“Living In Ya Head Rent Free Ya Muppet”

"Is he supposed to be this fat?" 

You gasped, swatting at your good-brother's arm. "Do not pick on my son. He's just a baby."

"A rather fat one," Maekar muttered, ignoring your glare.

You glance down at Valarr, who sits in your arms, drooling on the embroidered flowers on the neckline of your dress. Sure, he was a bit bigger than most babies you've seen, but you weren't worried about it. The maester assured you that it was a good sign, that it meant he was healthy. That he would grow big and strong, like his father.

"You weren't exactly a small baby yourself, brother." Baelor's voice filled the room. 

You looked up, watching as your husband moved to your side. His strong hand carefully cradled Valarr's little head for a moment, as he placed a kiss on the boy's brown curls, before he pressed one on your lips. You leaned your back against his chest, as he wrapped his arms around you.

"I seem to recall our mother's numerous complaints about your giant head."

You struggled to stifle your laughter, quickly leaning down to rest your lips upon Valarr's brow. The baby cooed, seemingly happy with your affection.

Maekar muttered something under his breath before he walked off, leaving your little family alone.

"I think you've wounded him, husband."

"I think he'll live, him and his giant head," Baelor quipped, backing away. "May I?" He asked, gesturing towards your son.

You nod, passing the squirming boy over to his father. Your back silently thanked you as he lifted Valarr out of your arms. 

Chubby little hands grabbed at Baelor's clothes, trying to reach the king's hand pin that sits on the breast of his black doublet. Your husband didn't let him reach it, managing to divert the baby's attention elsewhere as he walked over to the balcony. You admired them from a distance, watching as Baelor spoke to your son softly, pointing out certain areas of the city below.

You walk closer, taking your place by your husband's side. Your hand is absentmindedly rubbing his back, as you listen to him continue speaking to your son.

"It will all be yours one day," he says.

You don't miss the way he holds Valarr a little tighter. As if hoping to protect him from the future. Being the future heir to the iron throne was not an easy thing. Your husband knew that better than anyone, being the firstborn son of the king himself.

"The people will look to you for strength and guidance. It will be hard. It will undoubtedly overwhelm you at times, but your mother and I shall do our best to prepare you."

You remain quiet, simply watching the two of them interact. Little Valarr's chubby fingers were wrapped around his father's much larger ones. Baelor laughs, looking delighted as Valarr begins to babble, as if he understood his father's words. 

Your husband drew the child closer to his chest. Valarr, in turn, begins to gnaw at his father's hand. Baelor lets him, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek. It doesn't take long before the baby loses interest, instead choosing to chew on his own fist, humming softly.

Your eyes look up to your husband's face. 

It's a handsome one. 

You can see the wheels turning in his head. His eyes seem to be far away, as if his mind was somewhere else, instead of here in the moment.

"What are you thinking? Is something wrong?" You ask, running your hand along your husband's shoulder blades.

Baelor shook his head, chuckling softly to himself. His eyes still admire your son.

"No, nothing is wrong," he answers, his voice gentle. "I was simply thinking that my brother may not have been entirely wrong."

Your brows scrunched together, puzzled by his words, "About what?"

Baelor looked up at you with a guilty, amused expression. Like a child who's been caught sneaking sweets before bedtime.

"He is a bit heavy."

It takes you a moment to understand. 

You scoffed, taking your baby back into your arms. Valarr made no protest, tucking his face into the side of your neck.

"Unbelievable," you chided. "Come on, my sweet boy. Let us escape these merciless needlers and their cruel japes."

You spin around, dress swooshing behind you, as you abandon your husband on the balcony. You're unsure of where you're going, but you won't subject your child to any more unnecessary comments about his size. Baelor quickly follows after you, trying to make his apologies.

You stopped dead in the doorway, a smile already spreading across your face. There, in the center of the room, sat your husband, perched on a low, cushioned stool, his long legs stretched out before him, looking for all the world like a captured dragon. His head was tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips were pressed into a thin line of exaggerated patience.

