nerdy

BSF!Lady Dyanna Dayne x Female!Reader

Notas : Vi uma história em que a leitora é amiga de Dyanna, e elas estavam conversando sobre o casamento dela ter esfriado, e Dyanna recomenda que a leitora vá para Dorne com Baelor. Eu adorei essa história, e ela me inspirou a escrever uma em que a leitora ainda não tem um relacionamento com ele.

WARNING: NONE

Part 1, i think

The dyer’s stall stood halfway between the smithy and the spicers' rows, and it was there that Dyanna stopped without warning, letting go of your arm to pick up a bolt of deep plum silk.

"This blue is better," you said, pointing to the fabric beside it.

"Este azul é o que você usaria." Dyanna devolveu o parafuso ao mercador com um sorriso que quase chegou a ser descortês. "Eu não sou você ."

Você havia saído sem suas damas de companhia, acompanhada apenas por dois guardas a uma distância discreta — um privilégio de Dyanna, que conhecia bem o temperamento azedo do marido a ponto de saber quando abusar da sorte e quando simplesmente não pedir permissão. O torneio transformara os prados de Ashford em uma cidade inteira, nascida em apenas uma semana: fileiras de tendas e barracas onde, no dia anterior, havia apenas grama; o cheiro de couro curtido se misturava ao de pão fresco e ao esterco dos cavalos que passavam pela estrada paralela. Mais adiante, alguém gritava, discutindo sobre o preço de um elmo.

Você deu um passo para o lado para evitar uma criança que corria sem olhar para onde ia.

Você continuou caminhando. Dyanna comprou especiarias de que não precisava — cravos e pimenta-do-reino em uma pequena bolsa de linho — e você reconheceu o gesto: ela fazia isso quando queria prolongar a caminhada. Quando tinha algo a dizer e estava escolhendo como começar.

The choice came when you reached the leather stall, where gloves and belts hung from wooden rods, swaying in the breeze.

"I saw you last night," Dyanna said without preamble, examining a riding glove with far more attention than the moment required. "In the great pavilion, after supper. Talking to him."

You did not ask to whom she referred.

"Prince Baelor greeted many people."

"Yes." Dyanna raised her eyes from the leather. "But he stayed less time with most than he did with you, and he laughed like that with none of them."

"He was in good spirits."

"He was in good spirits with you." Dyanna returned the glove to the rod and turned fully toward you, her voice low enough not to reach the shopkeepers. "There is a difference, and you know it better than I do."

You knew it would be useless to pretend otherwise. You had grown up together too far back for that kind of performance.

"We spoke," you said. "He wanted to know about the journey we took from King's Landing. He is a curious man."

"Maekar is curious too." Dyanna’s tone was light, almost amused, but there was something underneath that was not. "When he wants something, he asks questions until he has all the answers. The difference is that my husband asks questions like a man conducting an interrogation, and his brother asks questions like a man who truly wants to hear the answer."

You passed a cart stopped in the middle of the lane, its driver arguing with a knight on foot over space. You took advantage of the detour to delay your response.

Dyanna waited. She always waited.

"Baelor Targaryen will be king," you said at last, when you returned to the main path. "That is not speculation; it is arithmetic. And I am from a lesser house with no fertile land and no alliance worth two copper pennies to the current king. There is nothing I can say about it that does not sound of ambition."

"It can sound of ambition, or it can sound of truth," Dyanna said. "It depends on who is listening. And I am not the current king."

"You are his brother's wife."

"I am your friend." Dyanna looked at you sideways. "For twenty years, before I was anything else."

You stopped before a stall of cheap jewelry, glass beads, and bronze rings attempting to look like silver. Not because you wished to buy anything, but because you needed a second.

The merchant began his speech. You cut him off with a polite gesture.

"He lost his wife three years ago," you said, your back to Dyanna, feigning interest in a necklace. "And I do not speak of it as one who keeps an inventory of opportunities. I speak of it because it is what sits there every time he converses with someone. That thing that remained."

Dyanna fell quiet.

"He remains who he has always been," you continued. "Just. Attentive. The sort of man who remembers the names of his squires. But there is a... restraint in him now. As though he has learned to occupy less space than before."

"Maekar says his brother has grown more solemn."

