⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

“I did not break anything, did I?” She grinned as he clasped her hand tightly and she hauled Matarys to his feet. He gave a soft grunt as he returned to an upright position, before pulling his dark helm off as well.

“My tailbone shall certainly be bruised,” He lamented in mournful response, wincing as he twisted his body to gaze at his back. His dark cloak was covered in ashen earth, and he brushed it from himself with a shake of his head. “Yet not more than my pride.”

“Well,” The lady’s tone of voice had taken on a gentler quality as she gazed at the genuinely forlorn expression upon the prince’s face. She clapped his shoulder firmly, her glove pressing against the cold metal of his armor. The days had grown so cold that she could nearly feel it through the thickness of the leather. The sky was grey and overcast, yet the icy rain threatening to fall had not done so that day. “It is fortunate that pride can be repaired far quicker than bones.”

It had been a clean fall, with the prince having been set off balance by the angle at which she had driven her lance into his shield. His riderless horse, which had continued dutifully down the list even in his absence, had been collected by one of the knights observing their practice, and the lady had reserved her smile until she had seen Matarys sit up before he had woefully collapsed back into the dust with his arms and legs spread wide.

Ser Robert Connington, the Master-at-arms at the Red Keep, had already begun to approach the pair with a shaking of his head and a valiant attempt to chase an amused smile from his face. Jon Florent and Gulian Martell, trailing behind and additionally under the knight’s instruction, did not offer the prince the same gracious courtesy.

“Gods, the way you flailed,” Jon was halfway to choking upon his laughter, wiping away a single tear that had formed at the edge of his eyes. “You looked like a baby bird falling from a nest.”

Matarys’ cheeks blushed as red as the auburn of his fiery hair as he cast his gaze down to his boots. While Valarr was a miniature painting of their father, the younger prince had taken after their mother in every visible way. He had assumed her entire coloring, the slight upturn of her delicate nose, the crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she smiled. It was endearing, how the two princes seemed to be two even halves of their parents.

“I did not.” The protest was given half-heartedly, and greeted with a wide smile from Gulian, who had swung his arm over the prince’s shoulders affectionately. He ruffled Matarys’ hair, his playful grin bright as he shook his head.

“A noble baby bird,” Gulian offered, his brow furrowing in lazy pondering. The Lady Baratheon had to bite her lip to prevent another laugh from slipping out at the ridiculous expression. His eyes glittered with amusement as he caught her nobly trying to appear composed. “Perhaps an eagle, or a falcon.”

She had to cough into her shoulder at the finishing of the thought, not wishing to laugh at the dejected prince after having already done so. It set Jon off again in another round of boyish guffawing, his hands falling to his knees as he doubled over and wheezed.

“Enough of that,” Ser Robert waved off the teasing with a firm shake of his head. The knight was a burly man, tall and imposing with a thick red beard and a head full of curly hair in a matching shade. “Dust yourself off, Prince Matarys. You need to adjust your shield faster or she shall unhorse you until the sun falls.”

Matarys straightened at once, his hand immediately reaching to wipe some of the dirt off of his armor. Giving him a sympathetic look, Gulian removed the arm he’d thrown good-naturedly around the prince and attempted to provide assistance, brushing away some of the dirt that had gotten into the crevices of his shoulder plating. Jon and Lady Baratheon exchanged a brief, knowing wince – their Master-at-arms was an even-tempered man, yet consistently strict and ruthless in his evaluation of their form, and Matarys seemed to find himself at the receiving end of blunt analysis the most. Yet no sooner had the glance been exchanged than the knight’s critical eye had landed upon the lady in narrow scrutiny.

“Do not think you are absolved of faults,” He cautioned, a twinkle of amusement in his eye as it was her turn to stiffen and lower her shoulders. “You weren’t quick enough when grabbing your second lance. One second of slowness can be the deciding factor between victory and defeat.”

Lady Baratheon dipped her chin in acknowledgement, letting her eyes linger upon the ground for a moment as she recalled the instance she had paused to shift her posture upon her horse because she had worried that she was sliding too far forward. She nodded swiftly then, resolving to remedy the issue during the next pass. “Yes, ser.”

Satisfied with the thoughtful gazes that had appeared upon his pupils’ faces, Ser Robert turned to the squires hovering near the sides of the lists and shouted for them to prepare for another session to begin. As the older knight set a determined course to inspect the lances that were being brought over to the lists, his voice growing more distant as it was replied to by a young and nervous squire, Matarys delivered another immense sigh and all but deflated.

“If I cannot best a lady, I shall never hope to find success in a tourney,” The prince’s wistful melancholy was met with an understanding grimace from Jon, who, despite his earlier laughter, patted the young man encouragingly upon the back. He too had been unhorsed by Lady Baratheon earlier that week and had expressed similar sentiments. Matarys’ eyes jumped up to meet hers then in apologetic haste. “No offense meant, sister.”

The lady bestowed upon him a genuine smile, shaking her head amiably. She shifted her weight, rolling her golden helm so it was tucked underneath her arm and resting atop her hip. “None taken.”

“A lady is a gentle description for your brother’s wife. I am not sure it holds the usual meaning in this instance,” Gulian reassured Matarys. And then, echoing the prince’s afterthought, spun to face her with a wince. “I mean no offense, Lady Baratheon.”

Her pleased, amused grin split her face open wide and she snorted lightly, her gaze askance. “None taken at all.”

One tradition that steadied Lady Baratheon during the prompt upheaval of her known world was the keeping of her family’s name. As with all of the women before her who had married into the royal House Targaryen, she had not been required to adopt her husband’s surname and become the Lady Targaryen. She had long dreaded it, the relinquishment of the defining word intertwined with her identity so irreversibly. Had she married into any other noble House, it would have been ripped from her brutally, hastily patched up with a name that meant nothing to her at all.

The retention had allowed her a needed stability that could be clung to with a tightened fist as visible surroundings and others’ perceptions of her changed with the coming of a new dawn and the approaching of a vast horizon before her. When Ashford had disappeared into the shimmering mist of a dewy morning, she had turned to gaze upon it one final time. She had arrived as the Lady Baratheon and she would leave it as such, despite her marriage and the altering of the place she would come to call home. Atop her chestnut horse, an unreadable expression upon her face, the lady had squinted into the distance until Valarr had called her name in soft inquiry, spurring her to rejoin the traveling party at once.

The three moons that passed were a whirlwind of all things new and novel. Valarr was named Hand of the King swiftly upon his return to King’s Landing, before the lady’s trunks had departed the stormlands in a caravan of covered wagons that would bumble down the dusty roads to journey to her new residence. This had caused no great stir; Baelor had held the position in order to prepare him to rule through responsibility and means most practical. Its passing to his eldest son was smooth in transfer and accepted at once. Her presence at Valarr’s side as his wife was markedly less so.

It was not as if any indication of discontent was spoken aloud within her presence, nor did the immediate issue lie within her personality or interests as she had feared. The disapproval was soundless and it gazed right through her as if she were transparent. As if her outline could have been filled by any other body and it still would have been vexing all the same. The lady came to learn that her rushed betrothal and consequent wedding had interrupted carefully laid schemes to betroth Valarr to a woman of the noble houses of Tyrosh. It was far more than a polite proposal of alliance – it was the insurance of aid in the instance of another Blackfyre rebellion, of determined trade agreements that would strengthen the Realm and weaken the exiled rebels. Whilst King Daeron II had greeted her graciously, she could tell at once from his reserved welcoming and tight smile that her presence was an unwanted disturbance and had caused additional strife for a man already mourning the death of his beloved son and heir. The emphasized awkwardness of it had encouraged her to avoid the King and Queen as often as could be managed. As they did not summon her, it was ultimately not a difficult task.

With Valarr’s new position occupying such a considerable portion of his day, he had swiftly and decisively arranged for her to join his brother Matarys during training and lessons. It had been planned without her asking within the first week of their arrival and had rendered her absolutely speechless when the information was given to her. Her husband had apologized profusely for his overflowing schedule and scarce time to spend enjoying the early days of their marriage leisurely. Yet when he had organized proper training for her with such haste, Lady Baratheon had thrown her arms around him tight and not released him from their bed until the sun had risen high into the grey sky and heavy knocks upon the oak door demanded the prince’s presence elsewhere.

“Sister, shall we go again?” Matarys’ bright, hopeful inquiry interrupted her thoughts, and she tilted her head at the prince with a teasing smile upon her face. Although her husband’s younger brother had yet to emerge victorious in one of their contests, and certainly lamented the fact following the immediate occurrence, the young man was always quick to rally his spirit and propose another attempt. “I am certain I can win this bout.”

“Certain, are you?” Her eyes sparkled with the excitement of another challenge. No matter how many she was allowed to partake in, the rush of it never dimmed nor diminished. The prince straightened up at the provocative reply, nodding in determined resolution as he turned to peer over at the edge of the lists to see if the horses were ready for another round.

When she cast her attention absentmindedly to the balcony overlooking the training grounds as Gulian and Jon began debating how quickly she might defeat Matarys that time, a softer smile came to her face before she waved her arm. Mismatched eyes glimmered with delight as they caught sight of her noticing the way he had been observing the yard.

“Val!” The lady called, beaming up at her husband. The prince had already begun to descend the staircase to the lists below, a composed and neutral look upon his visage as he crossed the dirt between them to arrive before the gathered group. As he took her hand and pulled it to his lips, both of the young lords were quick to offer deep bows and soft murmured greetings of expected propriety. In stark contrast, the Lady Baratheon simply gave a breath of sardonic amusement as Valarr’s eyes jumped up to observe the expression upon her face as he kissed the armored glove upon her hand. She tugged it from him then, but not before she poked his brow with her forefinger. He grinned back.

“Lord Florent, Prince Gulian,” Valarr greeted affably, trading the teasing smile for a more composed expression and inclining his head as the young men regarded him with almost shy deference. While they were comfortable and carefree around Matarys, there was a certain pressure involved in speaking to the immediate heir to the throne that the lady had not been able to convince them to ignore. A pressure that certainly did not extend to herself, as was aptly demonstrated by their willingness to spar with her regularly. It was a strange reversal of roles for the lady, who had been on the opposing end of this difference for most of her life. “I was hoping I might borrow my wife for a moment while I take my lunch.”

Before the Lady Baratheon parted her lips to offer any response, Matarys’ own pursed and then lowered into a small frown.

“It must wait until we finish this next tilt,” The younger prince informed Valarr stubbornly, turning to his elder brother. Valarr’s neutral expression was promptly swapped for a drier one. “We were just about to go once more.”

“Matarys, you are occupying nearly all of her afternoons as it stands.”  The frustration that her husband retained over his lack of time to spend with her had been given voice to on many an occasion. It was a sore subject for the prince, and his brother’s arguing did not assuage the annoyance – judging from the sullen scowl that had flashed briefly across his countenance, it appeared to worsen it. Yet similar, more blatant petulance appeared at once upon Matarys’ face. The similarities between the brothers’ mannerisms amused the lady greatly.

“You have duties to attend to.” The reasoning was provided with a swift raising of Matarys’ chin.

“I do not at this moment.” Valarr’s reply was equally as swift and twice as willful. Gulian and Jon exchanged a glance of thinly concealed amusement behind the princes’ backs. Nothing humanized one quite so much as a petty squabble with a persistent sibling.

Matarys gave a dramatic sigh, his eyes shooting down to glower into the dirt as he poked at it with the toe of his boot. His voice dropped as well, shifting to a soft murmur underneath his breath. “Surely you might find some.”

“Brother.” Valarr huffed a matching breath, fixing Matarys with a meaningful stare.

“I shall not be long,” The lady interrupted, not wishing to cause any further bickering and consciously aware of how short Valarr’s breaks were during the daytime hours. When the younger prince’s eyes leapt up to her in disbelief, she reached out to pat his shoulder once more. “I promise. And then you shall have your vengeance.”

He relented at this, sighing again and then glancing at Jon with a quiet resignation. “I suppose we shall have a contest then.”

As Valarr offered his arm to her and she took it with a soft rolling of her eyes, she could hear Gulian’s laugh and Jon’s response of faux offense at being an apparent second choice for a jousting partner behind her back.

“I look ridiculous walking with you like this.” The lady told the prince pointedly as they headed into the castle. Dressed entirely in jousting armor, walking with her arm looped in Valarr’s as she would whilst wearing her finer gowns made her feel quite awkward and strange. The dissonance between what behavior was expected of her within the castle walls and what was allowed within the yard and the freedom of their chambers left her head spinning on occasion.

“No,” He denied, his eyes flicking to her figure as his gaze lingered upon her for far longer than necessary. Shaking his head, repressed desire fluttered across his face before he squinted his eyes and attempted to wave it off by casting his eyes to the massive Targaryen banners that hung from the walls upon either side of the doorway they passed beneath. “No, you look absolutely magnificent.”

“You,” Her smile was ironic but not displeased as they passed by a group of ladies heading out towards the gardens. She attempted to ignore the way their eyes lingered upon her garments, and the turning of her stomach regardless of how sincerely training pleased her. Her grip on Valarr’s arm tightened slightly. “Are so wonderfully biased that your testimony would not hold any meaning in gathered court.”

Her husband gave a soft breath of laughter at this, ignorant as to the reason she had leaned towards him further. “And what would you be on trial for in this scenario?”

“Something violent, I imagine.” Lady Baratheon mused as they continued down the corridor and the lady banished concerns over her relations to the other women at court from her mind. Valarr opened his mouth to disagree out of instinctive habit, before his expression adopted a thoughtful quality and he nodded, casting another mirthful glance to her.

“Then I suppose I ought to work on the convincing nature of my statement.” He offered as she found herself smiling in spite of herself, his willing entertainment of her nonsensical situation easing the trouble stirring in her chest. She shook her head, adjusting her helmet beneath her arm.

“That hardly makes you the impartial voice you are meant to be.” She scolded, her voice absent of any true protest as she raised her eyebrows at him. Valarr shrugged innocently.

“Every man should be partial to his wife.” His defense was shameless and made her laugh again, a loud brightness that echoed into the hall as his visage melted into sweet adoration. The sideways glances cast by pages and maids hustling by did not go noticed. She tilted her head back with a radiant smile, before resting it atop her shoulder and leaning over it to stare pointedly at him with pleased satisfaction.

“I shall be glad for that then, in my time of great need.” As they approached their chambers, the knight standing guard over the empty rooms was punctual and prompt in his immediate opening of the doors, informing Valarr that lunch was arranged inside. Their rooms were vast and expansive, far larger than her own at Storm’s End. Decorated with ornate furniture imported from the finest carpenters in the Realm and furnished with elaborate, vibrant rugs from weavers in the Summer Isles, the rooms had taken her breath away when she had first laid eyes upon them. Lady Baratheon had private quarters readied for her, separate from their main room, yet there had not been a single night spent apart from Valarr since their arrival at King’s Landing. She held no desire in her heart to be anywhere but by his side, especially given his schedule that burst at the seams with appointments and engagements and gatherings.