And on his lap, wielding a small, paint-smeared brush with the utmost gravity, was your daughter. Little Rhaenys, barely three years old, was dressed in a miniature gown of soft blue silk that was already sporting a fresh daub of crimson paint. Her dark hair, so like her father’s, was a wild cloud of curls around her cherubic face, a few stray strands sticking to her cheeks. Her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth, a sure sign that she was engaged in a task of monumental importance.

"Rhaenys, ñuhys qēlītsos” you said softly, announcing your presence. You were utterly captivated by the scene before you and didn't want to startle her into ruining her masterpiece. "What are you doing?"

Her head snapped up, her violet eyes—mismatched—lighting up with pure joy. "Mama! Mama, look! I'm making Papa into a princess!"

Valarr’s eyes flew open, and he gave you a look of such comical, long-suffering despair that you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. A smear of bright, rouge-like red was daubed unceremoniously across his cheekbones, and what appeared to be kohl—your precious, expensive kohl from Lys—was smudged inelegantly around his eyes, making him look like a very handsome, very startled raccoon. His hair was a disaster, tufts of it pulled into tiny, lopsided braids that stuck out at odd angles, secured with ribbons of red and black.

"Princess” he repeated "I am a princess. A very pretty one, apparently." He shot you a desperate look. "Help me."

"Oh, I don't know” you said, gliding into the room, you crouched down beside them "You make a rather lovely princess, my love. Though I think the rouge is a little heavy on the left side."

Rhaenys nodded sagely, her little brow furrowed. "It's war paint, Mama. Papa is a warrior princess."

"Of course” you agreed , biting your lip to keep from laughing. "A Targaryen warrior princess. Visenya envies your braids from the dark lands of the afterlife”

Valarr groaned, a sound of pure suffering. "Gods, you are both conspiring against me." He tried to shift, but Rhaenys immediately placed a small, paint-covered hand on his chest.

"No, Papa! You have to sit! I'm not done!"

"But sweetling," he tried, his voice wheedling, "your mother is here. Surely she should be the princess. She's much prettier than I am."

Rhaenys considered this, tapping the paintbrush against her chin and leaving a small red spot. She turned her head to look at you, her gaze critical.

"Hmm," she said, the sound so much like a miniature maester that you nearly laughed again. "Mama's hair is too neat. Princess hair has to be messy. And she doesn't have a crown."

"Ah, but I do” you said, winking at Valarr. You reached up and pulled out the ornate silver-and-ruby pin that held your braids in place. "See? A crown for a princess."

Rhaenys shook her head with such violent certainty that her curls bounced. "No, that's not a crown. There’s a better one." She gestured to the large, heavy circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies that sat abandoned on a small table nearby.

Your eyebrows shot up. "You want to put that on your Papa's head?"

"Papa needs a proper crown” she declared. "A princess crown." She scrambled off his lap and toddled over to the table. Valarr and you shared a look of pure parental panic as she strained on her tiptoes to reach it. The crown was heavier than she was, and you were already moving to intercept her when she grabbed it, grunting with effort.

"Rhaenys, careful, darling” he said.

"Papa, lower your head!”

Valarr, who would command armies and face down enemies without flinching, immediately obeyed his three-year-old daughter. He leaned his head forward, and with a solemn reverence that was hilarious, Rhaenys placed the crown upon his head. It was, of course, far too big. It slipped down over his brow, covering his eyes and coming to rest on the bridge of his nose.

"There” she declared, her voice full of pride. "Now Papa’s a beautiful princess."

Valarr pushed the crown up with a finger, peering out from beneath it. He looked at you, "A princess” he repeated. "Am i a pretty princess, my love?"

You couldn't hold it in any longer. A laugh bubbled up from your chest, uncontrollable. Valarr’s lips twitched, and then he was laughing too. Rhaenys, hearing you, began to giggle.

"Let me see” you said, wiping tears of mirth from your eyes. "The complete picture." You stepped back to take them in. There was your husband, the Prince of Dragonstone, with his dark eyes, his red cheeks, his lopsided braids, and the crown perched on his head.

"Papa is the best princess” Rhaenys announced, throwing her arms around his neck. Valarr caught her, holding her close, careful not to transfer too much paint to her gown. He pressed a kiss to her temple, leaving a faint red smudge on her skin. The single action made you want to give him 10 more children.

"I am the luckiest princess in all of Westeros."