"Maekar confuses solemnity with sorrow because to him they are the same thing." You regretted the words the moment they left your mouth, and you turned. "Forgive me."

Dyanna did not seem offended. There was a capacity in her to hear truths about her husband without coming undone — it was one of the things you respected most in her, and one of the things that saddened you most.

"You need not apologize," Dyanna said. "You are describing my life with great accuracy."

You kept walking. The sun had bent toward the west, and the shadows of the stalls lengthened over the dry mud. Further on, near the entrance to the lists, a group of squires carried armor with that aimless urgency characteristic of tournament days.

"Tomorrow he will joust," you said.

"Yes."

"And you will watch from the box with Maekar."

"Yes." Dyanna paused. "And you will be at my side, because that is where you always are, and we will cheer for the knights who deserve it, and we will say nothing aloud of what we are thinking, because we never do. And then we will sup, and you will be courteous to everyone, and he will be courteous to everyone, and no one will say anything that matters."

You looked at your friend.

"Are you advising me to say something?"

"I am observing that silence has a cost that is not always worth paying." Dyanna shrugged with a lightness that was not entirely true. "Only that."

They bought the cloves and the pepper. They also bought a bone comb that Dyanna did not need and a ribbon of light blue linen that you bought without quite knowing why — the same blue you had pointed out earlier, at the dyer's. The merchant wrapped everything in burlap with the efficiency of someone who had done it a hundred times that week.

As you walked back toward the royal pavilions, the noise of the market faded slowly behind you — the shouts of the vendors, the hammer of the smithy, a chicken protesting from some invisible place.

"Dyanna," you said, near the entrance of the camp.

"I know."

"I haven't said anything yet."

"You don't need to." Dyanna took your arm again, the way they had walked all afternoon. "I know what you were going to say, and I also know you will do nothing reckless. You never have. It is your best flaw."

You did not answer.

Maekar Targaryen x Black! f siren reader

Notes: I am simply loving stories like this where the reader is a creature HAHAHAHAHA English is not my native language, so please excuse me <3

WARNING: None :)

Part 1

The beach had no name.

That was the kind of detail Maekar Targaryen noticed — nameless places, corners of the map that cartographers filled with estimates and travelers avoided because there was nothing there worth the trek. The coast south of Ashford was like that: dark rocks descending in uneven steps toward the water, moss in the crevices, the sand so mingled with shingle that it was neither one thing nor the other. The Summer Sea lapped against the stones with the indifference of something that had been doing the exact same thing for millennia and had not yet learned to grow weary.

He had left the camp when the third man in an hour came to ask if there were orders for the following day.

There were none. The court had spoken. The Trial of Seven had been granted. There was nothing left to decide — only the waiting, and Maekar had always been wretched at waiting inside tents while other men slept and pretended the world was in order.

He went down to the shore without a torch. The moon was enough to see where the rocks ended and the darkness of the water began. He walked without direction, which was the only kind of walking he allowed himself when there was no one left to watch him.

He stopped on a ledge of stone that jutted out over the sea like a pointing finger. The water churned three varas below. The mist was low, trapped among the rocks, and the wind smelled of salt and something older than salt, the kind of scent that comes from depths that never see the light.

That was when he saw the movement.

It was not her size that disconcerted him first. It was her stillness.

She was leaning against a wide stone, her forearms resting on the wet rock, the lower half of her body still submerged in the dark water. And she remained perfectly still. Looking at him with the same attention he directed at her, without flinching, without making a sound, as if there were all the time in the world for the two of them to finish understanding what they were seeing.

Maekar placed his hand on his knife.

Her skin was pitch-black, and the moon did something strange to it — it was not the sheen of wet fabric, but something intrinsic, as though the darkness itself had its own depth, layers, like obsidian split open and polished from within. Her hair floated without wind, thick and fanning out around her head as if she were still underwater, as if a part of her had never truly surfaced. Her face was a human face, but with something in the bone structure that took a second to identify as wrong — the jaw was too wide, the eyes too large, the iris a color that the moonlight refused to define.

Below the stone, where her body should have continued into legs, there were scales. Broad, the color of old iron, with reflections that shifted angles with every wave — they were not a single color, but several at once, the kind of thing that has no name in any language of dry land.

