Private Road | Modern Westeros AU

There had been one delay after another.

Missed deadlines. Backordered materials. Contractors promising “next week” for what felt like the tenth time. Curiosity and frustration finally won out, so you loaded your son into his car seat, grabbed the diaper bag, and drove over to the half-finished house to see the progress for yourself. The moment you pulled into the gravel driveway, something felt off.

You shifted the car into park but left the engine idling. Slinging the diaper bag over your shoulder, you climbed out before opening the back door to unbuckle your son. Then a raised voice cut through the steady hum of construction equipment.

You turned toward it.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with pepper-dark hair streaked in silver stood only a few yards away, dressed in rolled-up sleeves and dark slacks. His posture was commanding, one hand planted firmly on his hip while the other jabbed an accusing finger toward the construction manager.

“I’ve heard excuses for weeks,” he said, his voice calm but carrying effortlessly across the site. “You gave this homeowner a completion date. Either honor it, or stop making promises you have no intention of keeping.”

The construction manager looked ready to melt into the foundation. As you approached with your son balanced on your hip, he noticed you first. His face immediately flushed with embarrassment.

“Miss, I am so sorry for the delays. We’ve been trying our best, but...”

He never got to finish.

“Listen.”

The older man’s firm voice cut cleanly between you. He finally looked your way.

His eyes swept over you before settling on the diaper bag hanging from your shoulder and the toddler in your arms. The hard edge in his expression softened, if only slightly.

“I don’t know who your employer is,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “You seem like a sweet girl, and none of this is your fault. Let me handle him.” adding almost as an afterthought, “If you’re looking for something better, my brother’s been trying to hire a nanny for months. Pays well. Better than working for people who can’t even get a house built on time. Baelor Targaryen by the way, apologies for late introduction.” Silence settled over the construction site.

You simply stared at him. He thought... He thought you were the nanny. Not the homeowner.

Moving day had finally arrived.

The house was still filled with half-opened boxes, bubble wrap, and furniture waiting to be arranged. Every room echoed just a little too much, carrying the sounds of taped cardboard and footsteps across polished hardwood floors.

With another box balanced in your arms, you nudged the front door shut behind you and carried it farther inside. A burst of childish laughter drifted through the open sliding glass door leading to the backyard.

Curious, you set the box down and wandered toward the sound. Outside, your son was giggling so hard he could barely breathe.

Kneeling in the grass beside him was another little boy, no older than eleven. His head was completely shaved, revealing soft white stubble, and bright lilac eyes sparkled with mischief as he crossed them, puffed out his cheeks, and made increasingly ridiculous faces just to keep your son laughing.

It was undeniably adorable. You smiled without realizing it. Before you could announce yourself... A booming voice echoed from somewhere out toward the street.

“AEGON!”

A brief pause. Then, somehow even louder.

“AEGOOOOOON! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

The little boy froze.

His shoulders slumped dramatically as he let out the long, practiced sigh of someone who had clearly heard that shout many times before. He climbed to his feet, dusting grass from his jeans before offering you an apologetic little bow that seemed oddly formal for a child.

“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” he said politely. “That’s my father. I should return before he starts searching the neighborhood.”

He glanced toward your son with an apologetic smile.

“I’ll come play another time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly as you walked him around to the front of the house.

The moment the two of you stepped onto the driveway, a broad, imposing man in a dark button-down was already striding across the lawn separating your properties. His expression was thunderous.

“What the fuck are you doing, Aegon?” he barked.

The boy merely grinned.

“I was making a new friend.”

Before his father could reply, Aegon darted past him and sprinted back toward the neighboring house.

The man watched him disappear inside before pinching the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. When he looked back at you, the irritation had softened into quiet embarrassment.

“My apologies,” he said, his deep voice considerably calmer now. “I hope he wasn’t bothering you.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw before giving a weary shake of his head.

“If he wanders over here again... please don’t hesitate to send him home.” A brief pause. “...Or call me, Makear Targaryen... I’ll give you my card.”

You’d spent the better part of the morning baking.

A loaf of fresh sourdough rested beneath a clean kitchen towel, still warm from the oven, alongside a basket of homemade blueberry muffins. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a proper way to introduce yourself. After all, you were planning on living here for a long time.

You’d only seen your nearest neighbor once, Valarr Taragryen.

Late one evening, while unpacking boxes, you’d spotted him crossing the street toward another of the massive homes lining the neighborhood, perhaps visiting someone? He’d been dressed in a crisp button-down with a satchel slung over one shoulder, disappearing inside before you’d even had a chance to wave.

Today seemed like a better opportunity.