You walked over to them, your own eyes stinging. You knelt down, wrapping your arms around them both, breathing in the scent of your family.

"And I” you whispered, "am the luckiest lady in the world, to have such a beautiful princess for a husband and the bravest little dragon for a daughter."

Valarr kissed your hair softly, looking at you through those raccoon eyes.

"Just wait until the small council sees me”

THE UNBOWED

The first time you sailed into King’s Landing, the city emerged from the morning mist; red towers standing proudly above all else, making you feel so small in comparison.

You had come by ship for the voyage was far quicker by sea but it was not any less lonely. You were supposed to be accompanied by your cousins – daughters of Prince Maron. However, they had fallen ill with fever shortly before departure and the maester, cautious as ever, insisted they remain behind. 

Both of your cousins were devastated, meanwhile you felt a little lost and unsure. As a Dornish Princess who had never been to King’s Landing, you had a feeling that you would find yourself in a place that was completely different from what you were used to. And you were anxious about failing to fit in.

Your father was the youngest sibling of Queen Myriah and Prince Maron and you were his only daughter who had recently turned twenty years old. You had a feeling that this whole trip had been planned for you and your cousins to find husbands from Westeros. Perhaps King Daeron had to do something with this as well because he hoped to strengthen the alliance between Dorne and the rest of the Kingdom even further.

The excuse for your invitation was Queen Myriah’s name day that was supposed to be celebrated exceptionally grand. For that occasion, you had been gifted with the most beautiful Dornish gowns from your grandsire. Although calling them gowns was an overstatement, you realised as you stepped out of the ship and all the people were staring at you.

You fixed the thin fabric around your breasts as if it would help. Even though King’s Landing was also quite warm, no woman there was wearing a dress as revealing as yours. You blinked a few times, feeling their burning gaze.

“Princess?” The knight sent to guard you extended his hand towards you. “The carriage is waiting, Princess.”

You nodded at him and took his hand. At least his eyes were kind because they were trained to remain as such around a Lady.

Aunt Myriah was the one to greet you. She didn’t say anything about your dress but she was dressed much more modestly herself and her gown was made of Targaryen colours, which was something that made you feel quite sad. However, you decided not to bring this up. Of course she still remained a Dornish beauty but you were standing out with your outfit without any ally by your side. If only your cousins were there… You’d feel more powerful in a pack.

The Queen hugged you and walked you around her part of the castle but then she was being called upon and she left you alone to wander on your own. So you did, staring at the paintings on the wall. Below you, at the courtyard, two men were practising their sword skills.

The fierce one had silver hair and you wondered if he was one of your cousins. The other one was more plain looking. He had dark hair and he reminded you a bit of the men back in Dorne. His fighting style was calmer and more precise but not any worse than the other man’s.

You watched curiously as you looked down while leaning on one of the pillars when a young woman approached you while looking you up and down. You glanced at her. She was pretty; with curly ginger hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Who are you?” She asked, unsurely. The question sounded nearly like an accusal and you wondered if she had taken you for a whore.

“I could ask the same thing,” you smirked at her, still leaning on that pillar.

“I am Lady Jena of House Dondarrion. Prince Baelor’s betrothed,” she announced, a little annoyed.

“I am Princess (Y/N) Martell. Prince Baelor’s cousin,” you explained with a shrug and her eyes widened when she realised her mistake.

“Oh! Forgive me, Princess. I knew you would be coming but I did not expect that–”

“I know,” you assured her. “I have already realised that my dresses stand out here.”

Lady Jena cracked a smile and stood next to you as she looked down.

“I do wonder which one will win,” she changed the subject. Her eyes were full of admiration as she stared at the dark-haired man. You assumed he was your cousin Baelor.

“Which one usually does?” You inquired.

“Maekar, he is very strong. But also fussy, therefore Baelor often lets him win just to please his brother. He is very kind-hearted, my Prince,” Lady Jena explained to you.

“Is your union a love match?” You asked. She blushed, finding your question very straightforward. But you were from Dorne and you didn’t find anything wrong with this.

“Not really, no. It was an arrangement,” she explained. “But it is impossible not to adore him. Oh, look! He won!” She clapped her hands and you looked down.