As the doors closed behind them, she began to undo the strapping of her breastplate. There was hardly time to change, yet she did not wish to take lunch in her armor. When her fingers plucked at the leather keeping it attached to her body, Valarr smoothly reached forth and unclasped the fastening. His hands ghosted across her neck as they moved to undo the parallel one and her eyes closed, her head tilting back lightly as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hair.

“Val.” It was a cautionary warning, a low reminder of the lack of time they had together before he was to return to his duties as the Hand. He only hummed in soft reply as he pulled the strap and then lifted the breastplate from her, setting it down upon the floor as she turned to look at him. Her eyes were that of a large mountain cat that had settled upon a hare, pupils wide and intense as Valarr took her helm from her hands and placed it upon the rug beside the armor. His own settled hungrily upon her lips, but she withdrew out of his reach as his hand outstretched towards her arm.

“You must eat,” She ignored the exasperated look upon her husband’s face as she wandered over to the table while taking off her gloves and the guards upon her forearms and placing them down beside the foot of it. Lady Baratheon slumped down into a plush chair with a sigh. “Lest you forget for an entire week again.”

Whilst attempting to settle into a daily routine, there had been a series of days where Valarr’s meal breaks had been used to satisfy another of his needs and had resulted in a decidedly poor lack of nutrition that had left him exhausted. A rule had been agreed upon that no such activities were to occur during the day, if only to ensure that all meals were observed properly. Valarr’s shoulders dropped with a disappointed slouching, but he followed her to the table and sat across her with a nod of doleful acceptance.

“As you say.” The prince lamented, reaching forth to take a silver spoonful of a soft cheese and scooping it onto a piece of flaky, salted bread. She bit her lip as she smiled, endearment as sweet as the honey she drizzled atop the winter berries settling into her chest and upon her tongue.

“Do not leave me to be the rational one, it does not suit me.” Her nose scrunched as she popped a shining, juicy fruit into her mouth, the saccharine taste of the golden honey balancing the tartness of the berry. And it was true – she was hardly one to deny herself anything she wanted, always indulging, always gluttonous, spoiled rotten in nearly every way. Impatient and greedy and wanting, with her covetous hands always reaching forth.

“You are being rational,” Valarr took a bite of the bread, a drop of cheese landing atop his lips. She longed to stand and lean across the table to remove it with her tongue. “I am imagining you upon this table instead of my lunch. You are much sweeter, anyways.”

This only sparked a deeper wanting, the warmth in her stomach dropping lower as she had to take a slow breath to prevent herself from gracing Valarr with exactly what he had described in his illusion. Lady Baratheon plucked another berry from the silver tray, before tossing it across the table at him languidly. He reached up to catch it with graceful fluidity, slowly drawing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to it before it slipped past them and into his mouth. It earned him another theatrical eyeroll, provided to mask the desire she knew was written plainly all over her face.

“Because it displeases me to see you tired,” Lady Baratheon reminded him with much effort, picturing the time she had poked her head into the small council chamber and caught sight of Valarr, head resting atop one hand, eyes fluttering as he utilized all of his strength to fight off a much-needed nap. “Especially when I am the cause for it.”

The beast of her fury no longer required chaining nor caging; it purred at his touch, rubbed against his legs, ate from his hand and minded its teeth. When it grew agitated and restless, he set it loose in the Kingswood to hunt and it would drop a boar at his feet. His belonging to her had given the creature a task of protection and guardianship, and it took its duty with resolute sincerity.

 She had known from the very instant that she had first harbored concern over his wellbeing that he had brought about an irreversible shift in her, and found it only strengthened the longer she spent in his presence. He did not enact this change intentionally, nor would he ask it of her, she knew this as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat and the thrum of blood pulsing beneath her wrist. Yet it had happened all the same. And he sensed its importance as well, evident in the way his eyes softened as he gazed across the table at her with unabashed adoration.

“Well,” He contemplated, reaching forth for the goblet of wine nearest to him. Valarr raised it to his lips with a solemn shaking of his head. “If I must behave myself, I would like to take this time to complain about how my dear, sweet brother has come to favor you over me despite the advantages of shared blood and time that I believed myself to hold.”

The lady bestowed a faintly ridiculous look upon him as she reached across the table to select a hearty piece of sliced meat for her plate. It was still warm, freshly glazed with a thick syrup.

“That could hardly be true,” To Lady Baratheon’s relief, Matarys had taken to her at once upon her arrival to the castle. Lost after the unexpected death of his father and suddenly finding himself lonelier given Valarr’s frequent absences after his appointment, the younger prince had been glad to have someone to train with him in the yard and study with him during the days when the frigid rain poured from the sky. “It is only that I spend much time with him as of late.”

Valarr’s mother, the Lady Jena Dondarrion, had additionally been incredibly kind in her receival of the lady, yet the woman was mourning her husband with such immense grief that she did not wish to be a bother. Lady Jena had summoned her for tea on quite a few occasions since she had arrived, welcoming her warmly into her chambers and inquiring politely about all manner of information regarding the Lady Baratheon and her family. The sadness that lingered about the older woman’s gaze never dispersed, despite the tender, genuine smiles that she gave when the lady spoke of her own mother and siblings and tales from Storm’s End. The lady was still unsure if her presence made the enduring of such a loss easier or more difficult – but when Lady Jena, eyes welling with tears, had grasped her hands within her own and expressed how sincerely happy she was for both of them, she had been upon the verge of crying herself.

The prince sighed, sinking down further into his chair as he stared down at his plate. Noticing his stillness, the lady picked up the piece of meat she had selected and reached forth to drop it upon his plate instead. When his eyes darted up to hers, she pointed at the food with her fork meaningfully before selecting another one for herself.

“I hardly see him these days.” Valarr murmured pensively, gazing down at the meat for another moment before raising his knife and fork to begin cutting into it.

“You are doing important work.” The lady sliced into her own piece with a raise of her brows, lifting a cubed portion to her mouth and chewing. The savory, rich flavor paired with the sugary glaze so wonderfully that her eyes lit up and she began eagerly cutting another piece before she had even finished the first. While the cooks in Storm’s End had never made anything that fell short of delicious, the food prepared in the Red Keep had reached a quality of flavor that astounded her even after moons had passed.

“Am I?” At the darkening of his tone, her eyes jumped up in surprise, mouth still full. She blinked at him, still, before swallowing and setting her cutlery down beside her plate. A shadow had crossed over his fair countenance, a thundering splash of dark ink over the splendid variation of his watercolor eyes.

He exhaled a deep breath, before pressing a hand to his temple and rubbing it in frustration. “Just this morning, I listened to Lord Penrose prattle on about possibly importing sapphires from the Summer Isles for his daughters. What one chest of sapphires might do for the Realm, I cannot say. Yet I heard about it for the better part of three hours.”

Lady Baratheon had, once, experienced the unique pleasure of standing upon the receiving end of Lord Ronnel Penrose’s ramblings over a topic that was of little consequence. The man had spoken of ivy overgrowth for such a long time that she had begun to count the number of grains within the wooden floorboards beneath her gown to make it more bearable. She had gone to great lengths to avoid such a conversation from occurring again, no matter how good-natured the lord was. A wince crossed her face.

“That is…rather unfortunate, yes.” The words were pained as they fell from her lips, her gaze wandering down to the tablecloth, staring at the silvery thread embroidered onto its edges. Valarr stared down discouraged silence as the crisp breeze skimming in from atop the dark waters of the bay rustled the sheer curtains near the balcony.

“I do not believe my father wasted his time with such nonsense,” He muttered, bitter aching evident in each syllable that he spoke. “But it is all I seem to do. Inconsequential matters that have no true meaning.”

The lady’s expression shifted into something with resonant understanding, the tiny fists of a small helplessness tugging at the thin strings of her heart as she watched him wrestle with an agony that was unimaginable. The days differed and as did his mourning – there were mornings when he would wake with a smile and kiss her face softly, and mornings when she would find him staring out of the window, clutching onto a small wooden dragon that Baelor had whittled for him during his childhood. She could listen patiently to his verbalized anguish and hold him tightly when he cried, but she could not take the grief from him, nor could she temporarily bear the burden of it to provide him with respite.

“You have only just begun as Hand,” Her voice had lowered to match his, eyes cautious and observant as they watched him. “It shall take some time to adjust to.”

“I do not have time,” The response was so sudden that she could determine at once that he had been dwelling upon the matter at length for much of the day. His expression contorted with pain before he ran a hand over his face to banish it, letting his arm drop to the table beside his plate. “I must – I must be able to do this correctly, or how can I possibly hope to be king?”

Her eyes dropped again, electing for the more arduous journey down to the ornamental rug beneath the table that time. Silence had descended again, fraught with tension and Valarr’s acute hurting as the lady found herself longing for her mother’s lovely comforting or her father’s stern wisdom. She often settled for polite, reserved expressions of her remorse, or for physical acts of comfort that came more naturally to her, as she had found. Closing her eyes briefly, she grit her teeth before allowing the words within her mind to spill freely.

“I imagine even your father did not wake up one morning and suddenly find himself knowledgeable on … on the distribution of royal funds or the management of land disputes or the most ideal trade agreements with other nations,” Lady Baratheon stumbled over the examples, pulling them from thin air as she waved her hand dismissively to indicate the specifics did not matter much. As Valarr looked up to her face, startled, she cast her gaze a painting upon the wall and continued in a rush. “But the impossible expectation you are placing upon yourself shall destroy the process entirely if you view it as such. You cannot magically possess skill and knowledge and wisdom without allowing for the days necessary for their creation.”

Tilting her head and grimacing, she placed her hands in her lap and pressed them together tightly. “Although I am hardly one to be preaching of patience, as we both know well.”

Wishing desperately that she had inherited her mother’s delicacy and graceful manner of speaking then, the lady faintly wondered if she had been too brash and upset Valarr further when he was already so clearly disturbed.

“Yet you are the one with the sense to remind me of it,” When he spoke again, his voice had grown gentler and more wistful. When she looked upon him, her heart throbbed weakly in her chest. “No one tells me things so plainly any longer.”

She gave a tiny breath of agreement. The elaborate knitting of fantastic and significant lies occurred with such frequency within the halls that she worried it would leave her paranoid if she dwelled upon it for too long. “Plain truths are all I am truly capable of providing, yet they do not seem to have much place at this castle.”

“No place at all,” The prince sighed, exhausted. His eyes drifted about their chambers and over to the balcony, fixed upon a sight in the distance she could not see. “This is where plain truths come to die.”

At the sight of her husband’s returning melancholia, she reached out to slip her hand into his and draw his attention back to her and away from the endless horizon that could lead sailors to ruin if they fixated their eyes upon it and ignored the rocks in the water.

“There is one that I would like to tend to then,” Her thumb traced the purple veins upon the back of his hand. “That you are worthy of your position and of your role as heir. That you are honorable and kind and men of far worse character and adequacy have sat upon that chair and felt completely deserving.”

Valarr stared down at their joined hands before he turned his over to squeeze hers tightly, as if her calloused palm was a coarse rope, drenched in seawater, keeping him from going under. The tiny reply threatened to damage her battered heart permanently. “But I am not him.”

She was silent for a very long time. The brief flash of insight that had struck her had disappeared, blown out into the dreary afternoon with the wind. Lady Baratheon had no more wisdom to offer him, nor could she conjure up a sweet phrase to clean his festering wound with.

“I am glad for that,” When she did answer, it was before she was truly ready to speak. Committing to it with a closing of her eyes, annoyed at herself, she explained with hasty clarification. “It is only that, selfishly, I would not want you to be anyone else.”

She heard the scratching of his chair against wood, the hurried nature of his steps as she opened her eyes in time to see him drop to his knees before her, head falling into her lap. Valarr held onto her legs, his face buried atop her thighs as he took a quick, shaky breath. Before she could open her mouth to apologize for making anything worse, Valarr nodded and shifted his gaze to look up at her with exhausted tenderness. Lady Baratheon’s hand found his hair, smoothing it back and letting her fingers rest entangled with the silver section upon the back of his head.

Taking hold of her fork with her other hand, she skewered the piece of meat she had cut and offered it to him with a raise of her brows. A grateful glimmer appeared in his eyes and he accepted it.

If the laces of the dress decorating her body were pulled any tighter, the Lady Baratheon believed she might lose her breath and faint to the floor in an unconscious heap. The candles had been burning for some time as evening had fallen and the stars wandered out to glitter playfully beyond the blurry windowpanes that reflected the tiny flames. Her lady’s maid tugged once again at the corset issuing a credible threat to the integrity of her ribcage and the lady’s eyes squinted with disgruntled strain as she gazed at herself within the long, ovular mirror before her.

“All finished, my lady.” Talla bestowed upon her a sympathetic smile as she tilted her head to appraise herself in the shining glass.

“It is perfect, thank you.” Speaking left her winded as her chest stretched against the fabric binding her form. No sooner had the words fallen from her lips than Valarr entered, flustered and in a rush, it would seem, from the way he was searching about their bedside for something he had apparently lost.

“Are you ready?” Both her and Talla watched in confusion as the prince dropped to the ground and began patting the carpet beneath their bed. She felt the young woman next to her start to rush forth to aid him, but the lady placed a hand upon her shoulder and shook her head silently. Valarr could certainly find that which he was hunting for without requiring the poor girl to get on her hands and knees and help him.

“Yes, we can depart when you have…finished whatever it is you are doing.” She tilted her head, amusement twinkling in her gaze as she grinned down at him while he crawled further underneath the wooden frame of their bed.

“I am looking for something.” Valarr grumbled back, only causing her smile to widen.

Shaking her head lightly, the lady laughed and turned back towards the mirror, reaching up to adjust one of the pearls that Talla had woven into her hair.  “That much I have gathered, yes.”

“I have misplaced my – ” A pleased breath was given in indication that the prince had succeeded in his search for the missing item. She heard a rustle of fabric as he retreated out from underneath the bed. He was in the middle of rising and turning to lift his prize – a dazzling dragon pendant with a ruby set within it – when his face fell.  “What are you wearing?”

Her eyes darted over to his within the mirror as he stared at her questioningly, a frown upon his lips. A complementary one graced her own out of habit and she smoothed down the front of the dress, as if it might get impossibly tighter. “A gown.”

