yourself for whatever expression you find there. You don’t expect fascination, appraisal. 

“You this meticulous about ever’thin love?” It’s almost a growl and your mind wanders for a split second before you manage to eek out a “yes.”