She opened her mouth. A sound came out that was not a word — watery, low, resonating strangely against the surrounding rocks. Then she closed her mouth for a moment, like someone recalibrating, and said, in what was approximately the Common Tongue:

"Are you going to use that?"

She looked at the knife. Then at him.

Maekar looked at his own hand.

"It depends," he said.

"On what."

"On what you are."

She considered the answer with a seriousness he had not anticipated.

"Most run or scream," she said. Her voice had adjusted, the consonants less watery now, like muscle warming with use. "You did neither."

"I learned early on that running solves few problems."

"And screaming?"

"Even fewer."

She made a movement with her mouth that was not a smile, but it was what remained just before a smile, like the edge of a thing.

Maekar descended two stone steps. Not toward her — just so he wouldn't keep looking down from above, a position he had chosen by instinct and that no longer seemed necessary.

"You are watching me," he said.

"I watch the shore. You were on the shore."

"For how long?"

"Time is different down here." A vague gesture of her arm toward the water. "Years. Not the way you count them."

"Then you have seen others."

"Many." She looked at the rocks around them with a familiarity he recognized as that of someone who knew a place better than any map. "Most who come down here at dawn arrive, look at the water, and leave. You stopped like someone who has nowhere left to go."

Maekar remained quiet.

It was the most accurate thing anyone had said about him in years, and it had been spoken by a creature that lived at the bottom of the sea and chewed her consonants as if they were foreign, which they were.

"You speak as though you know me," he said.

"I do not know you." She looked at him with those eyes whose color he was still trying to define. "But I recognize the weight. It takes a specific shape in how people stand still."

There was something disarming about the honesty of it — not the performative honesty of royal counselors, which was always honesty about things that did not matter, but the honesty of someone who had absolutely no reason to lie.

"Maekar," he said. The name left him before he decided to give it. "I am the fourth son of King Daeron."

"Fourth."

"Fourth."

She tilted her head slowly, a gesture that held more of an ocean current than a person.

"And that weighs," she said.

"Everything weighs when you are made to carry, and there is nothing heavy enough to justify the strength."

He had said more than he intended. It was what the beach did — the constant roar of the waves replaced the silence that usually forced him to choose his words with more care, and the words spilled out without him revising them first.

She did not answer immediately. She looked at the water around the stone, dark and slow-moving, like something that is in no hurry because it never has been.

"The sea," she said at last, "keeps everything the kingdoms let fall. Gold. Ships. Men." A pause. "The stories that come with them."

"Stories are not the same as understanding."

"No." She looked at her own hands on the stone. Up close, there was a thin web between her fingers, nearly translucent, which the moon made visible. "But watching long enough comes close."

Maekar descended one more step. There was salt in the wind, and her scent was the deep sea — vast, cold, ancient — and there was something about it that was the opposite of unpleasant; it was just honest in a way few scents were.

"You do not fear dragons," he said.

"I used to. It made sense to fear them." She looked at him with an attention that was uncomfortable to receive because it felt genuine, devoid of calculation. "Fire and water do not mix. It is law."

"And now?"

"Now the dragons are gone." A moment. "And you are still here, walking down slippery rocks at dawn without a torch. What is left of the dragons is more interesting than I had predicted."

Maekar stood still on the step.

There was something in that sentence — not the praise, for he had learned to distrust praise before the age of ten — but in the observation beneath it, in the more interesting than I had predicted, which presupposed that she had predicted, that she had thought about this before he ever appeared on that rock.

"Why did you come out of the water?" he asked.

She looked at him for a moment that was longer than the question seemed to deserve.

"I saw you stop," she said. "And I wanted to see up close what makes a man like that stop."

"A man like that."

"Someone who learned to be hard because the hard survive." She said this without cruelty, like an anatomical observation. "And who now does not know how to be anything else, even when hardness cannot reach what is before him."

"That applies to any soldier."

"To any soldier, yes. To a prince who went down alone to a nameless beach at dawn — it is more specific."

Maekar fell silent. The wind had died down. The sea remained equal to itself, which was the only honest constancy he knew that night.

"What do you see," he said slowly, "when you look at me?"

The question came from a place he had not planned to access. It was the kind of thing one did not ask counselors, brothers, wives — anyone who had something to gain from the answer. But she had nothing to gain. She lived at the bottom of the Summer Sea, and she spoke with the drowned, and she kept the gold that kingdoms let fall.