“That much I have gathered,” She assigned him a dry look at his repetition of her words, and the way his eyes trailed a path down the fabric upon her with faint concern. “So I suppose my question is not what but why?”

Lady Baratheon did not need to possess great deductive prowess to imagine the reason for her husband’s confusion. Yet instead of addressing it plainly, she chose to remove her gaze from him and remain obtusely ignorant whilst Talla dabbed droplets of rich floral oil to the skin upon her collarbone.

“Does it not suit me?” She inquired coolly, as Talla’s eyes flickered between her lady and the prince in timid worry. It was Valarr’s turn to offer her a laconic gaze, before he crossed the space between them to brush his fingers against her cheek.

“You could make a sack of grain look exquisite,” The prince told her firmly, leaving no room for argument nor bickering nor misunderstanding. “But you know well that is not what is meant.”

As Valarr’s hand lowered to rest upon her back, coaxing her silently to turn around and face him, she let out a sigh. The dress she had selected for the feast being held in the Queen’s Ballroom that evening was a magnificent example of dressmaking. Its low neckline was adorned with intricate beading that caught the glint of the firelight when she turned, the detailing forging a journey over the swell of her breasts and down to the waist, where the corset was embroidered with elaborate patterning. The sleeves were long and of a softer material, flowing each time she moved her hands to reveal further embellishments upon the interior of the arms. Jewels sparkled at the waistline, bright and large and glittering to accentuate her figure.

Lady Baratheon did not believe the prince took issue with any aspect of the dress save for its color: a rich, deep shade of red.

When her gaze fell from his again, his brow furrowed and he lowered his voice to a hushed murmur. “Did you not wish to wear the one your mother has sent?”

Her eyes shot to the gown lying upon her bed: a beautiful, golden dress that her lady mother had sent as a gift for her birthday. It was everything she loved in a dress – the familiar color, the pearl detailing, the lightness of the airy fabric. Inhaling, the lady shrugged her shoulders in valiant effort to appear unconcerned.

“I thought this one might be better.” The explanation was brief; she held no desire to debate the decision at length nor reveal that it had troubled her so. Yet it was far too late for that, when Valarr’s keen eyes had determined the issue the moment he saw the dress upon her. Talla had slipped quietly into the next room to give the pair a moment to speak in private.

Valarr’s expression shifted into one of distinct perception. “Better for whom?”

The lady huffed a stubborn breath in response, eyes still fixed upon the ground. Sighing, Valarr leaned forward to kiss the crown of her head. His lips brushed against her forehead as he continued. “I, myself,would love to see you in the other.”

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to Valarr and blinked uncertainly before he captured her lips in his own tenderly, hands tightening upon her waist as he dug his fingers into the scarlet fabric. She kissed him back at once, hungry and wanting and in need of release for the tense energy that had been imbued into her with each tightening of the crimson gown. Her hands tangled in his hair immediately as his conquest deepened, eyes closing as she felt his hand begin to move to the back of her laces. She smiled against his mouth, knowing and wanting and accepting, before the pair began to stumble clumsily towards the bed, far too concerned with their bodies to mind being graceful.

“And since it is my request,” Valarr’s breath ghosted over her jawline before she pushed him down upon the bed, hands finding his chest and shoving hard. His cheeks were rosy and flushed as he grinned up at her while she took the heavy skirts of her gown into her hands to climb on top of him, settling comfortably on his hips before he reached up to continue undoing the corset constricting her chest. She could feel his arousal beneath her as the layers of the dress parted so that she might roll herself over him. He groaned quietly, fingers beginning to work with more intense urgency. “I shall aid you in changing.”

The prince rose to sit as he yanked at the constraints of the gown, pressing wet kisses along the expanse of her neck and her chest as she reached up to tug the neckline down further, paying no mind to the delicate material. Her lips parted as her eyes fluttered closed, rocking her waist forward again in order to hear the low, needing moan that left the prince’s mouth and imprinted upon the soft curve of her breast. Timeliness and haste had been entirely forgotten as the gown begin to slide from her body and Valarr was able to fully attach his lips to her chest, teeth nipping at her sharply in the way he knew would make her hiss and pull on his hair. He enjoyed it, she knew, and she did not hesitate to take fistfuls of it whenever she could. His pretty eyes would turn glassy for a moment, dazed and unfocused, pupils blown dark and wide. And then his shining lips would seek out her warmth again, curling around her chest as he suckled at her breasts.

Her hands then descended down to the front of his chest to undo the silver buckle of his belt, nimble as they worked against the cold metal. It took great effort to wrestle her body from the confines of her gown, involving much twisting and shifting and aid from Valarr’s hands, always eager to please and rid her of superfluous things like clothing. Valarr whispered a curse beneath his breath as she returned to his lap, straddling his hips and teasing him by hovering over him just enough to allow him to feel her own arousal, sticky and warm. One hand fell upon his chest as she kissed him fiercely, before she lowered him down again onto his back and took him into her hand while she sat on his thighs.

Breathless with glossed lips and desperate eyes was how she adored to render him before she sunk down onto him fully. It was not always as such – she would intentionally provoke him during the day upon occasion to ensure she would end her evening face down in their feathered pillows, robbed of speech and breath and thought, a stray tear streaking down her face as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave purple bruises along them. Valarr would kiss them tenderly after, murmuring quiet apologies into her skin, but she would simply haul him up by his hair and remind him with a pleased grin that she had gotten exactly what she wanted.

She could not afford to be so delightfully ruined that night, not when an engagement awaited them within the Queen’s Ballroom and Lady Baratheon was expected to smile and sit straight and curtsy and dance before a gathered audience who wished to lay eyes upon their future queen. And it pleased her equivalently to bear witness to the identical wreck she could bring him from her coveted seat over him, one hand wrapped around him and stroking while the other reached forward to raise his own hand to her lips. She ran her tongue over his finger before pulling it into her mouth. Valarr tasted akin to the smell of the spiced oils he poured into his baths, and the ring he wore was cool and tangy as she ran her teeth over it.

The prince squirmed beneath her at this and she cooed at him in near mocking, eyes glittering in satisfaction as he began to twitch in her hand. Only then did she finally give him what he wanted, lowering herself down onto him with a quiet breath, releasing his hand to steady herself upon his chest. It was her given name that was breathed reverently, as it always was – never darling endearments, per her own request.

But Valarr’s eyes gained clarity a moment later and he sat up quickly, rolling them over and pinning her beneath his weight, hands upon either side of her head. Her eyes flashed in excited challenge, illuminating like blazing torches in the depth of an inky night, but her breath caught in her chest as he drove into her at once.

She felt her eyes close as he leaned forward to cover her fully, his form remaining over her as he rocked his hips into her again, his expression growing more serious as he watched her lips part and her legs widen to account for the sweet intrusion.

“You need not adorn yourself with anything but me,” He murmured, rolling himself forward once more to bury inside of her cunt fully. Her head leaned back into the pillows, her hands reaching up to wrap around his neck, wishing she could rake her nails down his back without digging them into the fabric of his tunic. Valarr’s eyes had grown sharp and serious, making her stomach coil and her entrance flutter as she pulled him in further. “To prove to the court that you are mine and that you belong here exactly as you are.”

The two of them were late for the feast.

It was a resplendent evening, a small gathering of noble lords and ladies who had come to celebrate the tenth name day of Valarr’s young cousins Aelor and Aelora. While the hall was smaller than the additional spaces that hosted balls and gatherings, the massive mirrors that lined the walls created an illusion of endless extension, the decadent trays of frosted cakes and sugared tarts and fruit pies seeming to multiply in extravagant replication as one gazed into the looking glass. It captured the torchlight and candlelight, nurtured it with tender care, and heightened the magnitude of the glow as it was relinquished back to the material world. Shimmering decorations had been brought out to hang from the overlooking balcony and the railings of the two halves of a split, spiraling staircase that muted winter florals had been gathered into enormous vases upon.

The young twins were seated at the main table beside their parents, straight and stiff as Lady Baratheon curtseyed deeply before them and expressed celebratory wishes for their day. Even considering the need to remain well-behaved and composed, she found it surprising that neither of the children seemed the least bit pleased at the gathering held in their honor. Shifting her attention, she further offered pleasantries to Rhaegal Targaryen and Alys Arryn, but it was only Alys who thanked her graciously for her presence and kind words. Valarr’s uncle muttered something inaudible beneath his breath as he stared off towards the tables before him, dazed, but when she paused and inquired as to what was said, he startled as if he had only just noticed her presence. Her eyes jumped to Valarr’s in silent wondering, but he did not seem perturbed by the peculiarity of his kin.

While Lady Jena smiled at her fondly, complimenting the pearl ornamentation that swam across the expanse of her gold gown, King Daeron merely offered her a polite smile and spoke to Valarr instead. The lady stood by his side uncomfortably, energy itching beneath her skin in restless insistence at the blatant manner in which she was relegated to a status equal to the gilded candelabra that sat upon the long table before the king. Matarys caught her eye and provided her an encouraging smile, yet the disappointment and frustration stirred within her was surely plain upon her face as she tried to force one in reply. For a moment, she selfishly wished that Valarr would include her within the conversation, that he would compel his grandfather to acknowledge her in some manner, but she waved the chimeric notion off with a lowering of her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to bring about some sort of strife, even if the situation ruffled her.

Her unease did not go unnoticed by her husband, and as Valarr helped her to her seat with chivalrous consideration, his hand lingered upon her arm in silent asking. Lady Baratheon lowered herself onto the plush scarlet cushion on her chair, offering Valarr a variation of the tight smile she had given to his brother. He raised her hand to his lips as he sat beside her, their previously established agreement bright in his eyes: that she could leave any event whenever she desired, and he would ensure she was permitted to go. It was a kind gesture – one made during the first time she had attended such a gathering. But she had not yet invoked it, worried that it might paint Valarr in a poor light if his lady wife retreated from the crowd to hide out in the yard instead of lingering dutifully and silently at his side.

So she picked at her dinner with a faintly sour expression upon her visage, unable to fully banish it as Valarr spoke candidly with his kin and she occasionally turned to listen to Matarys point out something amusing occurring across the ballroom. As the evening continued and the dancing began, lords and ladies approached the table to speak with the prince about all number of matters. Most were simply there to reintroduce themselves to the heir and shower him with kind phrases, yet Valarr listened attentively and smiled at all of them.

Lady Baratheon watched with curling jealousy as Matarys excused himself from the table to seek out Gulian and Jon, who were lingering out the edge of the room with goblets of wine in their hands. She watched him bound up to their friends with a bright smile, the trio immediately beginning to converse about something that had them bursting into laughter. It was the only corner of the hall that true joy seemed to bloom within – everything else appeared too poised, too proper. All of the dancing was done with careful, organized grace, all of the drinking confined to small sips from chalices held gingerly by their stems. Her heart ached fiercely in that moment for the revelry of her youth.

Memories of sneaking down the stairs with her brothers to gaze with starry-eyed wonder into the chaotic main hall at Storm’s End, their uncle Lyonel dancing on top of a table with mead spilling out of his mug as he was joined by more rowdy lords and ladies. Their father, spinning their mother around the ballroom until her cheeks had gone red with laughter and she had all but collapsed into his arms. Voices singing and shouting and cheering as they stomped along and clapped their hands, stuffing their faces with food and drink until the sun yawned and stretched over the open ocean. The magic had dulled slightly, when she had grown old enough to join in the festivities, but in that moment it seemed the most enchanting place in all the world.

 She wished to bring Valarr there, to see him smiling and laughing amongst her family and beneath the chandelier she’d once spun around under for so long that she had fallen to the floor, drunk and happy.

As one of the lords – she had missed his name, lost in her forlorn nostalgia – congratulated Valarr for the beauty of his bride, she was roused from her dreaming and felt eyes fall upon her expectantly. Her own darted between Valarr and the couple in front of them before she produced a smile that could only be described, in politest terms, as awkward.

As the lord and lady made their way towards the center of the table to present themselves to the king, Valarr rose from his seat and offered his hand.

“May I have this dance?” He inquired with a knowing glittering of his eyes, only accentuated when her shoulders dropped in grateful relief and she stood as well.

“You may indeed.” The lady answered appreciatively, eager to do something with her body aside from letting her discomfort oscillate precariously throughout it. As they ventured into the crowd, his hand squeezed hers in gentle reassurance.

“I am sorry,” It was spoken in a rush, her chin dropping as Valarr rested one hand on the waistline of her gown and used the other to raise hers gently. Her eyes jumped to the pair dancing beside them, to the way their own widened at realizing who the prince was and his close proximity. Frustration welled up into the cavity of her chest, and she attempted not to huff a sigh. Gritting her teeth, she lowered her voice. “I am trying.”

“You are doing wonderfully,” His voice adopted her soft volume but was filled with ardent reassurance instead of the vexation painting each word of her own. As he began to lead her to the delicate melody played by the musicians atop the balcony, she felt the tension in her body ease slightly. “I have already told you, you need never apologize.”

The music was distantly familiar to her, a gentler version of a tune she had learned to dance to as a child. Lady Baratheon allowed herself to idly fall into an easy rhythm as he spun them past another lord and lady gracefully. When she spoke again, her tone matched the sullenness pooling in her eyes as she scowled down at the shiny wooden floorboards. They had been polished so pristinely she could nearly glimpse her own reflection. “Your grandfather hates me.”

Valarr shook his head to disagree, a sympathetic smile upon his face. “He does not hate you.”

“He does not like me.” The gloomy nature of her visage only increased. It had been bothering her from the very first introduction yet worsened considerably each time she was faced with the king and his apparent, polite disapproval.

“He likes you just fine.” The prince was quick to offer additional comfort, squeezing her waist soothingly before moving his hand to her back and tugging her closer. Her shoes clicked lightly atop the wood as she stepped forward, allowing him to draw her nearer. Lady Baratheon’s lips pressed together into a thin, tight line before she frowned again.

“He has spoken all of four or five words to me over the course of three months.” She reminded her husband, as her eyes drifted over to the head of the room again. The king had turned to speak with Lady Jena, the pair engaged in a quiet, serious discission. She cast her gaze to the floor, to the way her gown swished as she moved. Dancing with Valarr was exceptionally easy – he was elegant, fluid, gentle in his leading. She needed not think at all, not when she had memorized the steps long ago and knew well he would never be so careless as to tread upon her dress.

“Perhaps he does not have much to say.” The meek excuse was met with dull, unimpressed eyes. Valarr coughed lightly and then cleared his throat.

“I apologize,” He amended with a wince. The lady rolled her eyes, but the expression upon her face was nothing if not fond. “But truly, do not let it trouble you. There are many princes to wed to the Archon’s daughter, so all shall be well.”

