ＴＨＥ ＧＲＥＥＮ ＤＲＡＧＯＮ

❛❛Tell me all of your lies, I will search all of the world, if only to find the truth in them.❜❜

❛❛And if I have too many to tell?❜❜

❛❛Then I shall be sailing for the rest of my life, for no better treasure than for you to be in it.❜❜

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Vaelor Targaryen and Genavene Hightower

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐𝕴n which, a girl born of the Hightower's tempered flames and a boy born of the Targaryen's raging fire, destined to be nothing but pillars of smoke beside their betters, light each other aflame.

Rose Williams and Sarah Felberbaum as
𝓖ENAVENE HIGHTOWER
daughter of Otto Hightower and Alyrie Florent

❛❛An art, isn't it? To be so loathed by one's family,
they can't even trust you amidst war. How repulsive I must be.
Though I do wonder, where do you fall, my...
What are they calling you now?
King? Prince? Lord? Ser? Nothing? I quite like nothing.
Indeed, I prefer it. Frankly, I would rather put myself to the sword,
than see you ascend the Iron Throne,❜❜

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

NIGHT DRAPED UPON GENAVENE'S FACE AS SHE GAZED UP TOWARD THE MOONLESS SKY. The leaves of the trees shivered, a soft rustling could be heard from them as she stood in the middle of the Godswood, it was almost like listening to the long-forgotten prayers of the people who had walked here before her.

The people were whispering to her, telling her their secrets, the Keep's secrets, and other secrets that they'd promised someone they'd never tell. For whatever reason, they trusted her. All the more trouble for them. She remarked silently in her head, a smirk gliding easily upon her lips.

Tendrils of air stroked her skin, allowing a chill to venture up her spine. She glanced down, her smirk leaving her as soon as it had arrived. "What use is a prince if he can't even dance?" She grumbled quietly, glaring at the red, almost purplish- perhaps burgundy stain like a bruise on the front of her dress of emerald green.

Naturally, Genavene knew she also could be considered at fault. Slightly. She shouldn't have been walking with a cup of wine in her hand- not in the middle of a dance. But the celebration as a whole seemed pointless when it was just going to end in another funeral, or if the Realm was most unlucky, two.

Another gust of wind, biting as though it were a bitter winter, when in fact it was a calm summer.

And then she heard the scrunching of grass beneath a shoe behind her, "My lady?" the voice was gentle, it almost reminded her of her pillow. She ached to be in bed right about now, her body felt near intangible, she was slipping away.

"Yes?" She said, turning her head over her shoulder to find Prince Vaelor, the bastard who'd soiled her dress.

"I came to seek your forgiveness." Vaelor said, sounding like a child preparing for a mother's scolding, "In fact, I beg for it."

"You beg?" Genavene's voice came out tainted with amusement, "Help me out of this dress, and perhaps I might grant you what you deserve."

The Prince's eyes widened as he replied in a strangled breath, "What?"

"I'm going to freeze in it." She reasoned, vaguely gesturing at the wine, still wet upon the fabric. "Help me out of it." Perhaps it was cruel of her to ask, but either way, she liked to see men red.

Without another word he stepped forth, his hands hovered over her laces for a short time, before taking hold, and beginning their work.

As he worked, she continued to watch him over her shoulder. For as long as she'd been at court, Vaelor Targaryen was a rare sight to see. There was a reason most of the courtiers referred to him as "The Ghost of the Red Keep." So scarce was it that he came down from his tower to greet the lowly rich folk.

A greed in her arose and she began to steal away at the features she could see beneath the frail light of night. He had hair that looked like it had been run through by his fingers a dozen times, he had a crease to his brow as he focused on her laces, his lips were thin, pressed together, a little crooked, small, steady eyes, and a nose. It was a nose.

His hands were nice too. Very nice.

"You're rather handsome." She turned back to face the trees, "Not as handsome as your brother," she paused to take a breath, "but of course, I'd never fuck a married man."

For a moment all paused. His movements stilled, though his hands remained delicately holding the laces of her gown. His breathing had caught in such a way, it was almost as if he were merely a ghost. Maybe his moniker is true? She could feel his presence, but almost, for a singular second, questioned if it was truly him, or a figment of her imagination.

After some time, his hands started again at their work, hastened now. He cleared his throat, "Was that an offer, my lady?"

She looked over her shoulder once more, "A suggestion, my Prince." she replied in kind.

Even in the darkness, she could see the way his cheeks subtly flushed, and it could only be that he was blushing, and though he didn't speak any more, she felt he'd answered.

The Prince's fingers worked quicker, she could hear the tiny sound of her laces coming undone through their loops. Soon enough, her gown of emerald green, spotted with burgundy pooled at her feet. I have others. She supposed, letting out a small sigh as she observed the quite pitiful fabric that now surrounded her. The wind now nipped at her form, though a little less harsher than before.