The silver haired man – your cousin Maekar – was laying on the ground now. He was cursing and his brother laughed. At the sound of the clapping, he looked up. His face softened at the sight of Lady Jena and then his mismatched eyes found yours.

You held your breath. 

By the dining table you were sitting next to your Aunt. You asked her about Lady Jena. Apparently the betrothal between her and the Prince was not yet official. She was Queen Myriah’s lady-in-waiting.

“You could be my lady-in-waiting as well, sweet (Y/N),” your Aunt smiled at you. “Would you like that?”

“I am honoured, Your Grace,” you nodded. “But allow me to decide after I spend some time here. I am not yet sure if I would be able to feel at home here.”

“Of course, take your time,” she nodded.

King Daeron was asking you many questions about Dorne and about his sister who was your Uncle’s wife. You were more than glad to answer all his questions.

You were glancing at your cousins throughout the dinner. The youngest, Maekar, was still grumpy. You wondered if it was because of the duel with his brother or was it truly his nature.

The two in the middle seemed to live in their own world. One of them had a book on his lap he was reading throughout the meal. His name was Aerys.

The eldest – Prince Baelor – was smiling at you and you were smiling back, shyly.

After the meal, he approached you and you bowed your head.

“My Prince,” you greeted him.

“Please, spare the courtesy. We share the same blood,” he held your hand and leaned in to place a kiss on the back of it.

“Cousin,” you fixed yourself and he smiled.

“That’s better,” he teased. “It is a shame my other cousins could not come from Dorne.”

“A shame indeed. However, their health is the most important.”

“Of course,” Baelor nodded. “Are you excited for my mother’s name day? We are planning a small tournament.”

“I love tournaments,” you nodded.

“It brings me joy to see you here, truly,” Baelor’s smile widened. “You brought the Dornish smile with you, cousin.”

“You are way too kind,” you chuckled nervously and approached Maekar next. He was standing around and pretending he did not care about you but if it was true, he would have left the room already like Aerys and Rhaegel. “Cousin?” You smiled at him.

“Princess,” Maekar looked you up and down. “Are you not too cold?”

“Indeed, it does feel a bit chilly when you happen to be around,” you answered, hearing Baelor snort with laughter behind you. Maekar clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes.

“Either way, it is nice to meet you,” the Prince bowed his head.

“The pleasure is mine,” you smiled at him. 

“Forgive me, my brother is very straightforward," Baelor whispered.

“That is quite alright. I like that about people,” you admitted.

You could feel her eyes on you. Lady Dondarrion. She was gritting her teeth as she kept following you around the Keep.

Her betrothal to the Prince was supposed to be announced after the Queen’s name day so your aunt’s spotlight wouldn’t be stolen by her son’s announcement. Lady Jena had every right to call herself his betrothed already, though. The marriage contract was already prepared by her Lord Father and the King.

You didn’t understand why she felt the need to follow you around. After all, Prince Baelor was hers. And the fact he was spending most of his time with you was simply caused by the fact that you two were cousins who wanted to get to know each other more.

He loved to listen to your stories of Dorne. He promised to visit one day soon. And he was probably the only person – except for your Aunt – who was not looking at your revealing dresses with contempt. In fact, he would tell you every day that you looked beautiful.

You watched him train every day as you followed his every move with your eyes, smiling to yourself. He was an exquisite knight.

“Not many princelings and heirs to the throne are actually good knights,” you teased him.

“I am only what is expected of me,” he would answer with a slight blush, humble as ever.

You couldn’t help it but your heart was beating faster at the sight of him. The soothing sound of his voice was bringing heat to your cheeks and you were beaming with pride whenever you managed to make him laugh. A chill would travel down your spine whenever he wrapped his arm around your elbow to lead you somewhere. 

Still. He was not yours. And Lady Jena did not have to worry about the loyalty of a man as honourable as him.

In the meantime, your Aunt was introducing you to a lot of noble Lords and knights around the castle, only proving your suspicion that you had been sent to her to find a match. 

Some of them were handsome, some of them were rich, some of them were very kind despite their judging looks caused by your outfits. You were nice to them but in your head you kept comparing them to your cousin Baelor and none of them was even half as good.