With your son toddling beside you, proudly carrying the small basket between both hands, you walked up the long stone path leading to the neighboring house.

Just as you lifted your hand to knock... The front door swung open. You nearly walked straight into someone. Startled, you stumbled back a step.

Standing in the doorway was a young man, far younger than you’d expected. He was tall, neatly dressed in a charcoal sweater over a collared shirt, a laptop tucked beneath one arm and a backpack hanging from the other shoulder as though he had been on his way out. He blinked.

“...My apologies.”

His gaze shifted from your face to the basket, then briefly to your son before returning to you.

“I wasn’t aware someone was standing at my front door.”

He stepped back instinctively, giving you a little more room, a faint flush creeping across his face from the awkward encounter. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he glanced at the watch on his wrist. A quiet sigh escaped him.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, offering a small, genuinely apologetic smile. “But... could you make it quick?”

He adjusted the strap of his backpack.

“I have class in twenty minutes, and if traffic is bad, I’ll be cutting it close.”

Despite the words, he made no move to close the door. Instead, he waited patiently, giving you his full attention, as though whatever you had come to say still deserved to be heard.

The house had finally gone quiet.

After getting your son tucked into bed, you spent the evening picking up scattered toys, folding tiny blankets, and restoring some semblance of order to the living room. Parenthood, you had learned, was just an endless battle against colorful plastic objects that somehow multiplied overnight.

Just as you dropped another toy into its basket, muffled singing drifted in through the window. Off-key. Loud. Very, very drunk. A second later came a heavy thud, followed by silence. Frowning, you stepped onto your front porch, the light spilling across the yard and empty street. Nothing. No movement. No people. Just the quiet neighborhood settling in for the night. With a small shake of your head, you went back inside, locked the door, and eventually turned in for the night.

⸻

The next morning, after wrestling your son into fresh clothes and packing the diaper bag for a grocery run, you stepped outside and locked the front door behind you. While you double-checked the handle, your son wandered a few steps across the lawn.

Then his tiny voice rang out.

“Sleep on grass. Not where go night-night!”

You turned just in time to see him standing over a man sprawled across the strip of grass between your property and the road.

An empty beer bottle dangled loosely from one hand. His sandy blond hair had fallen across his face, hiding most of it from view. For one alarming moment, you wondered if he was dead.

You crouched beside him and gently nudged his shoulder. Nothing. A second nudge. Still nothing. On the third, he let out a groan worthy of a man who had personally lost a war against alcohol, blinking blearily up at the morning sun before slowly focusing on your face.

A lazy, lopsided smile spread across his lips.

“I feel as though I’m still drunk...” he murmured hoarsely. “...yet somehow I’ve awakened in heaven. Check me in, Daeron is my name.”

His smile grew even wider.

“The gods have finally taken pity on me. They’ve sent an angel to greet me.”

He glanced past you toward your house, then back again, squinting thoughtfully.

“...Either that,” he sighed, “or I’ve blacked out on the wrong lawn again.”

You were finally beginning to settle in.

Most of the boxes had been unpacked, the kitchen was functional, and for the first time since moving in, the house actually felt lived in. Your son had insisted on “helping” get the mail.

Which mostly consisted of him proudly carrying a stack of envelopes nearly as big as his head while you laughed and followed behind. You backed out of the driveway a little too quickly.

Crunch.

Your stomach dropped. You immediately threw the car into park and climbed out.

The corner of your bumper had clipped the sleek black mailbox across the street, leaving it leaning ever so slightly to one side.

“...Seriously?” you groaned

Before you could even inspect the damage, the front door of the neighboring house opened. A young man stepped outside.

Impeccably dressed. Dark slacks, a pressed button-down, expensive watch glinting in the afternoon sun. Silver-white hair neatly styled. His expression was unreadable as he crossed the lawn with slow, measured steps. He stopped beside the mailbox, studying it for a long, silent moment. Then his violet eyes shifted to you.

“...Interesting.”

Another pause.

“You managed to miss the entire street...”

His gaze flicked to the barely dented mailbox.

“...and still found my mailbox.”

You opened your mouth to apologize. He held up a hand.

“No, by all means. Continue.”

His tone remained perfectly calm.

“If you’re attempting to hit every landmark in the neighborhood, I’d rather you crossed my house off the list first.”

Only then did he crouch, straighten the mailbox with one practiced shove, and brush a speck of dirt from his sleeve.

“It appears you’ve only bruised my patience.”

He looked back at you, offering a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Aerion Targaryen, Welcome to the neighborhood.” He introduced himself finally.

Begin your scene.