Again, Genavene dared a glance over her shoulder as she heard the brief metallic clicking of clasps. She raised a brow as a lazy smirk overtook her lips, "Eager, aren't you?"

As she gazed at him, his hands, particularly, she realized the swiftness with which he unclasped his doublet of crimson was, oddly, calm. As if he'd done this before. As far as Genavene knew, the youngest Targaryen brother was about as virile as a septa. He had the personality of one too.

Even more peculiarly, as he rid himself of his doublet, he cloaked her with it.

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

Patrick Gibson and Charlie Hunnam as
𝓥AELOR TARGARYEN
son of Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen
rider of Shrygal

❛❛I, the brother no one had time for, to be cursed with insatiable time.
I am a madness unto myself, I understand that as though
it were its own language, and it is one of the few sureties
that does not frighten me. No, rather, it comforts me.
It comforts me, that I am the to-be revived corpse of a madman.❜❜

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

VAELOR FIXED THE DOUBLET UPON THE LADY GENAVENE, avoiding her imperious eyes until he had finished, and when he was, he raised her eyes to hers. Never has there been a more frightening woman. He thought, taking a deep breath. "Are you drunk?"

Her brows knitted together, for a second her eyes unfocused, as if she had to ask herself, "Am I?". Eventually she admitted, "A little." then proceeded to shrug, as if that- whatever it was, was normal for her. As if it were perfectly fine.

With a shake of his head, Vaelor in turn replied, "Then, no."

Her lips parted, she glanced off to the side before pulling the doublet around herself tighter. "Oh."

Oh? What did that mean? Was it to mean that she was disappointed? That she was misled, or felt deceived in some way- what had he done to deceive her? He certainly wouldn't have liked to have misrepresented himself before her, she was the Hand's daughter, after all, and by all accounts seemed a decent enough, if occasionally immoral person.

"Did you expect something, my lady?" He asked, raising a brow, leaning a little closer, a little closer than he realized he should've.

She looked to the veil of darkness that made the sky, squinting as if she were trying to find the few stars that managed to make themselves seen in the vast, black sea. "A little." She answered, her eyes not daring to leave the night, as though it might slip away from her if she met Vaelor's gaze.

"You aren't rejected often, are you?" He questioned, almost a little sorrowful. No, not because he couldn't do something, rather, he ached, thinking he may have spoiled her night. Not because of his rejection, but because of the clumsy dancing he'd done with Lady Redwyne that had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Then her gown wouldn't be stained, and she wouldn't be shuddering out here beneath the moonless sky, and he could be anywhere else, not before this terrifying, horrifying woman.

It felt like his fault, it had to in some way, be his fault.

A glimmer of a small star shone in the sky, and finally her eyes fell, laying upon him. "No."

He'd heard stories about Lady Genavene and her... affairs, with various knights and such. Some were more believable than others, as all stories were. He was almost curious, how much had already been chipped away at her heart? How much of herself had she lost to men because they couldn't care about her?

The thoughts swirled in his head, and he asked himself, how much had the men lost to her, because she couldn't care about them?

"Well, apologies." He eventually said as the thoughts came to a simmer, "I prefer my women coherent." some men would have laughed at that, and Vaelor would have never understood why.

"Have you even had a woman?" She inquired, her head hanging to the side as she inched closer, "Anyone?" Her voice was drenched with the warm tone of honeyed mirth, as if somehow, someway, it was the greatest joke of all, that Vaelor, a Targaryen, may have never been with someone, and indeed, he hadn't.

He hadn't, because there was no one that wanted him, and no one he wanted back. Not to mention talking to people for him was like walking off of a plank into some deep sea of reckoning. Reckoning with what? He didn't like to think about it. All he liked was plain and simple, to be ignored. He admired the quiet that came with the loneliness. The quiet was his friend.

A gust of wind breezed past the two. Genavene's hair blew in the wind, curls of- by what he'd seen from the occasional look at court- fiery red. That was the true joke, that someone born of tempered flame could hold more fire in her hair, than Vaelor did in his entire body.

As her hair spun with the wind, she seemed not to mind it, even when wisps ghosted across her face. She didn't care. But, for whatever reason, watching this made Vaelor feel like a seasick sailor, about to topple over. The land was a ship, the night the ocean. But it was not just a gust of wind making a prisoner of his breath as it had her hair. "No." He replied, no, it was not just the wind.

And it wasn't just the wind, that was drawing him so close.

It wasn't right for him to be so close. Touching would be another thing entirely, certainly, but this closeness... Not even a whisper of wind could part through them. When had he begun to tremble?

