Chapter Text
For nearly two years, Serena Baratheon had lived within the velvet confines of a perfect marriage.
Her husband, Daeron Targaryen, was a corporate lawyer and a director at one of New Valyria’s most prestigious law firms. When he first whisked her away from the stormy coastal winds of Stormtown to the gleaming high-rises of New Valyria, her father had practically celebrated. He was certain his youngest daughter was destined for a life woven with luxury and effortless happiness.
Well, her father’s assumption was correct, though. Serena’s life in the city were painted in shades of perfection. But beneath the polished surface, a quiet ache had taken root.
She was the youngest of her siblings, forever lingering in their shadows, and every single one of them had already welcomed children of their own. Daeron never pressed the issue of her empty womb, but the creeping silence of their sprawling home fed her insecurities. Deep down, a fear festered that she was somehow barren.
“Where did those thoughts come from, hm?” Daeron murmured, his voice a low vibration against her ear.
They lay tangled in the center of their bed, bathed in the aftermath of their intimacy. The air in the room was thick and fragrant, their limbs still slick with a sheen of sweet sweat. Daeron’s broad, warm chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm beneath her cheek, his skin a grounding anchor in the dim light.
“I’m just worried there might be something wrong with me,” Serena whispered, pulling his frame closer. “It’s been nearly two years. And I still haven’t conceived.”
He hummed, a soothing sound, and began to lazily thread his fingers through the damp lengths of her hair. “Don’t torture yourself over it, my dearest. The timing simply hasn’t aligned for us yet.”
“Doesn’t your family care about it? Don’t they wonder why there’s no child yet?”
“Hardly,” Daeron chuckled, the sound vibrating against her bare skin. “They see my caseload and simply assume I am far too exhausted to take you to bed. They think we’re practically celibate.”
Serena let out a soft, incredulous snort.
The idea that they rarely had sex was a breathless lie. She could scarcely track the countless times he had thoroughly claimed her. During the weeks her cycle allowed, or whenever the weight of his work drove him to seek release, his appetite for her was absolute. Their encounters were scorching and all-consuming, a friction that pushed pleasure right to the dizzying edge of pain. Mornings after, she would wake with her muscles trembling, a delicious ache nestled deep between her thighs—a physical brand of his lust.
Given the sheer intensity of their nights, wasn’t it baffling that her womb remained empty?
“Why do you look like that, darling?” Daeron teased. His fingers drifted down to cup her jaw, his touch firm and possessive as he tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “Did I say something wrong?”
“It seems your little theory needs a bit of tweaking, my love,” Serena purred, a spark of wicked defiance overtaking her melancholy.
She shifted smoothly, rolling over to straddle his hips, entirely unapologetic in her bareness. The cool air brushed against her exposed breasts, but where her bare thighs firmly bracketed his, the heat was undeniable and electric. She leaned down, letting the silken curtain of her hair fall around them, trapping them in a heated sphere.
Hovering just a breath away from his lips, she whispered, “Care to explain why we supposedly do this so rarely, when you look so starved—ready to devour me inside and out—every single time you watch my body move?”
Daeron let out a rough hum. His hand shot up, his fingers sinking into the hair at the nape of her neck to hold her in place. “You’re a wicked witch, Serena,” he rasped against her slightly parted lips.
As she deliberately ground her damp, sensitized core against the half-aroused length of him, a harsh groan tore from his throat.
His grip on her neck tightened. “Careful, wife. You might not get a single second of sleep tonight, just so you can see what you’ve unleashed.”
Before she could utter a challenge, his restraint snapped. He yanked her face down, crashing his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss that tasted of dark promises. The gentle comfort of their previous afterglow was instantly incinerated, replaced by a clawing need.
He flipped her effortlessly onto her back, his body a glorious weight pressing her deep into the mattress. As the bedroom clock ticked relentlessly toward the midnight hour, he mapped every inch of her skin with teeth and tongue, plunging them back into a chaotic rhythm of lovemaking that left them both ruined and desperate for more.
Their midnight fervor was not in vain.
Two weeks later, stepping fresh from the shower, Serena paused by the calendar on her desk.
And a sudden realization struck her, stopping her cold: it had been almost five weeks since the first day of her last cycle.
A little hope ballooned in her chest. Towel still wrapped haphazardly around her dripping hair, she rushed to her walk-in wardrobe, digging through the drawer where she hid her sanitary products to retrieve a pregnancy test.
The minutes spent pacing the bathroom tiles felt like an eternity. But when the digital display finally shifted to a positive, a tearful cry of pure euphoria tore from her throat.
A few hours later, the sterile scent of the local maternity clinic was overpowered by her soaring joy.
“Well, Ms. Serena, if you look right here at the ultrasound,” Dr. Smith explained, tapping a pen gently against the monitor. “There is a distinct black circle. That is the gestational sac. Congratulations are certainly in order—you are approximately four to five weeks pregnant. We will need you back in a fortnight to confirm the fetal heartbeat.”