“Why was Lady Dondarrion chosen for Baelor?” You asked your Aunt one evening when you were alone with her in her chambers, brushing her hair.

“We are trying to bring the realm together with marriages. Your uncle has already brought Dorne to the kingdom, now other houses wait for their alliances with the Targaryens,” she explained. “Many people are not happy with them on the throne so we seek alliances. Also, the Dondarrions are enemies of the Martells, do you remember? That means dealing with two birds with one stone.”

“I see,” you hummed to yourself. “I have also noticed the King is not so fond of marrying within the family.”

“Daeron prefers to extend his influence through royal marriages,” Queen Myriah told you. “Why are you asking?”

“Just curious,” you shrugged.

You loved the gardens because they reminded you of home and you liked to hide between the rose bushes while you sunbathed and listened to the people walking around, unaware of your presence. You had learned a lot of gossip this way. 

That day was no exception. You had already heard two knights confessing their love for one another – something not shocking at all for a Dornish woman. Still, it felt good to know their sweet little secret.

As you watched the clouds pass you by, feeling the sun warming your skin and smelling the roses, you felt pretty content. You began to seriously consider Queen Myriah’s proposal to stay here as her lady-in-waiting.

“Have you been invited to talk to her?” A young man’s voice interrupted you. You furrowed your brows. You recognised that voice. It belonged to one of the Lords you had been introduced to.

“Thankfully not yet and I hope I will not be. I believe they decided I was not worthy of her time,” another man snorted. “You were invited, though. How was it?”

“Boring,” the first man answered. You realised it was Lord Clegane.

“Can you even imagine if I took her home to my father? He would think I brought a whore from an Essosi brothel,” he laughed and the other man followed.

“Do you think she is a maiden? I highly doubt that. I have heard they don’t care about those things in Dorne,” the other man asked.

Your heart skipped a beat when you had your confirmation that the conversation was about you.

“Well, if she is not, I would not mind to bed her. But I would be a fool to marry her. Good luck to the King if he truly wishes to marry her off,” Lord Clegane chuckled cruelly and they both walked away.

You sat up as tears filled your eyes. It felt humiliating to find out that you were an object of such cruel gossip amongst the men. Perhaps the Red Keep would never be your home and it would be for the better to go back to Dorne as soon as the name day’s celebrations would end.

You waited a moment to make sure they would not see you and you walked out of the bushes onto the main path to hurry back to the castle. On the way to your chambers, you bumped into Baelor and Lady Jena walking together.

The sight of them being so close felt like another slap. You glanced at her with envy; her beautiful face, her proud posture, her elegant gown. She was a proper Westerosi Lady and you were nothing but an outsider; a stranger.

“Princess? Is everything alright?” Baelor asked, his voice full of worry at the sight of your face and dried out tears upon your cheeks.

“I am quite fine, thank you, cousin,” you mumbled out and walked away as fast as possible.

The celebrations were supposed to start on the next day and you found your solitude in the gardens again. While other ladies fussed about their dresses, you focused on creating a wreath. Your fingers worked delicately as your eyes focused on picking the most beautiful flowers.

To your surprise, Prince Maekar joined you while he sat next to you and watched the movement of your hands with a grumpy expression on his face.

“Why are you here all alone?” He inquired.

“Lady Jena made sure I have no friends amongst your mother’s ladies-in-waiting. Besides, I prefer it this way,” you shrugged.

“And what are you doing exactly?” He asked.

“A wreath, can you not see, cousin?” You smirked to yourself.

“What for?”

“It will be a favour I shall give to a knight of my choice on the morrow,” you explained.

“Who will that be?” Maekar scoffed, squinting his bright Targaryen eyes at you.

You finally looked up at him as the warm breeze brushed your hair. His face softened a little at the sight.

“You,” you said, quietly.

Of course you wished it was for someone else but you knew he was not yours. You wanted to make something nice for Maekar because he probably would not receive any favours or so your Aunt had told you.

“Me?” Maekar chuckled nervously. “Gods, why?”

“Perhaps out of pity,” you teased him and he laughed again.

“Give it to the one you truly care for,” he lowered his voice as his face became serious. Your heart skipped a beat.

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” you lied.