She looked at him long enough for him to regret the question.

"I see someone who mistakes solitude for strength," she said. "They are different things. Strength chooses. Solitude merely... stays."

Maekar looked at the dark water around her stone.

"And you?" he said. "What are you, at the bottom of the sea?"

"Ancient," she said simply. "And equally alone."

There was something in the honesty of it — without drama, without appeal — that was harder to receive than any accusation. He had been accused of coldness, of rigidity, of being the son the gods made to balance Baelor's lightness. None of those accusations had stuck. That one did.

He stepped down the final rung. He was less than a meter from her stone now, and the cold water soaked his boots, and she did not pull back.

Up close, her eyes were golden. Not the Targaryen gold — darker, deeper, with a light that came from within like bioluminescence, like the creatures that live where the sunlight cannot reach and have learned to make their own.

"There is a decision tomorrow," he said. His tone was different than it had been at the start of the conversation — the defensive hardness was gone, leaving only the sentence, direct, unframed. "My son is involved. I made a decision that seemed right by logic, and it carries a weight that logic cannot explain."

She did not say I know, which was what counselors said. She did not say you did the right thing, which was what the loyal said. She remained silent for a moment, her tail moving slowly in the dark water below, and said:

"The weight does not vanish when the decision is made."

"No."

"But you will go anyway."

"I always go anyway."

She looked at him with those eyes that held depths he would never see, stories that no map covered, the weight of millennia of observing a species that built and sank and built again.

"Yes," she said. "That is the problem."

It was not a criticism. It was merely the observation of someone who had seen enough to distinguish courage from stubbornness and knew that sometimes they were the exact same thing.

Maekar stood there for a moment that had no clear measure. The mist was low around the stones. The water lapped slowly. She was a meter away from him, and there was a strange quality to this proximity — not a threat, not the kind of tension he recognized from battlefields. Something different. The kind of presence that occupies the space around it in a way he noticed without being able to name.

"What are you called?" he asked.

She considered the question for longer than he had expected.

"There is no name," she said. "In your tongue." A pause. "There is a sound. But the human throat cannot make it."

"Try."

She looked at him. Then she opened her mouth and let out a sound that began too low to be heard and rose into something that was half-word and half-wave crashing into a stone chamber. It resonated through the rocks around them and vanished with the wind.

Maekar remained quiet for a second.

"I cannot repeat that."

"I know." There was something in that answer that was neither disappointment nor resignation. It was merely the record of a distance that existed and that neither of them had created. "No one can."

Maekar looked toward the horizon that the mist concealed, to the point where the sea and the sky became the same darkness, and then he looked back at her.

"I am leaving," he said.

"You are."

"And I will not remember this as something real in the morning." It was honest. It was the kind of thing the mind of a practical man did with information that had nowhere to fit. "I will convince myself it was mist. Weariness."

She tilted her head.

"I know," she said. "Those of dry land always do."

"And that does not bother you?"

She looked at her own hands on the wet stone, her fingers with that thin webbing, and then at him with an expression composed of many things he lacked the vocabulary to separate.

"It bothers me," she said. "But it does not change what was."

Maekar stood still for one more moment. Then he climbed the first step back toward the cliff.

He stopped.

He did not turn. He looked at the dark stone before him, at the moss in the crevices, at the texture of something that had been submerged for a very long time.

"If I were to return," he said to the stone. "Would you be here?"

Behind him, the sea did what the sea does.

He waited.

"The sea brings me to where I need to be," she said at last. Her voice was lower now, less calibrated for the air, as if she were already returning. "But this coast," a pause, "keeps the heavy ones."

Maekar climbed the rest of the steps without looking back.

He was the kind of man who did not look back. He had built an entire life around that. He was not going to change on a nameless beach, with the moon setting and the camp waiting and a decision that could not be undone waiting with it.

He did not look.

But he walked slower than he had walked in all his life.

The tide washed away the damp print of her forearms on the stone within twenty minutes.

In the deep, where the light did not reach and time counted differently, something that had no name in any language of dry land stood still in the dark for a time that had no clear measure.

Then it went away.

The sea does not keep everything.