"Apologies for the dress, my lady." Vaelor mumbled as he stepped back, casting down his eyes to the cold ground. "I suggest you go to bed now. If you would like my assistance-"

"I would prefer not, but thank you." She interrupted, and with that, he heard the crunching of the grass as Lady Genavene walked off, back into the Keep, leaving her sorry gown in a puddle behind. His gaze fell upon it, and in a moment of quick judgment, he picked it up.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The room had flooded with the light that night had hidden away. Vaelor could feel the sagging beneath his eyes, no doubt bruised with dark circles. How long was it he had been up? Perhaps the entire night? Yes, that seemed about right.

In truth, he hadn't slept much the past moon, too busy trying to make it up to the lady of the Godswood, the lady of the ruined emerald dress.

And now, he stood before her as she sat on her bed, holding the product of all those restless nights. A wooden box engraved with a gilded oak sat in the hands of Genavene Hightower. She focused upon it with furrowed brows, seemingly transfixed.

"I wanted to further my apology." He explained, trying to sound as firm as he could, even if he was fumbling with his hands behind his back, trying to grasp at something- anything.

In this light, newfound, it caught her red curls in such a way, something, something mad was drawing him to them. His eyes fell. If he continued to look upon her in this light, he might die.

There was a mystery to her beauty in the night- it had shaded it, shadowed it. Not hidden it- no, no, it hadn't done that, but this, this- she was a madness unveiled in the sun. A perfect madness.

With a small clack, the clasp holding the box closed opened, and as such, the box. He listened to her small gasp and then the shuffle of fabric, and then before he knew it, he was having the note he'd placed on top of it handed to him. "Read it to me." Genavene implored, and as Vaelor looked up, he thought of all the stories and rumors he'd heard of the lady before him. Stories of passion, rumors of lust. The paper grazed his fingertips and he took it, already yearning for the encounter to be over. For her sake and for his.

"Dearest Lady Genavene, I am fortunately forsaken with the fingers of a seamster, many nights ago, when I was at fault for some wine being spilt upon your gown, and you'd left it behind in the Godswood," His tongue grew steadily dry with each word as he spoke, and thus his throat slowly scratched itself to rawness, but he kept reading on. She had asked him, and so for her, he would continue. Without faltering. 

"I took it upon myself to take the garment and study it as one would history or swordsmanship, " His hands were quivering, why did he have to be so shaken? What about this encounter, this moment made him feel willed to his knees? 

A beautiful lady was a beautiful lady, that was all. Vaelor knew he had always been pitiful, but not so utterly pathetic. "and when I felt I understood it enough, I therefore, thusly, did my best to recreate the garment, as I cannot bear the thought of perhaps it being your favorite, and I being the cause of its ruin. Yours truly, Vaelor Targaryen."

"Just Vaelor?" She questioned, indifferent.

He laughed, it scratched his throat. "Titles are scarcely anything, aren't they?" He handed back the note quickly, before wrapping his arms around himself, trying to stop himself from shaking so much in the presence of this woman. "Merely barriers."

"Barriers?" She said, her voice softer, mayhaps curious?

Vaelor's hands went to his hips as he nodded, trying in vain to find the breath that had been stolen from him. He gulped despite his throat feeling as rough as the rocky mountains of Dorne, and with the barest breath echoed the word, however, this time as a statement. "Barriers." 

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

𝓓EDICATIONS
aka, the lovely, lovely people who have allowed me to spam our discord server with graphics for this and my GOT fic. Love y'all <33

westerlands, seasmokes,  bloodwyrms, weirwitch, persephone, drgonstone, ofoIdstones, veIaryons

𝓦ARNINGS

violence, foul language, canon-typical attitudes towards gender, sexuality, and mental health disorders, brief depiction of self-harm, themes of religious guilt, discussions of sexual assault, sexual themes, and Targaryen typical incest

𝓐UTHOR'S NOTE

Okay, so, I was barely beginning this story when I started writing it originally, so it's probably weird to rewrite it, but I'm doing it. Mainly because writing in first person doesn't really make sense to me now. Also, I want to change some stuff already, and I want a better, more solid plot, not scatter-brained notes. There are definitely going to be some changes for those who've been reading, if it is any inconvenience to you, I apologize, but I also prefer it this way and I hope you'll be able respect that.

Overall, I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it and daydreaming about these two. I really shouldn't be having favorite OCs, but these two are it. I just love them. I literally want to wrap them up in emotional bubble-wrap and give them a warm hug. (probably some physical bubble-wrap for Vaelor as well cause reasons.)

I use a lot of color, flower, animal, gem, etc. symbolism, so if you want, keep that in mind.

I love seeing theories and such in the comments, so if you have a theory about something, feel free to comment it!

Once again, I hope you enjoy the story, and thank you for reading. <3