The heart of the issue did truly lie in something beyond her knowledge or control. It was not as if she had intentionally sabotaged King Daeron’s plans to wed Valarr to a Tyroshi noblewoman, nor that she had craved power so fiercely that she had schemed a betrothal to the heir apparent. But she additionally knew how it must appear – their sudden engagement and wedding. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them to gaze into his with a disappointed look. “I knew I would not be what was desired and yet it stings worse somehow knowing I would not have stood a chance even if I were proficient at arranging afternoon tea or sewing floral embroidery.”

“My grandfather shall come around, I promise,” As Valarr raised his arm to twirl her slowly, she caught a hint of cinnamon from his hair. One of her hands came to rest upon his chest and he took her into his arms. “He has a kind heart, it is only wounded from my father’s passing. As more days go by, he shall understand why I chose to marry for love. Although I know well it is a privilege not afforded to many in my position.”

The string melody floating down from the balcony above seemed to fade to a dreamy murmur, alongside the hazy glow of the torchlight that reflected in his mesmerizing eyes. Her own looked between them with a small furrowing of her brow as she repeated his words. “For love?”

He had been smiling at her sweetly, but at her repetition, gradual realization dawned upon his face like a sleepy sun. She watched it bring uncertain hesitation to the creases at the corners of his eyes, glancing away from her as if the sight of her face burned, and to his lips, parting once or twice before he managed to produce a sound. “I only meant …”

“I love you,” She told Valarr at once. “You needn’t mean it any other way.”

The prince’s visage wavered, the veiled affection beneath his composed mask swelling with such crescendo it spilled out from his eyes into the curve of his cheeks and the tightening of his jaw. It seemed to ache in him tremendously, his arms tightening around her.

“I could not,” There was a trembling in his voice that made her heart long to sooth it from him. She watched as his gaze drank her in desperately, the truth of his affection finally given proper verbal form. “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. You could have driven my sword through my heart and I would have loved you still. I …”

Valarr trailed off, eyes falling from her and growing distant. As his silence stretched on, filled instead by the music and the quiet voices around them, she pressed against his chest in quiet confusion.

“Val?” The inquiry was a soft prompting to speak. When his attention returned to hers, there was immense guilt welling in his eyes.

“I knew it all along,” He whispered, tiny and forlorn and full of remorse. “When I proposed the lie of our betrothal to my father and my uncle, I knew that it would not be some grand burden to me. I wanted you, I wanted to marry you, I wanted to be your husband. It was not a sacrificial act to save you. It was selfish and I –”

“Be selfish.” As Valarr’s eyes widened, she offered him a tiny shrugging of her shoulders. The tune had changed to something slower, the bodies around them swaying leisurely to the tranquil music. The two of them were standing perfectly still. She tilted her head as she gazed at him, before shaking it softly. “I have never much minded your selfishness. You have never much blamed me for mine. Not during our courtship, nor now.”

The prince swallowed thickly, emotion catching in his throat. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I would never.”

“Then neither shall I. I shall love it, as I love all of you. Not in spite of anything, but because,” Lady Baratheon did not possess the ability to compose elegant poetry over the nature of her feelings. She could not devise beautiful sonnets of lyrical brilliance, nor could she even compile a lovely metaphor to compare it to anything of natural beauty. All she could do was explain in literal terms how she too was unable to do anything but. “It is no great difficulty nor thing that requires overlooking. It is like breathing.”

When he pulled her forth, she did not even have the time to appear surprised. He swept her up into his arms, lifting her feet from the ground and spinning her around before he buried his face in her shoulder and took a slow, shuddering breath.

“I love you,” Valarr breathed into her hair, before kissing the side of her face and cupping it within both hands. She could faintly hear murmuring around them, but she could not make out any words aside from the ones spoken to her by her prince. “I love you.”

He did not cease in saying it for the remainder of the night.

Valarr died in the spring.

Lady Baratheon did not get to gather his ashes for a moon after. All of the bodies that had been collected after the sickness swept through the city were burned upon death, with no time to risk funerals or mourning rituals. Those of the Targaryen household were preserved only because of their royal status. In that respect, she held a fortune that many other bereaved families in the city did not. The lady counted it neutrally amongst the things she was dimly cognizant of harboring gratitude for. When she lay awake at night, alone in her bed, she would stare up into the darkness and list them aloud into the stillness.

The first was that his death had been quick. He had not the time to suffer in agony nor be afraid of what lay upon the other side. Valarr had simply closed his eyes to sleep and never woken again. The overseeing maester, in vain attempt to console her, had pointed out that most who died of the illness did so gradually, in excruciating pain.

The second was that his family had been reunited again. Matarys had died the evening before. She had not even told her husband, not when he had been beginning to take ill as well and she did not wish to break his heart given that he would need his strength. Lady Jena had heard the lady’s screams from her room down the hall the morning Valarr had died, ill herself. Despite suffering the mildest symptoms of the three, she had not made it to the end of the week. Lady Baratheon wondered if her husband were happy to see his father again. Valarr had missed him so dearly.

The third was the funeral. For all the lamenting she had done over the House Targaryen, the lady understood well that Valarr was proud of his family and of his lineage. She wanted him to be burned properly, upon a traditional pyre, with the words spoken over him that had guided his ancestors to the next life since before they had arrived upon the Westerosi continent. She did not want him to get lost.

Her lady’s maid, Talla, had dressed her for the day. She chose one of the gowns that Jena had worn to mourn Baelor, simple and black with a tiny dragon stitched to the collar. When Talla showed it to her, the Lady Baratheon noticed that the young woman had embroidered a small, golden stag alongside the beast.

“I believe he would like it this way, my lady.” Talla had whispered hesitantly. Lady Baratheon could not answer, but her fingers ran over the stitching during the entire funeral. The sickness no longer held the city in its hallowed hands, but remnants of it lingered everywhere. Even amongst the living, no one had truly been spared.

When the bodies were burned – Valarr, Matarys, Lady Jena, and King Daeron – she had stood stiffly beside Queen Myriah Martell as the pyre caught flame. The older woman clung onto her arm as she wept, and the Lady Baratheon stared dully forth into the fire. Many of the silent sisters had died during the worst of the plague, and so there was only one available to collect all of the ashes. The lady assisted, yet it still took until nightfall.

The woman had nodded to indicate they were finished, and the lady had nodded in return. When she departed, Lady Baratheon lingered. Her eyes cast to the ground where the pair of them had been sweeping, searching in the moonlight to see if they had missed any of the ashes. Unable to determine if it were true or not, she simply sat down in the dry grass beside the space. Hours had passed when she heard approaching footsteps – the lady had expected the woman had returned, but found instead Daeron Targaryen.

“Please, cousin,” He had muttered in miserable exhaustion. “Do not sit here all night. Return to the castle.”

Lady Baratheon informed him faintly that she would not. When he offered to aid her in returning, she told him with cool finality that if he tried to move her from that spot, she would strike him. And when Daeron, in sincere attempt to her, had done just that, she struck him across the face so forcefully that it drew blood from his lip. The prince did not shout or strike her in rebuke – he simply lifted a hand to his mouth and stared at the scarlet staining it. He left without saying another word.

An hour later, footfalls crunched over the dying grasses once more. Cold eyes had flicked up, expecting to see Daeron once again, but it was Maekar Targaryen she looked upon. She stared at him with clouded, muted eyes.

He beckoned her to leave, and she replied that she would not. Maekar was silent as he looked down upon her, before dropping to one knee before her. There was no sign of sympathy nor sorrow in his countenance, nor in his voice when he opened his mouth to speak again.

“You aren’t leaving him here,” The prince’s voice was rough, practical. “He is not here. He is not anywhere.”

Her eyes had grown as wide as the full moon above her, saucers of startled shock.

The elder prince seized the opportunity provided by his disarming of her to raise himself up off of the ground, reaching forward to lift her into his arms. As she had promised Daeron, she began to push against the prince’s body and wriggle from his grasp, but he held tight. Lady Baratheon had then started to thrash wildly as he carried her away, screaming so loudly that the shrieking broke raw against her throat. Maekar huffed in frustration but did not release her, no matter how arduous it was to walk with a woman who was throwing the entire weight of her body against him. He grunted when her elbows drove into his back and hissed when her nails dug into his arms and the side of his face, raking bloody scratches into his skin. But he did not drop her, nor did he do anything except prevent her from escaping.

She screamed with such desperation that it must have sounded, to anyone who might have heard, that he was killing her. It took almost a half of an hour for her to wear herself out. Maekar, now bruised and bloody, merely shifted her from over his shoulder to cradle her in his arms. That was the first time that she had allowed herself to cry. The lady sobbed like a small child until she had tired herself enough to sleep.

Maekar was there when she woke. He did not allow her to sit in her bed and stare at the walls, as she had taken to doing. He pulled her up out of it, sat her down to eat breakfast on the balcony. The prince did not demand she do anything else but stare at it. While they sat there, he asked after what she had done with her days before. She repeated her routine to him monotonously.

Every day after went as such. Maekar Targaryen ran a strict program. She was up at dawn, made to sit before her breakfast – the eating of it was entirely up to her – and then hauled down to the training yard. He put a wooden sword in her hand and told her to swing it. She had refused the first time, and he had taken his own to strike her with it – hard, across the arm. Lady Baratheon had stared pointedly down at the dirt beneath her boots, and he hit her again. It occurred four more times before she tightened her grip and swung hers in fuming retaliation.

“Go fuck yourself.” She had spat, aiming to crack her fake sword atop his skull. He had blocked her attempt but nodded in firm approval.

“Good,” Maekar said, before advancing with his training weapon. She met it this time in ready stance, eyes blazing. “Better angry than still. You cannot outrun it, but you’re as good as dead yourself if you’re still.”

He put her on a horse and sent her out to ride and hunt. He sat her down in the library and made her memorize the battle tactics used during the Blackfyre rebellion. He made her sit upon small council meetings as matters of the Realm were finalized.

The days became a rushed blur. The nights were what she dreaded most.

“Tell me of her,” The lady murmured dully one night when sleep cruelly denied her its numbing embrace. From his seat at her bedside, Maekar’s expression changed fractionally, a faint indication of how poignant of a haunting remnant she was to him. The upholstered chair he sat upon creaked as he shifted. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling. “Tell me of the reason you keep this watch over me.”

It was not solely for Valarr’s sake, nor the cherished memory of Baelor and the guilt that had torn open a gaping wound in the elder prince’s heart. The stoic necessity with which Maekar Targaryen remained devotedly by her side as even the heavenly bodies changed their guard was driven by a resonance of the soul. As his son had, he had cast his eyes to her and seen his own wrecked, shattered self.

She, doomed to be a half-mirror and semi-parallel for those with dragon’s blood and cursed bones. Her being darkened like seawater beneath a fading moon and starless sky, and upon her surface, visual fragments of Aerion and Maekar grew misshapen and distorted and fractured. Yet enough was retained for the reflection to form and contain substantial representation. Lady Baratheon had shown them all of their worst moments and deepest darknesses, simply through the trajectory of her character and existence.

Valarr had not searched for himself in her eyes nor her fists nor her heart. When he looked upon her, he had only ever seen her, exactly as she was.

Maekar did not indulge in her request for some time. But when he finally began to speak of Dyanna Dayne, he did not cease, even after the sun had risen and peaked through the open window to listen in as well. When he finished, he was silent for a long while before he asked her to speak of Valarr. And so she did, beginning her tale with the crescent moon over Ashford, a sword in her hand, and a face she did not recognize. 

Lord Tommard Baratheon, youngest nephew of Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, married the Lady Della Caron in the year 211 AC. An extravagant tourney was thrown in celebration, attended by many of the prominent families across the Stormlands and beyond, including attendees from House Tyrell and House Lannister.

To the surprise of many lords, the event was graced with the presence of one Prince Maekar Targaryen, and his second son, Prince Aerion Targaryen, who entered the lists and competed during the joust. It was said that the prince was unusually silent and honorable, and did not once remove his draconic helm during the contests. He unhorsed three riders during the first day and defeated two upon the second. A match upon the third day was completed in fourteen tilts, and the defeating of Lord Tybolt Lannister ensured the prince’s position as one of the five decided victors of the tourney.

Of additional note, after winning the final tilt of the long joust, Prince Aerion did not choose to crown a queen of love and beauty. The wreath of florals was instead carried over to the Targaryen pavilion and dropped onto the ground before its entrance. He was not seen for the remainder of the wedding festivities, nor did anyone catch sight of his face until his official return to court from Lys in 218 AC.

author's final note:

first of all, i would love to share the inspiration for the given name i selected for our reader! lenore was taken from the edgar allen poe poem of the same name, but i wished to invert the perspective as i knew it would be the bride mourning her groom. her character is also influenced by ethel cain’s song tempest, which is the only song on that album that features a different perspective from the main character. 

while it’s a controversial decision as i did want to ensure the fic had potential for readers to self-insert, i did choose to mention it twice in the story and here is my thought process behind that. i chose to have daeron say it to her because of his dragon dreaming and prophetic visions, as it implied he not only knew her without meeting her but also that he subconsciously knew her and valarr’s fate. it additionally appeared during their wedding vows again because of the martial theme within the poem I’d selected it from, and because I wanted to again allude to the ending through finishing chapter 8 with the last line of the vows.

as for our ending: for those of you who have read my other longer work, it is likely obvious that i am rather preoccupied with grief. i do not always get the opportunity to discuss it at length verbally so it does appear quite often in my writing instead. 

from the moment i decided to write this story, i knew exactly how it was going to end. it had been already decided by the confines of canon, and since i wanted this to be a shorter series, keeping it within the established world as much as possible provided a decent boundary for me not to get carried away.

but the more i wrote about the characters, the more i wished to change the end. i kept reasoning with myself and going back and forth, mostly because i simply wished to give them more time. it was a tough choice, but the more i thought it over, the more i realized it reflected my own wishes over the reality of grief and of loss. more time is always wanted, no matter how long or how little is had. 

i was worried over whether the ending would disappoint people, or that it would make it seem as if the story was told for a payoff that was ultimately unsatisfactory. but, as difficult as it is to capture in writing as we are often expectant of some grand reasoning behind death, that is occasionally just the course of life and there is nothing more to it. i do not think a tragic ending makes a story any less compelling, because it is more than its final moments. this is a big reason why i didn’t include too much detail of valarr’s death / her mourning and most of this final part focused on their marriage. as i am quite endeared to valarr and lenore, and certainly biased, i do truly believe the essence of their story lies not in their great tragedy, but in each instance shown of understanding and love. 

all of this long note and all of this fic to say: the value of love is not determined by its length nor erased in its absence.

thank you for reading

“I did not break anything, did I?” She grinned as he clasped her hand tightly and she hauled Matarys to his feet. He gave a soft grunt as he returned to an upright position, before pulling his dark helm off as well.