“Yes, you do. There are many things that can be said about you but not that you are stupid,” Maekar insisted as you looked down at the wreath between your fingers. “I shall go now. I wouldn’t want Baelor to see us together like this.”

“Why?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

“You know why,” was all he replied before walking away.

You looked up to watch him leave and then you spotted Baelor standing a few paths away. He was staring at you and his brother with his hands clasped behind his back. You waved at him shyly with a smile and he nodded his head before walking away as well.

You sighed.

You were sitting in the royal box by your Aunt’s side. King Daeron was sitting on her other side and you were all waiting for the tournament to begin. Prince Aerys was next to you but he was reading a book instead of watching. You found it a bit adorable in a way as you teased him from time to time by covering the words on the page he was reading.

Your jesting was only to hide your nervousness, though. Your hands were sweaty as you played with the wreath of flowers in your hands. 

“As my guest and the most important Lady at court after me, you will be the one to offer your favour,” Queen Myriah whispered to you with a smile.

“Everyone will be staring at me,” you sighed.

“As they should. You’re a Dornish flower and you should be proud of it,” she encouraged you.

“They stare and they judge.”

“I have survived it, too,” she reminded you, gently.

“You adjusted yourself to their customs, Your Grace,” you glanced at her elegant and humble gown.

“Some days I regret it. When I look at you, for example,” Queen Myriah fixed your hair strand. “You make me feel so homesick, my sweet.”

You eventually cracked a smile at her.

“It is time for Princess (Y/N),” King Daeron whispered and you nodded before standing up and approaching the railing.

A dozen knights on their horses were standing below you in a line. You extended your hand with the wreath and hesitated, swallowing thickly.

Maekar’s bright eyes caught yours and you tilted your head at him. He nodded gently as he glanced at his brother. You took a deep breath in.

You knew it was improper. You had seen Lady Jena earlier on that day bragging about the new silk ribbon she had been planning to give to her betrothed.

But their engagement was not yet announced and you had your privilege as the Princess of Dorne and the royal guest.

“Cousin,” you looked at Baelor. He seemed to be a bit surprised but he smiled. “May you receive my favour,” you threw the wreath down and he caught it with his lance.

“Princess,” he bowed his head.

As you went back to your seat, you could feel Lady Jena’s burning gaze on you from the box nearby. You ignored it and sat down next to your Aunt.

Both her and the King were glancing at you as well, so you pretended to find something interesting in Aerys’ book to ask him about it.

The tournament was supposed to take two days. At the end of the first one, Baelor was the only knight who had won every single joust, which placed him at the top of the lists. 

You were on your way to your chambers in the evening when you heard raised voices coming from Queen Myriah’s room. The doors were ajar and you spotted Lady Jena gesticulating with her face flushed.

“I felt disrespected, Your Grace!” She exclaimed.

“I am sure my niece did not mean anything wrong,” the Queen explained and you felt nauseous in an instant as you realised the argument was about you.

Without thinking twice, you pushed the door open as you cleared your throat. Everyone turned around to look at you and your cheeks burnt at the sight of more people than you had expected. Queen Myriah and Aunt Jena were there, yes. But also King Daeron, Lord and Lady Dondarrion, Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. 

Lady Jena gave you a hateful glance as she squeezed the ribbon she was holding even tighter. It was the very same she had wanted to give to Baelor but ended up giving to none to show off her loyalty.

“I could not help but overhear,” you explained. “I wish to be present when my person is being discussed.”

“Of course, my dear, come join us,” Queen Myriah nodded and you stood by her side. “Lady Jena here believes you gave your favour to Baelor just to spite her.”

“That is nonsense,” you shook your head. “I am a Princess of Dorne, I give my favours to whomever I wish,” you answered and Lady Jena scoffed.

Oh, now you truly wanted to spite her. And so you did.

“I could give my favour even to Lady Jena’s Lord Father if I wished to do so,” you smirked.

Maekar chuckled proudly but Lady Jena and her mother turned crimson red while Lord Dondarrion gasped. Queen Myriah sighed and so did King Daeron. Baelor remained quiet, watching the scene unfolding in front of his mismatched eyes.

“This is outrageous!” Lady Jena spat out.