“But that...” Serena stammered, her eyes brimming with happy tears, transfixed by the blurry gray screen. “I really am... there’s really a baby?”
“Without a doubt,” Dr. Smith smiled warmly, handing her a wad of paper towels to clean the cold gel from her stomach. “I will prescribe a regimen of prenatal vitamins. The first trimester is quite delicate, so you must take exceptional care of yourself.”
“I will. Thank you, Doctor.”
The drive back to the estate was a blur of golden sunlight and excitement. She parked her car in the garage, immediately fishing her phone from her designer handbag.
To: Daeron
Can you come home early tonight? I’ve got some wonderful news for you.
She stared at the screen, watching the seconds tick by. No immediate reply. He was likely buried beneath a mountain of legal briefs.
Shrugging off the mild disappointment, Serena slipped the phone back into her bag and turned toward the interior door.
That was when she saw it.
A narrow gap had appeared in the side of the garage wall—a section usually concealed by Daeron’s sleek black car.
Serena frowned, the heel of her shoes clicking against the concrete as she approached. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Why is the paneling open?” she murmured.
Driven by her curiosity, she pressed her palm against the exposed edge of the wall. To her shock, the panel glided backward, revealing a descending flight of concrete stairs plunging into pitch blackness.
“Is there a basement down there?” she whispered, a chill ghosting over her skin. “How have I lived here for two years and never knew this existed?”
She stepped over the threshold, her descent slow. With every step away from the sunlit garage, the temperature plummeted, the air growing thick and stale. At the bottom of the stairs loomed a closed door.
A crawling unease prickled the fine hairs on the back of her neck, but she forced herself to lift the iron latch. It gave way with a grinding groan, swinging open into a damp darkness.
Blindly, she swiped her hand along the rough stone wall until her fingers grazed a switch. She flicked it upward.
Click.
A neon tube flickered above, bathing the room in a sickly orange glow. The sudden light revealed a space that felt... unholy. It looked like the frantic nerve center of a madman. Looming metal shelves groaned under the weight of meticulously stacked files and ledgers. Dominating the far wall was a corkboard, plastered with photographs, newspaper clippings, and red string connecting faces she did not recognize.
In the center of the room sat a minimalist desk, bearing nothing but an open laptop.
Serena’s breath caught in her throat. She crept closer to the desk. She reached out with a trembling finger and pressed the spacebar.
The screen flared to life, unlocked, diving into a high-definition video file.
The footage showed a man with a military buzzcut and filthy clothing. He was bound to a steel chair.
“Hey, bastard! You swore you’d let me go if I talked!” the man on the screen shrieked, talking with someone standing just out of the camera’s frame. “I was just a pawn! I did what I was told! You know Gwayne Hightower slaughtered them all. I know who brokered the deal! I can serve him to you. If he thinks you’re hunting him, he’ll show up! I swear!”
Serena’s brow furrowed, her hands gripping the edge of the desk.
“Why would Gwayne Hightower be hunting me?”
She froze.
The voice that emanated from the laptop’s speakers was calm. Chillingly familiar.
“Why do you think so?!” the man retorted, thrashing against his restraints. “You took his bloody eye! He’s never going to stop coming for you! I can help you kill him, okay? Just cut me loose. Please!”
A figure stepped into the frame, but only from behind the bound man, their face hidden from the lens. A hand, clad in supple, black leather, shot forward. The gloved fingers tangled in the hostage’s hair, yanking his head back to expose the column of his throat. On the attacker’s other hand, a knife caught the harsh glare of the camera light.
“No! No, Gods, please! I’m sorry! I’ll find him!”
Serena stopped breathing.
On screen, the gloved hand moved mercilessly. The blade sank deep into the man’s throat and violently tore sideways.
A wet ripping noise echoed from the speakers, followed by a catastrophic eruption of crimson. Blood sprayed in a sweeping arc, painting the floor in a sickly red. The victim’s screams deteriorated into a grotesque gurgling as he convulsed, choking on his own blood, desperately gasping for air.
Serena violently recoiled, clapping both hands over her mouth to muffle her own scream, her stomach heaving at the unadulterated butchery.
The attacker stood still, watching the man bleed out in the chair. With a sickeningly casual motion, the killer raised his gloved hand and slowly wiped the dripping red blade clean against the dead man’s shirt.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the knife,” the voice mused, completely devoid of empathy. “He died too quickly.”
Serena’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew that voice. She knew that quiet sigh.
It can’t be…
Then, the killer leaned forward, bending into the camera’s view to inspect the dead man.
The harsh lighting illuminated a flawlessly sculpted face. He possessed bright blue eyes that were completely dead and expressionless. His sandy-blonde hair remained impeccably styled, unbothered by the slaughter he had just committed.
Serena’s knees buckled. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks, blurring the horrific image on the screen. A cold terror crashed over her in crushing waves.
“...Daeron?”