“My tailbone shall certainly be bruised,” He lamented in mournful response, wincing as he twisted his body to gaze at his back. His dark cloak was covered in ashen earth, and he brushed it from himself with a shake of his head. “Yet not more than my pride.”

“Well,” The lady’s tone of voice had taken on a gentler quality as she gazed at the genuinely forlorn expression upon the prince’s face. She clapped his shoulder firmly, her glove pressing against the cold metal of his armor. The days had grown so cold that she could nearly feel it through the thickness of the leather. The sky was grey and overcast, yet the icy rain threatening to fall had not done so that day. “It is fortunate that pride can be repaired far quicker than bones.”

It had been a clean fall, with the prince having been set off balance by the angle at which she had driven her lance into his shield. His riderless horse, which had continued dutifully down the list even in his absence, had been collected by one of the knights observing their practice, and the lady had reserved her smile until she had seen Matarys sit up before he had woefully collapsed back into the dust with his arms and legs spread wide.

Ser Robert Connington, the Master-at-arms at the Red Keep, had already begun to approach the pair with a shaking of his head and a valiant attempt to chase an amused smile from his face. Jon Florent and Gulian Martell, trailing behind and additionally under the knight’s instruction, did not offer the prince the same gracious courtesy.

“Gods, the way you flailed,” Jon was halfway to choking upon his laughter, wiping away a single tear that had formed at the edge of his eyes. “You looked like a baby bird falling from a nest.”

Matarys’ cheeks blushed as red as the auburn of his fiery hair as he cast his gaze down to his boots. While Valarr was a miniature painting of their father, the younger prince had taken after their mother in every visible way. He had assumed her entire coloring, the slight upturn of her delicate nose, the crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she smiled. It was endearing, how the two princes seemed to be two even halves of their parents.

“I did not.” The protest was given half-heartedly, and greeted with a wide smile from Gulian, who had swung his arm over the prince’s shoulders affectionately. He ruffled Matarys’ hair, his playful grin bright as he shook his head.

“A noble baby bird,” Gulian offered, his brow furrowing in lazy pondering. The Lady Baratheon had to bite her lip to prevent another laugh from slipping out at the ridiculous expression. His eyes glittered with amusement as he caught her nobly trying to appear composed. “Perhaps an eagle, or a falcon.”

She had to cough into her shoulder at the finishing of the thought, not wishing to laugh at the dejected prince after having already done so. It set Jon off again in another round of boyish guffawing, his hands falling to his knees as he doubled over and wheezed.

“Enough of that,” Ser Robert waved off the teasing with a firm shake of his head. The knight was a burly man, tall and imposing with a thick red beard and a head full of curly hair in a matching shade. “Dust yourself off, Prince Matarys. You need to adjust your shield faster or she shall unhorse you until the sun falls.”

Matarys straightened at once, his hand immediately reaching to wipe some of the dirt off of his armor. Giving him a sympathetic look, Gulian removed the arm he’d thrown good-naturedly around the prince and attempted to provide assistance, brushing away some of the dirt that had gotten into the crevices of his shoulder plating. Jon and Lady Baratheon exchanged a brief, knowing wince – their Master-at-arms was an even-tempered man, yet consistently strict and ruthless in his evaluation of their form, and Matarys seemed to find himself at the receiving end of blunt analysis the most. Yet no sooner had the glance been exchanged than the knight’s critical eye had landed upon the lady in narrow scrutiny.

“Do not think you are absolved of faults,” He cautioned, a twinkle of amusement in his eye as it was her turn to stiffen and lower her shoulders. “You weren’t quick enough when grabbing your second lance. One second of slowness can be the deciding factor between victory and defeat.”

Lady Baratheon dipped her chin in acknowledgement, letting her eyes linger upon the ground for a moment as she recalled the instance she had paused to shift her posture upon her horse because she had worried that she was sliding too far forward. She nodded swiftly then, resolving to remedy the issue during the next pass. “Yes, ser.”

Satisfied with the thoughtful gazes that had appeared upon his pupils’ faces, Ser Robert turned to the squires hovering near the sides of the lists and shouted for them to prepare for another session to begin. As the older knight set a determined course to inspect the lances that were being brought over to the lists, his voice growing more distant as it was replied to by a young and nervous squire, Matarys delivered another immense sigh and all but deflated.

“If I cannot best a lady, I shall never hope to find success in a tourney,” The prince’s wistful melancholy was met with an understanding grimace from Jon, who, despite his earlier laughter, patted the young man encouragingly upon the back. He too had been unhorsed by Lady Baratheon earlier that week and had expressed similar sentiments. Matarys’ eyes jumped up to meet hers then in apologetic haste. “No offense meant, sister.”

The lady bestowed upon him a genuine smile, shaking her head amiably. She shifted her weight, rolling her golden helm so it was tucked underneath her arm and resting atop her hip. “None taken.”

“A lady is a gentle description for your brother’s wife. I am not sure it holds the usual meaning in this instance,” Gulian reassured Matarys. And then, echoing the prince’s afterthought, spun to face her with a wince. “I mean no offense, Lady Baratheon.”

Her pleased, amused grin split her face open wide and she snorted lightly, her gaze askance. “None taken at all.”

One tradition that steadied Lady Baratheon during the prompt upheaval of her known world was the keeping of her family’s name. As with all of the women before her who had married into the royal House Targaryen, she had not been required to adopt her husband’s surname and become the Lady Targaryen. She had long dreaded it, the relinquishment of the defining word intertwined with her identity so irreversibly. Had she married into any other noble House, it would have been ripped from her brutally, hastily patched up with a name that meant nothing to her at all.

The retention had allowed her a needed stability that could be clung to with a tightened fist as visible surroundings and others’ perceptions of her changed with the coming of a new dawn and the approaching of a vast horizon before her. When Ashford had disappeared into the shimmering mist of a dewy morning, she had turned to gaze upon it one final time. She had arrived as the Lady Baratheon and she would leave it as such, despite her marriage and the altering of the place she would come to call home. Atop her chestnut horse, an unreadable expression upon her face, the lady had squinted into the distance until Valarr had called her name in soft inquiry, spurring her to rejoin the traveling party at once.

The three moons that passed were a whirlwind of all things new and novel. Valarr was named Hand of the King swiftly upon his return to King’s Landing, before the lady’s trunks had departed the stormlands in a caravan of covered wagons that would bumble down the dusty roads to journey to her new residence. This had caused no great stir; Baelor had held the position in order to prepare him to rule through responsibility and means most practical. Its passing to his eldest son was smooth in transfer and accepted at once. Her presence at Valarr’s side as his wife was markedly less so.

It was not as if any indication of discontent was spoken aloud within her presence, nor did the immediate issue lie within her personality or interests as she had feared. The disapproval was soundless and it gazed right through her as if she were transparent. As if her outline could have been filled by any other body and it still would have been vexing all the same. The lady came to learn that her rushed betrothal and consequent wedding had interrupted carefully laid schemes to betroth Valarr to a woman of the noble houses of Tyrosh. It was far more than a polite proposal of alliance – it was the insurance of aid in the instance of another Blackfyre rebellion, of determined trade agreements that would strengthen the Realm and weaken the exiled rebels. Whilst King Daeron II had greeted her graciously, she could tell at once from his reserved welcoming and tight smile that her presence was an unwanted disturbance and had caused additional strife for a man already mourning the death of his beloved son and heir. The emphasized awkwardness of it had encouraged her to avoid the King and Queen as often as could be managed. As they did not summon her, it was ultimately not a difficult task.

With Valarr’s new position occupying such a considerable portion of his day, he had swiftly and decisively arranged for her to join his brother Matarys during training and lessons. It had been planned without her asking within the first week of their arrival and had rendered her absolutely speechless when the information was given to her. Her husband had apologized profusely for his overflowing schedule and scarce time to spend enjoying the early days of their marriage leisurely. Yet when he had organized proper training for her with such haste, Lady Baratheon had thrown her arms around him tight and not released him from their bed until the sun had risen high into the grey sky and heavy knocks upon the oak door demanded the prince’s presence elsewhere.

“Sister, shall we go again?” Matarys’ bright, hopeful inquiry interrupted her thoughts, and she tilted her head at the prince with a teasing smile upon her face. Although her husband’s younger brother had yet to emerge victorious in one of their contests, and certainly lamented the fact following the immediate occurrence, the young man was always quick to rally his spirit and propose another attempt. “I am certain I can win this bout.”

“Certain, are you?” Her eyes sparkled with the excitement of another challenge. No matter how many she was allowed to partake in, the rush of it never dimmed nor diminished. The prince straightened up at the provocative reply, nodding in determined resolution as he turned to peer over at the edge of the lists to see if the horses were ready for another round.

When she cast her attention absentmindedly to the balcony overlooking the training grounds as Gulian and Jon began debating how quickly she might defeat Matarys that time, a softer smile came to her face before she waved her arm. Mismatched eyes glimmered with delight as they caught sight of her noticing the way he had been observing the yard.

“Val!” The lady called, beaming up at her husband. The prince had already begun to descend the staircase to the lists below, a composed and neutral look upon his visage as he crossed the dirt between them to arrive before the gathered group. As he took her hand and pulled it to his lips, both of the young lords were quick to offer deep bows and soft murmured greetings of expected propriety. In stark contrast, the Lady Baratheon simply gave a breath of sardonic amusement as Valarr’s eyes jumped up to observe the expression upon her face as he kissed the armored glove upon her hand. She tugged it from him then, but not before she poked his brow with her forefinger. He grinned back.

“Lord Florent, Prince Gulian,” Valarr greeted affably, trading the teasing smile for a more composed expression and inclining his head as the young men regarded him with almost shy deference. While they were comfortable and carefree around Matarys, there was a certain pressure involved in speaking to the immediate heir to the throne that the lady had not been able to convince them to ignore. A pressure that certainly did not extend to herself, as was aptly demonstrated by their willingness to spar with her regularly. It was a strange reversal of roles for the lady, who had been on the opposing end of this difference for most of her life. “I was hoping I might borrow my wife for a moment while I take my lunch.”

Before the Lady Baratheon parted her lips to offer any response, Matarys’ own pursed and then lowered into a small frown.

“It must wait until we finish this next tilt,” The younger prince informed Valarr stubbornly, turning to his elder brother. Valarr’s neutral expression was promptly swapped for a drier one. “We were just about to go once more.”

“Matarys, you are occupying nearly all of her afternoons as it stands.”  The frustration that her husband retained over his lack of time to spend with her had been given voice to on many an occasion. It was a sore subject for the prince, and his brother’s arguing did not assuage the annoyance – judging from the sullen scowl that had flashed briefly across his countenance, it appeared to worsen it. Yet similar, more blatant petulance appeared at once upon Matarys’ face. The similarities between the brothers’ mannerisms amused the lady greatly.

“You have duties to attend to.” The reasoning was provided with a swift raising of Matarys’ chin.

“I do not at this moment.” Valarr’s reply was equally as swift and twice as willful. Gulian and Jon exchanged a glance of thinly concealed amusement behind the princes’ backs. Nothing humanized one quite so much as a petty squabble with a persistent sibling.

Matarys gave a dramatic sigh, his eyes shooting down to glower into the dirt as he poked at it with the toe of his boot. His voice dropped as well, shifting to a soft murmur underneath his breath. “Surely you might find some.”

“Brother.” Valarr huffed a matching breath, fixing Matarys with a meaningful stare.

“I shall not be long,” The lady interrupted, not wishing to cause any further bickering and consciously aware of how short Valarr’s breaks were during the daytime hours. When the younger prince’s eyes leapt up to her in disbelief, she reached out to pat his shoulder once more. “I promise. And then you shall have your vengeance.”

He relented at this, sighing again and then glancing at Jon with a quiet resignation. “I suppose we shall have a contest then.”

As Valarr offered his arm to her and she took it with a soft rolling of her eyes, she could hear Gulian’s laugh and Jon’s response of faux offense at being an apparent second choice for a jousting partner behind her back.

“I look ridiculous walking with you like this.” The lady told the prince pointedly as they headed into the castle. Dressed entirely in jousting armor, walking with her arm looped in Valarr’s as she would whilst wearing her finer gowns made her feel quite awkward and strange. The dissonance between what behavior was expected of her within the castle walls and what was allowed within the yard and the freedom of their chambers left her head spinning on occasion.

“No,” He denied, his eyes flicking to her figure as his gaze lingered upon her for far longer than necessary. Shaking his head, repressed desire fluttered across his face before he squinted his eyes and attempted to wave it off by casting his eyes to the massive Targaryen banners that hung from the walls upon either side of the doorway they passed beneath. “No, you look absolutely magnificent.”

“You,” Her smile was ironic but not displeased as they passed by a group of ladies heading out towards the gardens. She attempted to ignore the way their eyes lingered upon her garments, and the turning of her stomach regardless of how sincerely training pleased her. Her grip on Valarr’s arm tightened slightly. “Are so wonderfully biased that your testimony would not hold any meaning in gathered court.”

Her husband gave a soft breath of laughter at this, ignorant as to the reason she had leaned towards him further. “And what would you be on trial for in this scenario?”

“Something violent, I imagine.” Lady Baratheon mused as they continued down the corridor and the lady banished concerns over her relations to the other women at court from her mind. Valarr opened his mouth to disagree out of instinctive habit, before his expression adopted a thoughtful quality and he nodded, casting another mirthful glance to her.

“Then I suppose I ought to work on the convincing nature of my statement.” He offered as she found herself smiling in spite of herself, his willing entertainment of her nonsensical situation easing the trouble stirring in her chest. She shook her head, adjusting her helmet beneath her arm.

“That hardly makes you the impartial voice you are meant to be.” She scolded, her voice absent of any true protest as she raised her eyebrows at him. Valarr shrugged innocently.

“Every man should be partial to his wife.” His defense was shameless and made her laugh again, a loud brightness that echoed into the hall as his visage melted into sweet adoration. The sideways glances cast by pages and maids hustling by did not go noticed. She tilted her head back with a radiant smile, before resting it atop her shoulder and leaning over it to stare pointedly at him with pleased satisfaction.

“I shall be glad for that then, in my time of great need.” As they approached their chambers, the knight standing guard over the empty rooms was punctual and prompt in his immediate opening of the doors, informing Valarr that lunch was arranged inside. Their rooms were vast and expansive, far larger than her own at Storm’s End. Decorated with ornate furniture imported from the finest carpenters in the Realm and furnished with elaborate, vibrant rugs from weavers in the Summer Isles, the rooms had taken her breath away when she had first laid eyes upon them. Lady Baratheon had private quarters readied for her, separate from their main room, yet there had not been a single night spent apart from Valarr since their arrival at King’s Landing. She held no desire in her heart to be anywhere but by his side, especially given his schedule that burst at the seams with appointments and engagements and gatherings.