“Please, let us calm down,” Baelor finally spoke up. “The engagement is not yet announced, so there is no scandal. It is socially acceptable to receive a favour from a cousin.”

“Then announce it! Announce the engagement!” Lady Jena insisted. “How long do I have to wait?!”

“Jena, we have an arrangement–” her father tried to reason with her.

“Very well then,” Queen Myriah interrupted him. Everyone looked at her. “I know it is my name day’s celebration but I do not mind sharing the spotlight with my eldest son. It is no secret he most likely will become a victor. We will announce that the woman he chooses to crown as The Queen of Love and Beauty will be his betrothed.”

“I like the idea,” King Daeron nodded. “It will look nearly spontaneous and very romantic. The smallfolk will adore this tale. It is much better than an announcement of an arranged union.”

“That is so generous,” Lady Dondarrion bowed her head at the Queen. “Darling, are you content now?” She asked her daughter.

But Lady Jena was not sure about it. She was breathing heavily while looking at you angrily. She squinted her eyes.

“I am,” she nodded, her piercing blue eyes still upon you. “However, I am still not convinced about the Princess’ intentions.”

“That is an accusation!” You defended yourself.

“You have given me plenty of reasons to accuse you!” Lady Jena insisted.

“Oh, have I? Why so? Because I am from Dorne?!” You snapped at her.

“Well… Yes!” Lady Jena raised her voice and everyone went silent in an instant.

The Dondarrions gasped as all heads turned to glance at your Aunt. She blushed slightly but her warm eyes turned unusually cold. Her greying hair and a humble dress with the Targaryen sigil embroidered on her chest made it so easy to forget that she was a daughter of Dorne as well.

“F-forgive me,” Lady Jena looked down.

“I think it will be best if we all go to sleep now,” King Daeron clapped his hands and everyone agreed as they bowed their heads at him and the Queen.

Lady Jena left the room first, accompanied by her parents in a hurry. Maekar left after them and then you did as well.

You felt Baelor walking behind you. You were left alone in the hall when the heavy doors closed behind him.

You sighed.

“I am the reason behind all this mess, I am so sorry. I did not mean to,” you turned your head around to look at his face. You expected him to be stern but his expression remained soft as ever when he was looking at you.

“You are not to be blamed,” he assured you and put his hands on your bare shoulders, revealed by your Dornish dress. A chill travelled down your body and straight to your core, especially when the cold metal of the rings on his fingers brushed your hot skin. “You are simply being yourself,” he whispered. “Unapologetically… So do not be sorry. It is unlike you to be.”

“I am a Martell,” you chuckled, nervously.

“Do not forget that so am I,” he leaned in to whisper right into your ear before letting go of your shoulders and walking away.

Whatever it meant what he had just said, it made you feel dizzy. You had to snap out of it, though. On the morrow his engagement to Lady Jena would be announced.

You went to your chambers with a heart so heavy in your chest that you nearly collapsed halfway there.

The last joust took place between Baelor and Maekar as everyone watched while holding their breaths.

To you, it would not make a big difference. Perhaps a small part of you hoped Maekar would win so Baelor wouldn’t become a champion and his romantic betrothal to Lady Jena would not take place like it had been planned. You could see her sitting in a box nearby; her knuckles turned white from clenching her fists out of stress. 

You studied her profile as your heart twisted inside your chest. She was so beautiful and noble. So were you, of course, but in a Dornish way. And you were in King’s Landing, not at Sunspear. Your type of beauty was nearly invasive here.

Already accepting your defeat, you decided to hide behind what was known to you. Unapologetically yourself, as Baelor had called you, you had chosen the most Dornish outfit possible this morning. The orange fabric of your dress was thin and flowy, dancing in the slight breeze. Not only your shoulders and a good part of your back were revealed but even your navel decorated with a golden chain was visible through an extremely sheer chiffon covering your belly. Delicate golden chains were also in your hair, clinging whenever you moved your head. 

You were sure that all those people were thinking that you were making a spectacle of yourself. And they were right. It was your armour so all they could see was a proud Dornish Princess instead of a hurt and heartbroken young woman forced to watch the man she loved choosing another.