As the doors closed behind them, she began to undo the strapping of her breastplate. There was hardly time to change, yet she did not wish to take lunch in her armor. When her fingers plucked at the leather keeping it attached to her body, Valarr smoothly reached forth and unclasped the fastening. His hands ghosted across her neck as they moved to undo the parallel one and her eyes closed, her head tilting back lightly as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hair.

“Val.” It was a cautionary warning, a low reminder of the lack of time they had together before he was to return to his duties as the Hand. He only hummed in soft reply as he pulled the strap and then lifted the breastplate from her, setting it down upon the floor as she turned to look at him. Her eyes were that of a large mountain cat that had settled upon a hare, pupils wide and intense as Valarr took her helm from her hands and placed it upon the rug beside the armor. His own settled hungrily upon her lips, but she withdrew out of his reach as his hand outstretched towards her arm.

“You must eat,” She ignored the exasperated look upon her husband’s face as she wandered over to the table while taking off her gloves and the guards upon her forearms and placing them down beside the foot of it. Lady Baratheon slumped down into a plush chair with a sigh. “Lest you forget for an entire week again.”

Whilst attempting to settle into a daily routine, there had been a series of days where Valarr’s meal breaks had been used to satisfy another of his needs and had resulted in a decidedly poor lack of nutrition that had left him exhausted. A rule had been agreed upon that no such activities were to occur during the day, if only to ensure that all meals were observed properly. Valarr’s shoulders dropped with a disappointed slouching, but he followed her to the table and sat across her with a nod of doleful acceptance.

“As you say.” The prince lamented, reaching forth to take a silver spoonful of a soft cheese and scooping it onto a piece of flaky, salted bread. She bit her lip as she smiled, endearment as sweet as the honey she drizzled atop the winter berries settling into her chest and upon her tongue.

“Do not leave me to be the rational one, it does not suit me.” Her nose scrunched as she popped a shining, juicy fruit into her mouth, the saccharine taste of the golden honey balancing the tartness of the berry. And it was true – she was hardly one to deny herself anything she wanted, always indulging, always gluttonous, spoiled rotten in nearly every way. Impatient and greedy and wanting, with her covetous hands always reaching forth.

“You are being rational,” Valarr took a bite of the bread, a drop of cheese landing atop his lips. She longed to stand and lean across the table to remove it with her tongue. “I am imagining you upon this table instead of my lunch. You are much sweeter, anyways.”

This only sparked a deeper wanting, the warmth in her stomach dropping lower as she had to take a slow breath to prevent herself from gracing Valarr with exactly what he had described in his illusion. Lady Baratheon plucked another berry from the silver tray, before tossing it across the table at him languidly. He reached up to catch it with graceful fluidity, slowly drawing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to it before it slipped past them and into his mouth. It earned him another theatrical eyeroll, provided to mask the desire she knew was written plainly all over her face.

“Because it displeases me to see you tired,” Lady Baratheon reminded him with much effort, picturing the time she had poked her head into the small council chamber and caught sight of Valarr, head resting atop one hand, eyes fluttering as he utilized all of his strength to fight off a much-needed nap. “Especially when I am the cause for it.”

The beast of her fury no longer required chaining nor caging; it purred at his touch, rubbed against his legs, ate from his hand and minded its teeth. When it grew agitated and restless, he set it loose in the Kingswood to hunt and it would drop a boar at his feet. His belonging to her had given the creature a task of protection and guardianship, and it took its duty with resolute sincerity.

 She had known from the very instant that she had first harbored concern over his wellbeing that he had brought about an irreversible shift in her, and found it only strengthened the longer she spent in his presence. He did not enact this change intentionally, nor would he ask it of her, she knew this as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat and the thrum of blood pulsing beneath her wrist. Yet it had happened all the same. And he sensed its importance as well, evident in the way his eyes softened as he gazed across the table at her with unabashed adoration.

“Well,” He contemplated, reaching forth for the goblet of wine nearest to him. Valarr raised it to his lips with a solemn shaking of his head. “If I must behave myself, I would like to take this time to complain about how my dear, sweet brother has come to favor you over me despite the advantages of shared blood and time that I believed myself to hold.”

The lady bestowed a faintly ridiculous look upon him as she reached across the table to select a hearty piece of sliced meat for her plate. It was still warm, freshly glazed with a thick syrup.

“That could hardly be true,” To Lady Baratheon’s relief, Matarys had taken to her at once upon her arrival to the castle. Lost after the unexpected death of his father and suddenly finding himself lonelier given Valarr’s frequent absences after his appointment, the younger prince had been glad to have someone to train with him in the yard and study with him during the days when the frigid rain poured from the sky. “It is only that I spend much time with him as of late.”

Valarr’s mother, the Lady Jena Dondarrion, had additionally been incredibly kind in her receival of the lady, yet the woman was mourning her husband with such immense grief that she did not wish to be a bother. Lady Jena had summoned her for tea on quite a few occasions since she had arrived, welcoming her warmly into her chambers and inquiring politely about all manner of information regarding the Lady Baratheon and her family. The sadness that lingered about the older woman’s gaze never dispersed, despite the tender, genuine smiles that she gave when the lady spoke of her own mother and siblings and tales from Storm’s End. The lady was still unsure if her presence made the enduring of such a loss easier or more difficult – but when Lady Jena, eyes welling with tears, had grasped her hands within her own and expressed how sincerely happy she was for both of them, she had been upon the verge of crying herself.

The prince sighed, sinking down further into his chair as he stared down at his plate. Noticing his stillness, the lady picked up the piece of meat she had selected and reached forth to drop it upon his plate instead. When his eyes darted up to hers, she pointed at the food with her fork meaningfully before selecting another one for herself.

“I hardly see him these days.” Valarr murmured pensively, gazing down at the meat for another moment before raising his knife and fork to begin cutting into it.

“You are doing important work.” The lady sliced into her own piece with a raise of her brows, lifting a cubed portion to her mouth and chewing. The savory, rich flavor paired with the sugary glaze so wonderfully that her eyes lit up and she began eagerly cutting another piece before she had even finished the first. While the cooks in Storm’s End had never made anything that fell short of delicious, the food prepared in the Red Keep had reached a quality of flavor that astounded her even after moons had passed.

“Am I?” At the darkening of his tone, her eyes jumped up in surprise, mouth still full. She blinked at him, still, before swallowing and setting her cutlery down beside her plate. A shadow had crossed over his fair countenance, a thundering splash of dark ink over the splendid variation of his watercolor eyes.

He exhaled a deep breath, before pressing a hand to his temple and rubbing it in frustration. “Just this morning, I listened to Lord Penrose prattle on about possibly importing sapphires from the Summer Isles for his daughters. What one chest of sapphires might do for the Realm, I cannot say. Yet I heard about it for the better part of three hours.”

Lady Baratheon had, once, experienced the unique pleasure of standing upon the receiving end of Lord Ronnel Penrose’s ramblings over a topic that was of little consequence. The man had spoken of ivy overgrowth for such a long time that she had begun to count the number of grains within the wooden floorboards beneath her gown to make it more bearable. She had gone to great lengths to avoid such a conversation from occurring again, no matter how good-natured the lord was. A wince crossed her face.

“That is…rather unfortunate, yes.” The words were pained as they fell from her lips, her gaze wandering down to the tablecloth, staring at the silvery thread embroidered onto its edges. Valarr stared down discouraged silence as the crisp breeze skimming in from atop the dark waters of the bay rustled the sheer curtains near the balcony.

“I do not believe my father wasted his time with such nonsense,” He muttered, bitter aching evident in each syllable that he spoke. “But it is all I seem to do. Inconsequential matters that have no true meaning.”

The lady’s expression shifted into something with resonant understanding, the tiny fists of a small helplessness tugging at the thin strings of her heart as she watched him wrestle with an agony that was unimaginable. The days differed and as did his mourning – there were mornings when he would wake with a smile and kiss her face softly, and mornings when she would find him staring out of the window, clutching onto a small wooden dragon that Baelor had whittled for him during his childhood. She could listen patiently to his verbalized anguish and hold him tightly when he cried, but she could not take the grief from him, nor could she temporarily bear the burden of it to provide him with respite.

“You have only just begun as Hand,” Her voice had lowered to match his, eyes cautious and observant as they watched him. “It shall take some time to adjust to.”

“I do not have time,” The response was so sudden that she could determine at once that he had been dwelling upon the matter at length for much of the day. His expression contorted with pain before he ran a hand over his face to banish it, letting his arm drop to the table beside his plate. “I must – I must be able to do this correctly, or how can I possibly hope to be king?”

Her eyes dropped again, electing for the more arduous journey down to the ornamental rug beneath the table that time. Silence had descended again, fraught with tension and Valarr’s acute hurting as the lady found herself longing for her mother’s lovely comforting or her father’s stern wisdom. She often settled for polite, reserved expressions of her remorse, or for physical acts of comfort that came more naturally to her, as she had found. Closing her eyes briefly, she grit her teeth before allowing the words within her mind to spill freely.

“I imagine even your father did not wake up one morning and suddenly find himself knowledgeable on … on the distribution of royal funds or the management of land disputes or the most ideal trade agreements with other nations,” Lady Baratheon stumbled over the examples, pulling them from thin air as she waved her hand dismissively to indicate the specifics did not matter much. As Valarr looked up to her face, startled, she cast her gaze a painting upon the wall and continued in a rush. “But the impossible expectation you are placing upon yourself shall destroy the process entirely if you view it as such. You cannot magically possess skill and knowledge and wisdom without allowing for the days necessary for their creation.”

Tilting her head and grimacing, she placed her hands in her lap and pressed them together tightly. “Although I am hardly one to be preaching of patience, as we both know well.”

Wishing desperately that she had inherited her mother’s delicacy and graceful manner of speaking then, the lady faintly wondered if she had been too brash and upset Valarr further when he was already so clearly disturbed.

“Yet you are the one with the sense to remind me of it,” When he spoke again, his voice had grown gentler and more wistful. When she looked upon him, her heart throbbed weakly in her chest. “No one tells me things so plainly any longer.”

She gave a tiny breath of agreement. The elaborate knitting of fantastic and significant lies occurred with such frequency within the halls that she worried it would leave her paranoid if she dwelled upon it for too long. “Plain truths are all I am truly capable of providing, yet they do not seem to have much place at this castle.”

“No place at all,” The prince sighed, exhausted. His eyes drifted about their chambers and over to the balcony, fixed upon a sight in the distance she could not see. “This is where plain truths come to die.”

At the sight of her husband’s returning melancholia, she reached out to slip her hand into his and draw his attention back to her and away from the endless horizon that could lead sailors to ruin if they fixated their eyes upon it and ignored the rocks in the water.

“There is one that I would like to tend to then,” Her thumb traced the purple veins upon the back of his hand. “That you are worthy of your position and of your role as heir. That you are honorable and kind and men of far worse character and adequacy have sat upon that chair and felt completely deserving.”

Valarr stared down at their joined hands before he turned his over to squeeze hers tightly, as if her calloused palm was a coarse rope, drenched in seawater, keeping him from going under. The tiny reply threatened to damage her battered heart permanently. “But I am not him.”

She was silent for a very long time. The brief flash of insight that had struck her had disappeared, blown out into the dreary afternoon with the wind. Lady Baratheon had no more wisdom to offer him, nor could she conjure up a sweet phrase to clean his festering wound with.

“I am glad for that,” When she did answer, it was before she was truly ready to speak. Committing to it with a closing of her eyes, annoyed at herself, she explained with hasty clarification. “It is only that, selfishly, I would not want you to be anyone else.”

She heard the scratching of his chair against wood, the hurried nature of his steps as she opened her eyes in time to see him drop to his knees before her, head falling into her lap. Valarr held onto her legs, his face buried atop her thighs as he took a quick, shaky breath. Before she could open her mouth to apologize for making anything worse, Valarr nodded and shifted his gaze to look up at her with exhausted tenderness. Lady Baratheon’s hand found his hair, smoothing it back and letting her fingers rest entangled with the silver section upon the back of his head.

Taking hold of her fork with her other hand, she skewered the piece of meat she had cut and offered it to him with a raise of her brows. A grateful glimmer appeared in his eyes and he accepted it.

If the laces of the dress decorating her body were pulled any tighter, the Lady Baratheon believed she might lose her breath and faint to the floor in an unconscious heap. The candles had been burning for some time as evening had fallen and the stars wandered out to glitter playfully beyond the blurry windowpanes that reflected the tiny flames. Her lady’s maid tugged once again at the corset issuing a credible threat to the integrity of her ribcage and the lady’s eyes squinted with disgruntled strain as she gazed at herself within the long, ovular mirror before her.

“All finished, my lady.” Talla bestowed upon her a sympathetic smile as she tilted her head to appraise herself in the shining glass.

“It is perfect, thank you.” Speaking left her winded as her chest stretched against the fabric binding her form. No sooner had the words fallen from her lips than Valarr entered, flustered and in a rush, it would seem, from the way he was searching about their bedside for something he had apparently lost.

“Are you ready?” Both her and Talla watched in confusion as the prince dropped to the ground and began patting the carpet beneath their bed. She felt the young woman next to her start to rush forth to aid him, but the lady placed a hand upon her shoulder and shook her head silently. Valarr could certainly find that which he was hunting for without requiring the poor girl to get on her hands and knees and help him.

“Yes, we can depart when you have…finished whatever it is you are doing.” She tilted her head, amusement twinkling in her gaze as she grinned down at him while he crawled further underneath the wooden frame of their bed.

“I am looking for something.” Valarr grumbled back, only causing her smile to widen.

Shaking her head lightly, the lady laughed and turned back towards the mirror, reaching up to adjust one of the pearls that Talla had woven into her hair.  “That much I have gathered, yes.”

“I have misplaced my – ” A pleased breath was given in indication that the prince had succeeded in his search for the missing item. She heard a rustle of fabric as he retreated out from underneath the bed. He was in the middle of rising and turning to lift his prize – a dazzling dragon pendant with a ruby set within it – when his face fell.  “What are you wearing?”

Her eyes darted over to his within the mirror as he stared at her questioningly, a frown upon his lips. A complementary one graced her own out of habit and she smoothed down the front of the dress, as if it might get impossibly tighter. “A gown.”

“That much I have gathered,” She assigned him a dry look at his repetition of her words, and the way his eyes trailed a path down the fabric upon her with faint concern. “So I suppose my question is not what but why?”

Lady Baratheon did not need to possess great deductive prowess to imagine the reason for her husband’s confusion. Yet instead of addressing it plainly, she chose to remove her gaze from him and remain obtusely ignorant whilst Talla dabbed droplets of rich floral oil to the skin upon her collarbone.

“Does it not suit me?” She inquired coolly, as Talla’s eyes flickered between her lady and the prince in timid worry. It was Valarr’s turn to offer her a laconic gaze, before he crossed the space between them to brush his fingers against her cheek.

“You could make a sack of grain look exquisite,” The prince told her firmly, leaving no room for argument nor bickering nor misunderstanding. “But you know well that is not what is meant.”

As Valarr’s hand lowered to rest upon her back, coaxing her silently to turn around and face him, she let out a sigh. The dress she had selected for the feast being held in the Queen’s Ballroom that evening was a magnificent example of dressmaking. Its low neckline was adorned with intricate beading that caught the glint of the firelight when she turned, the detailing forging a journey over the swell of her breasts and down to the waist, where the corset was embroidered with elaborate patterning. The sleeves were long and of a softer material, flowing each time she moved her hands to reveal further embellishments upon the interior of the arms. Jewels sparkled at the waistline, bright and large and glittering to accentuate her figure.

Lady Baratheon did not believe the prince took issue with any aspect of the dress save for its color: a rich, deep shade of red.

When her gaze fell from his again, his brow furrowed and he lowered his voice to a hushed murmur. “Did you not wish to wear the one your mother has sent?”

Her eyes shot to the gown lying upon her bed: a beautiful, golden dress that her lady mother had sent as a gift for her birthday. It was everything she loved in a dress – the familiar color, the pearl detailing, the lightness of the airy fabric. Inhaling, the lady shrugged her shoulders in valiant effort to appear unconcerned.

“I thought this one might be better.” The explanation was brief; she held no desire to debate the decision at length nor reveal that it had troubled her so. Yet it was far too late for that, when Valarr’s keen eyes had determined the issue the moment he saw the dress upon her. Talla had slipped quietly into the next room to give the pair a moment to speak in private.

Valarr’s expression shifted into one of distinct perception. “Better for whom?”

The lady huffed a stubborn breath in response, eyes still fixed upon the ground. Sighing, Valarr leaned forward to kiss the crown of her head. His lips brushed against her forehead as he continued. “I, myself,would love to see you in the other.”

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to Valarr and blinked uncertainly before he captured her lips in his own tenderly, hands tightening upon her waist as he dug his fingers into the scarlet fabric. She kissed him back at once, hungry and wanting and in need of release for the tense energy that had been imbued into her with each tightening of the crimson gown. Her hands tangled in his hair immediately as his conquest deepened, eyes closing as she felt his hand begin to move to the back of her laces. She smiled against his mouth, knowing and wanting and accepting, before the pair began to stumble clumsily towards the bed, far too concerned with their bodies to mind being graceful.

“And since it is my request,” Valarr’s breath ghosted over her jawline before she pushed him down upon the bed, hands finding his chest and shoving hard. His cheeks were rosy and flushed as he grinned up at her while she took the heavy skirts of her gown into her hands to climb on top of him, settling comfortably on his hips before he reached up to continue undoing the corset constricting her chest. She could feel his arousal beneath her as the layers of the dress parted so that she might roll herself over him. He groaned quietly, fingers beginning to work with more intense urgency. “I shall aid you in changing.”

The prince rose to sit as he yanked at the constraints of the gown, pressing wet kisses along the expanse of her neck and her chest as she reached up to tug the neckline down further, paying no mind to the delicate material. Her lips parted as her eyes fluttered closed, rocking her waist forward again in order to hear the low, needing moan that left the prince’s mouth and imprinted upon the soft curve of her breast. Timeliness and haste had been entirely forgotten as the gown begin to slide from her body and Valarr was able to fully attach his lips to her chest, teeth nipping at her sharply in the way he knew would make her hiss and pull on his hair. He enjoyed it, she knew, and she did not hesitate to take fistfuls of it whenever she could. His pretty eyes would turn glassy for a moment, dazed and unfocused, pupils blown dark and wide. And then his shining lips would seek out her warmth again, curling around her chest as he suckled at her breasts.

Her hands then descended down to the front of his chest to undo the silver buckle of his belt, nimble as they worked against the cold metal. It took great effort to wrestle her body from the confines of her gown, involving much twisting and shifting and aid from Valarr’s hands, always eager to please and rid her of superfluous things like clothing. Valarr whispered a curse beneath his breath as she returned to his lap, straddling his hips and teasing him by hovering over him just enough to allow him to feel her own arousal, sticky and warm. One hand fell upon his chest as she kissed him fiercely, before she lowered him down again onto his back and took him into her hand while she sat on his thighs.

Breathless with glossed lips and desperate eyes was how she adored to render him before she sunk down onto him fully. It was not always as such – she would intentionally provoke him during the day upon occasion to ensure she would end her evening face down in their feathered pillows, robbed of speech and breath and thought, a stray tear streaking down her face as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave purple bruises along them. Valarr would kiss them tenderly after, murmuring quiet apologies into her skin, but she would simply haul him up by his hair and remind him with a pleased grin that she had gotten exactly what she wanted.

She could not afford to be so delightfully ruined that night, not when an engagement awaited them within the Queen’s Ballroom and Lady Baratheon was expected to smile and sit straight and curtsy and dance before a gathered audience who wished to lay eyes upon their future queen. And it pleased her equivalently to bear witness to the identical wreck she could bring him from her coveted seat over him, one hand wrapped around him and stroking while the other reached forward to raise his own hand to her lips. She ran her tongue over his finger before pulling it into her mouth. Valarr tasted akin to the smell of the spiced oils he poured into his baths, and the ring he wore was cool and tangy as she ran her teeth over it.

The prince squirmed beneath her at this and she cooed at him in near mocking, eyes glittering in satisfaction as he began to twitch in her hand. Only then did she finally give him what he wanted, lowering herself down onto him with a quiet breath, releasing his hand to steady herself upon his chest. It was her given name that was breathed reverently, as it always was – never darling endearments, per her own request.

But Valarr’s eyes gained clarity a moment later and he sat up quickly, rolling them over and pinning her beneath his weight, hands upon either side of her head. Her eyes flashed in excited challenge, illuminating like blazing torches in the depth of an inky night, but her breath caught in her chest as he drove into her at once.

She felt her eyes close as he leaned forward to cover her fully, his form remaining over her as he rocked his hips into her again, his expression growing more serious as he watched her lips part and her legs widen to account for the sweet intrusion.

“You need not adorn yourself with anything but me,” He murmured, rolling himself forward once more to bury inside of her cunt fully. Her head leaned back into the pillows, her hands reaching up to wrap around his neck, wishing she could rake her nails down his back without digging them into the fabric of his tunic. Valarr’s eyes had grown sharp and serious, making her stomach coil and her entrance flutter as she pulled him in further. “To prove to the court that you are mine and that you belong here exactly as you are.”

The two of them were late for the feast.

It was a resplendent evening, a small gathering of noble lords and ladies who had come to celebrate the tenth name day of Valarr’s young cousins Aelor and Aelora. While the hall was smaller than the additional spaces that hosted balls and gatherings, the massive mirrors that lined the walls created an illusion of endless extension, the decadent trays of frosted cakes and sugared tarts and fruit pies seeming to multiply in extravagant replication as one gazed into the looking glass. It captured the torchlight and candlelight, nurtured it with tender care, and heightened the magnitude of the glow as it was relinquished back to the material world. Shimmering decorations had been brought out to hang from the overlooking balcony and the railings of the two halves of a split, spiraling staircase that muted winter florals had been gathered into enormous vases upon.

The young twins were seated at the main table beside their parents, straight and stiff as Lady Baratheon curtseyed deeply before them and expressed celebratory wishes for their day. Even considering the need to remain well-behaved and composed, she found it surprising that neither of the children seemed the least bit pleased at the gathering held in their honor. Shifting her attention, she further offered pleasantries to Rhaegal Targaryen and Alys Arryn, but it was only Alys who thanked her graciously for her presence and kind words. Valarr’s uncle muttered something inaudible beneath his breath as he stared off towards the tables before him, dazed, but when she paused and inquired as to what was said, he startled as if he had only just noticed her presence. Her eyes jumped to Valarr’s in silent wondering, but he did not seem perturbed by the peculiarity of his kin.

While Lady Jena smiled at her fondly, complimenting the pearl ornamentation that swam across the expanse of her gold gown, King Daeron merely offered her a polite smile and spoke to Valarr instead. The lady stood by his side uncomfortably, energy itching beneath her skin in restless insistence at the blatant manner in which she was relegated to a status equal to the gilded candelabra that sat upon the long table before the king. Matarys caught her eye and provided her an encouraging smile, yet the disappointment and frustration stirred within her was surely plain upon her face as she tried to force one in reply. For a moment, she selfishly wished that Valarr would include her within the conversation, that he would compel his grandfather to acknowledge her in some manner, but she waved the chimeric notion off with a lowering of her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to bring about some sort of strife, even if the situation ruffled her.

Her unease did not go unnoticed by her husband, and as Valarr helped her to her seat with chivalrous consideration, his hand lingered upon her arm in silent asking. Lady Baratheon lowered herself onto the plush scarlet cushion on her chair, offering Valarr a variation of the tight smile she had given to his brother. He raised her hand to his lips as he sat beside her, their previously established agreement bright in his eyes: that she could leave any event whenever she desired, and he would ensure she was permitted to go. It was a kind gesture – one made during the first time she had attended such a gathering. But she had not yet invoked it, worried that it might paint Valarr in a poor light if his lady wife retreated from the crowd to hide out in the yard instead of lingering dutifully and silently at his side.

So she picked at her dinner with a faintly sour expression upon her visage, unable to fully banish it as Valarr spoke candidly with his kin and she occasionally turned to listen to Matarys point out something amusing occurring across the ballroom. As the evening continued and the dancing began, lords and ladies approached the table to speak with the prince about all number of matters. Most were simply there to reintroduce themselves to the heir and shower him with kind phrases, yet Valarr listened attentively and smiled at all of them.

Lady Baratheon watched with curling jealousy as Matarys excused himself from the table to seek out Gulian and Jon, who were lingering out the edge of the room with goblets of wine in their hands. She watched him bound up to their friends with a bright smile, the trio immediately beginning to converse about something that had them bursting into laughter. It was the only corner of the hall that true joy seemed to bloom within – everything else appeared too poised, too proper. All of the dancing was done with careful, organized grace, all of the drinking confined to small sips from chalices held gingerly by their stems. Her heart ached fiercely in that moment for the revelry of her youth.

Memories of sneaking down the stairs with her brothers to gaze with starry-eyed wonder into the chaotic main hall at Storm’s End, their uncle Lyonel dancing on top of a table with mead spilling out of his mug as he was joined by more rowdy lords and ladies. Their father, spinning their mother around the ballroom until her cheeks had gone red with laughter and she had all but collapsed into his arms. Voices singing and shouting and cheering as they stomped along and clapped their hands, stuffing their faces with food and drink until the sun yawned and stretched over the open ocean. The magic had dulled slightly, when she had grown old enough to join in the festivities, but in that moment it seemed the most enchanting place in all the world.

 She wished to bring Valarr there, to see him smiling and laughing amongst her family and beneath the chandelier she’d once spun around under for so long that she had fallen to the floor, drunk and happy.

As one of the lords – she had missed his name, lost in her forlorn nostalgia – congratulated Valarr for the beauty of his bride, she was roused from her dreaming and felt eyes fall upon her expectantly. Her own darted between Valarr and the couple in front of them before she produced a smile that could only be described, in politest terms, as awkward.

As the lord and lady made their way towards the center of the table to present themselves to the king, Valarr rose from his seat and offered his hand.

“May I have this dance?” He inquired with a knowing glittering of his eyes, only accentuated when her shoulders dropped in grateful relief and she stood as well.

“You may indeed.” The lady answered appreciatively, eager to do something with her body aside from letting her discomfort oscillate precariously throughout it. As they ventured into the crowd, his hand squeezed hers in gentle reassurance.

“I am sorry,” It was spoken in a rush, her chin dropping as Valarr rested one hand on the waistline of her gown and used the other to raise hers gently. Her eyes jumped to the pair dancing beside them, to the way their own widened at realizing who the prince was and his close proximity. Frustration welled up into the cavity of her chest, and she attempted not to huff a sigh. Gritting her teeth, she lowered her voice. “I am trying.”

“You are doing wonderfully,” His voice adopted her soft volume but was filled with ardent reassurance instead of the vexation painting each word of her own. As he began to lead her to the delicate melody played by the musicians atop the balcony, she felt the tension in her body ease slightly. “I have already told you, you need never apologize.”

The music was distantly familiar to her, a gentler version of a tune she had learned to dance to as a child. Lady Baratheon allowed herself to idly fall into an easy rhythm as he spun them past another lord and lady gracefully. When she spoke again, her tone matched the sullenness pooling in her eyes as she scowled down at the shiny wooden floorboards. They had been polished so pristinely she could nearly glimpse her own reflection. “Your grandfather hates me.”

Valarr shook his head to disagree, a sympathetic smile upon his face. “He does not hate you.”

“He does not like me.” The gloomy nature of her visage only increased. It had been bothering her from the very first introduction yet worsened considerably each time she was faced with the king and his apparent, polite disapproval.

“He likes you just fine.” The prince was quick to offer additional comfort, squeezing her waist soothingly before moving his hand to her back and tugging her closer. Her shoes clicked lightly atop the wood as she stepped forward, allowing him to draw her nearer. Lady Baratheon’s lips pressed together into a thin, tight line before she frowned again.

“He has spoken all of four or five words to me over the course of three months.” She reminded her husband, as her eyes drifted over to the head of the room again. The king had turned to speak with Lady Jena, the pair engaged in a quiet, serious discission. She cast her gaze to the floor, to the way her gown swished as she moved. Dancing with Valarr was exceptionally easy – he was elegant, fluid, gentle in his leading. She needed not think at all, not when she had memorized the steps long ago and knew well he would never be so careless as to tread upon her dress.

“Perhaps he does not have much to say.” The meek excuse was met with dull, unimpressed eyes. Valarr coughed lightly and then cleared his throat.

“I apologize,” He amended with a wince. The lady rolled her eyes, but the expression upon her face was nothing if not fond. “But truly, do not let it trouble you. There are many princes to wed to the Archon’s daughter, so all shall be well.”

The heart of the issue did truly lie in something beyond her knowledge or control. It was not as if she had intentionally sabotaged King Daeron’s plans to wed Valarr to a Tyroshi noblewoman, nor that she had craved power so fiercely that she had schemed a betrothal to the heir apparent. But she additionally knew how it must appear – their sudden engagement and wedding. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them to gaze into his with a disappointed look. “I knew I would not be what was desired and yet it stings worse somehow knowing I would not have stood a chance even if I were proficient at arranging afternoon tea or sewing floral embroidery.”

“My grandfather shall come around, I promise,” As Valarr raised his arm to twirl her slowly, she caught a hint of cinnamon from his hair. One of her hands came to rest upon his chest and he took her into his arms. “He has a kind heart, it is only wounded from my father’s passing. As more days go by, he shall understand why I chose to marry for love. Although I know well it is a privilege not afforded to many in my position.”

The string melody floating down from the balcony above seemed to fade to a dreamy murmur, alongside the hazy glow of the torchlight that reflected in his mesmerizing eyes. Her own looked between them with a small furrowing of her brow as she repeated his words. “For love?”

He had been smiling at her sweetly, but at her repetition, gradual realization dawned upon his face like a sleepy sun. She watched it bring uncertain hesitation to the creases at the corners of his eyes, glancing away from her as if the sight of her face burned, and to his lips, parting once or twice before he managed to produce a sound. “I only meant …”

“I love you,” She told Valarr at once. “You needn’t mean it any other way.”

The prince’s visage wavered, the veiled affection beneath his composed mask swelling with such crescendo it spilled out from his eyes into the curve of his cheeks and the tightening of his jaw. It seemed to ache in him tremendously, his arms tightening around her.

“I could not,” There was a trembling in his voice that made her heart long to sooth it from him. She watched as his gaze drank her in desperately, the truth of his affection finally given proper verbal form. “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. You could have driven my sword through my heart and I would have loved you still. I …”

Valarr trailed off, eyes falling from her and growing distant. As his silence stretched on, filled instead by the music and the quiet voices around them, she pressed against his chest in quiet confusion.

“Val?” The inquiry was a soft prompting to speak. When his attention returned to hers, there was immense guilt welling in his eyes.

“I knew it all along,” He whispered, tiny and forlorn and full of remorse. “When I proposed the lie of our betrothal to my father and my uncle, I knew that it would not be some grand burden to me. I wanted you, I wanted to marry you, I wanted to be your husband. It was not a sacrificial act to save you. It was selfish and I –”

“Be selfish.” As Valarr’s eyes widened, she offered him a tiny shrugging of her shoulders. The tune had changed to something slower, the bodies around them swaying leisurely to the tranquil music. The two of them were standing perfectly still. She tilted her head as she gazed at him, before shaking it softly. “I have never much minded your selfishness. You have never much blamed me for mine. Not during our courtship, nor now.”

The prince swallowed thickly, emotion catching in his throat. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I would never.”

“Then neither shall I. I shall love it, as I love all of you. Not in spite of anything, but because,” Lady Baratheon did not possess the ability to compose elegant poetry over the nature of her feelings. She could not devise beautiful sonnets of lyrical brilliance, nor could she even compile a lovely metaphor to compare it to anything of natural beauty. All she could do was explain in literal terms how she too was unable to do anything but. “It is no great difficulty nor thing that requires overlooking. It is like breathing.”

When he pulled her forth, she did not even have the time to appear surprised. He swept her up into his arms, lifting her feet from the ground and spinning her around before he buried his face in her shoulder and took a slow, shuddering breath.

“I love you,” Valarr breathed into her hair, before kissing the side of her face and cupping it within both hands. She could faintly hear murmuring around them, but she could not make out any words aside from the ones spoken to her by her prince. “I love you.”

He did not cease in saying it for the remainder of the night.

Valarr died in the spring.

Lady Baratheon did not get to gather his ashes for a moon after. All of the bodies that had been collected after the sickness swept through the city were burned upon death, with no time to risk funerals or mourning rituals. Those of the Targaryen household were preserved only because of their royal status. In that respect, she held a fortune that many other bereaved families in the city did not. The lady counted it neutrally amongst the things she was dimly cognizant of harboring gratitude for. When she lay awake at night, alone in her bed, she would stare up into the darkness and list them aloud into the stillness.

The first was that his death had been quick. He had not the time to suffer in agony nor be afraid of what lay upon the other side. Valarr had simply closed his eyes to sleep and never woken again. The overseeing maester, in vain attempt to console her, had pointed out that most who died of the illness did so gradually, in excruciating pain.

The second was that his family had been reunited again. Matarys had died the evening before. She had not even told her husband, not when he had been beginning to take ill as well and she did not wish to break his heart given that he would need his strength. Lady Jena had heard the lady’s screams from her room down the hall the morning Valarr had died, ill herself. Despite suffering the mildest symptoms of the three, she had not made it to the end of the week. Lady Baratheon wondered if her husband were happy to see his father again. Valarr had missed him so dearly.

The third was the funeral. For all the lamenting she had done over the House Targaryen, the lady understood well that Valarr was proud of his family and of his lineage. She wanted him to be burned properly, upon a traditional pyre, with the words spoken over him that had guided his ancestors to the next life since before they had arrived upon the Westerosi continent. She did not want him to get lost.

Her lady’s maid, Talla, had dressed her for the day. She chose one of the gowns that Jena had worn to mourn Baelor, simple and black with a tiny dragon stitched to the collar. When Talla showed it to her, the Lady Baratheon noticed that the young woman had embroidered a small, golden stag alongside the beast.

“I believe he would like it this way, my lady.” Talla had whispered hesitantly. Lady Baratheon could not answer, but her fingers ran over the stitching during the entire funeral. The sickness no longer held the city in its hallowed hands, but remnants of it lingered everywhere. Even amongst the living, no one had truly been spared.

When the bodies were burned – Valarr, Matarys, Lady Jena, and King Daeron – she had stood stiffly beside Queen Myriah Martell as the pyre caught flame. The older woman clung onto her arm as she wept, and the Lady Baratheon stared dully forth into the fire. Many of the silent sisters had died during the worst of the plague, and so there was only one available to collect all of the ashes. The lady assisted, yet it still took until nightfall.

The woman had nodded to indicate they were finished, and the lady had nodded in return. When she departed, Lady Baratheon lingered. Her eyes cast to the ground where the pair of them had been sweeping, searching in the moonlight to see if they had missed any of the ashes. Unable to determine if it were true or not, she simply sat down in the dry grass beside the space. Hours had passed when she heard approaching footsteps – the lady had expected the woman had returned, but found instead Daeron Targaryen.

“Please, cousin,” He had muttered in miserable exhaustion. “Do not sit here all night. Return to the castle.”

Lady Baratheon informed him faintly that she would not. When he offered to aid her in returning, she told him with cool finality that if he tried to move her from that spot, she would strike him. And when Daeron, in sincere attempt to her, had done just that, she struck him across the face so forcefully that it drew blood from his lip. The prince did not shout or strike her in rebuke – he simply lifted a hand to his mouth and stared at the scarlet staining it. He left without saying another word.

An hour later, footfalls crunched over the dying grasses once more. Cold eyes had flicked up, expecting to see Daeron once again, but it was Maekar Targaryen she looked upon. She stared at him with clouded, muted eyes.

He beckoned her to leave, and she replied that she would not. Maekar was silent as he looked down upon her, before dropping to one knee before her. There was no sign of sympathy nor sorrow in his countenance, nor in his voice when he opened his mouth to speak again.

“You aren’t leaving him here,” The prince’s voice was rough, practical. “He is not here. He is not anywhere.”

Her eyes had grown as wide as the full moon above her, saucers of startled shock.

The elder prince seized the opportunity provided by his disarming of her to raise himself up off of the ground, reaching forward to lift her into his arms. As she had promised Daeron, she began to push against the prince’s body and wriggle from his grasp, but he held tight. Lady Baratheon had then started to thrash wildly as he carried her away, screaming so loudly that the shrieking broke raw against her throat. Maekar huffed in frustration but did not release her, no matter how arduous it was to walk with a woman who was throwing the entire weight of her body against him. He grunted when her elbows drove into his back and hissed when her nails dug into his arms and the side of his face, raking bloody scratches into his skin. But he did not drop her, nor did he do anything except prevent her from escaping.

She screamed with such desperation that it must have sounded, to anyone who might have heard, that he was killing her. It took almost a half of an hour for her to wear herself out. Maekar, now bruised and bloody, merely shifted her from over his shoulder to cradle her in his arms. That was the first time that she had allowed herself to cry. The lady sobbed like a small child until she had tired herself enough to sleep.

Maekar was there when she woke. He did not allow her to sit in her bed and stare at the walls, as she had taken to doing. He pulled her up out of it, sat her down to eat breakfast on the balcony. The prince did not demand she do anything else but stare at it. While they sat there, he asked after what she had done with her days before. She repeated her routine to him monotonously.

Every day after went as such. Maekar Targaryen ran a strict program. She was up at dawn, made to sit before her breakfast – the eating of it was entirely up to her – and then hauled down to the training yard. He put a wooden sword in her hand and told her to swing it. She had refused the first time, and he had taken his own to strike her with it – hard, across the arm. Lady Baratheon had stared pointedly down at the dirt beneath her boots, and he hit her again. It occurred four more times before she tightened her grip and swung hers in fuming retaliation.

“Go fuck yourself.” She had spat, aiming to crack her fake sword atop his skull. He had blocked her attempt but nodded in firm approval.

“Good,” Maekar said, before advancing with his training weapon. She met it this time in ready stance, eyes blazing. “Better angry than still. You cannot outrun it, but you’re as good as dead yourself if you’re still.”

He put her on a horse and sent her out to ride and hunt. He sat her down in the library and made her memorize the battle tactics used during the Blackfyre rebellion. He made her sit upon small council meetings as matters of the Realm were finalized.

The days became a rushed blur. The nights were what she dreaded most.

“Tell me of her,” The lady murmured dully one night when sleep cruelly denied her its numbing embrace. From his seat at her bedside, Maekar’s expression changed fractionally, a faint indication of how poignant of a haunting remnant she was to him. The upholstered chair he sat upon creaked as he shifted. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling. “Tell me of the reason you keep this watch over me.”

It was not solely for Valarr’s sake, nor the cherished memory of Baelor and the guilt that had torn open a gaping wound in the elder prince’s heart. The stoic necessity with which Maekar Targaryen remained devotedly by her side as even the heavenly bodies changed their guard was driven by a resonance of the soul. As his son had, he had cast his eyes to her and seen his own wrecked, shattered self.

She, doomed to be a half-mirror and semi-parallel for those with dragon’s blood and cursed bones. Her being darkened like seawater beneath a fading moon and starless sky, and upon her surface, visual fragments of Aerion and Maekar grew misshapen and distorted and fractured. Yet enough was retained for the reflection to form and contain substantial representation. Lady Baratheon had shown them all of their worst moments and deepest darknesses, simply through the trajectory of her character and existence.

Valarr had not searched for himself in her eyes nor her fists nor her heart. When he looked upon her, he had only ever seen her, exactly as she was.

Maekar did not indulge in her request for some time. But when he finally began to speak of Dyanna Dayne, he did not cease, even after the sun had risen and peaked through the open window to listen in as well. When he finished, he was silent for a long while before he asked her to speak of Valarr. And so she did, beginning her tale with the crescent moon over Ashford, a sword in her hand, and a face she did not recognize. 

Lord Tommard Baratheon, youngest nephew of Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, married the Lady Della Caron in the year 211 AC. An extravagant tourney was thrown in celebration, attended by many of the prominent families across the Stormlands and beyond, including attendees from House Tyrell and House Lannister.

To the surprise of many lords, the event was graced with the presence of one Prince Maekar Targaryen, and his second son, Prince Aerion Targaryen, who entered the lists and competed during the joust. It was said that the prince was unusually silent and honorable, and did not once remove his draconic helm during the contests. He unhorsed three riders during the first day and defeated two upon the second. A match upon the third day was completed in fourteen tilts, and the defeating of Lord Tybolt Lannister ensured the prince’s position as one of the five decided victors of the tourney.

Of additional note, after winning the final tilt of the long joust, Prince Aerion did not choose to crown a queen of love and beauty. The wreath of florals was instead carried over to the Targaryen pavilion and dropped onto the ground before its entrance. He was not seen for the remainder of the wedding festivities, nor did anyone catch sight of his face until his official return to court from Lys in 218 AC.

author's final note:

first of all, i would love to share the inspiration for the given name i selected for our reader! lenore was taken from the edgar allen poe poem of the same name, but i wished to invert the perspective as i knew it would be the bride mourning her groom. her character is also influenced by ethel cain’s song tempest, which is the only song on that album that features a different perspective from the main character. 

while it’s a controversial decision as i did want to ensure the fic had potential for readers to self-insert, i did choose to mention it twice in the story and here is my thought process behind that. i chose to have daeron say it to her because of his dragon dreaming and prophetic visions, as it implied he not only knew her without meeting her but also that he subconsciously knew her and valarr’s fate. it additionally appeared during their wedding vows again because of the martial theme within the poem I’d selected it from, and because I wanted to again allude to the ending through finishing chapter 8 with the last line of the vows.

as for our ending: for those of you who have read my other longer work, it is likely obvious that i am rather preoccupied with grief. i do not always get the opportunity to discuss it at length verbally so it does appear quite often in my writing instead. 

from the moment i decided to write this story, i knew exactly how it was going to end. it had been already decided by the confines of canon, and since i wanted this to be a shorter series, keeping it within the established world as much as possible provided a decent boundary for me not to get carried away.

but the more i wrote about the characters, the more i wished to change the end. i kept reasoning with myself and going back and forth, mostly because i simply wished to give them more time. it was a tough choice, but the more i thought it over, the more i realized it reflected my own wishes over the reality of grief and of loss. more time is always wanted, no matter how long or how little is had. 

i was worried over whether the ending would disappoint people, or that it would make it seem as if the story was told for a payoff that was ultimately unsatisfactory. but, as difficult as it is to capture in writing as we are often expectant of some grand reasoning behind death, that is occasionally just the course of life and there is nothing more to it. i do not think a tragic ending makes a story any less compelling, because it is more than its final moments. this is a big reason why i didn’t include too much detail of valarr’s death / her mourning and most of this final part focused on their marriage. as i am quite endeared to valarr and lenore, and certainly biased, i do truly believe the essence of their story lies not in their great tragedy, but in each instance shown of understanding and love. 

all of this long note and all of this fic to say: the value of love is not determined by its length nor erased in its absence.

thank you for reading