Sudden outburst of enthusiasm from the crowd brought you back to reality. You turned your head away from Lady Jena’s profile as you stood up and clapped like all the rest. You looked down and spotted angry Maekar clumsily standing up from the ground as his older brother was smiling triumphally and bowing his head at the cheering crowd. 

The King raised his hand to silence everyone as Baelor’s squire approached him while holding a beautifully decorated wreath made of flowers and jewels. It was no ordinary crown for The Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a proper diadem and you held your breath, bracing yourself for what was to come.

“I wish to congratulate both of my sons. You have fought well,” King Daeron announced. “Prince Baelor remains the champion, however,” he added and people cheered once more. “To celebrate this victory and the Queen’s name day, my son wishes to make his Lady Mother delighted and choose a bride for himself.”

The crowd gasped at first and then they clapped even louder as they whistled. You smiled to yourself. Baelor was truly loved by them and you could not blame them.

You looked at Lady Jena again. She was blushing already, nearly jumping out of her seat. And you had to admit, as you smiled sadly, that she would make an excellent Queen by your cousin’s side.

Baelor took the crown from his squire’s hands as he approached the boxes on his horse to be able to reach higher. The crowd held their breaths while the King and Queen were staring at their eldest son lovingly.

Baelor’s horse passed the box in which Lady Jena was sitting and he stopped right in front of the royal one. His mismatched eyes found yours as nausea hit you in an instant.

Why was he doing this? Why was he teasing you so? You had not taught him so cruel.

“Princess (Y/N) Nymeros Martell of Dorne,” he started as everyone – including you – froze in disbelief, “in the sight of the old gods and the new, I crown you Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The silence was heavy but Baelor did not seem to care. He extended his hand with the diadem towards you. Your cheeks were burning and you felt so dizzy that you nearly fainted when you approached the railing. Everyone was staring at you. 

Some eyes were shocked, some were curious, some angry and offended. But his eyes – his beautiful mismatched eyes – they were staring at you with nothing but love and devotion.

And because of that, you decided to ignore the rest of the world just like he was doing at the moment. He risked everything for you, therefore you could not turn away now. You gently took the crown from his hand and carefully placed it upon your head, making sure the chains in your hair wouldn’t tangle or break.

“You honour me, my Prince,” you managed to breathe out. Baelor smiled widely at the sight.

Maekar was the first one to break the silence of the crowd as he started to clap his hands as loudly as he was able to. The rest followed him, awkwardly and shyly until they eventually cheered for their Prince and his new betrothed.

Lady Jena gasped and sobbed, leaving her box in a hurry with her offended and outraged parents.

But you were only staring at him and he was only staring at you as if nothing else existed; as if the whole world was yours. Because even if the consequences would be severe, Baelor was not going to give up on this. He had been following his father’s advice and orders his whole life dutifully and loyally.

But this one thing he wanted to decide for himself.

“Why?” Was all King Daeron asked his son. He was visibly disappointed and hurt that his chivalrous son had done something like this in front of the whole Realm.

“No one knows the marriage contract between Lady Jena and I had been prepared already. There was merely gossip she had been spreading herself. No one thinks it is a scandal,” Baelor explained, calmly.

“The Dondarrions will make sure the whole Realm knows the backstory,” Daeron pointed out and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. 

“We will find a way out of this. We will offer them something else,” Baelor said. “Father… I could not… Especially after last night. How could I marry a woman who spoke such things about my mother and her family?”

“I understand,” Daeron sighed. “But… (Y/N) is your cousin. Your marriage could create a powerful union and yet you chose to mix your own blood.”

“It does create a powerful union. It strengthens the alliance with Dorne,” Baelor smiled. “After having not one but two Queens on the throne, the Martells will never rebel against us.”

“Of course. But the rest might complain about us favouring them.”

“I will make sure my children will not marry in Dorne, I promise,” Baelor assured, already feeling his heart beating faster at the mention of his possible children with you.

“You cannot promise that. If your children are truly yours, then no one will be able to tell them what to do,” Daeron finally chuckled. “Why her, though? Why Princess (Y/N)?”

“She is strong yet gentle. Stubborn and brave yet delicate when no one’s looking. But I am looking. I have been looking very carefully those past few weeks,” Baelor explained. “And… I love the dresses,” he teased as his father sighed.

“And who is that?” Dunk asked as he stared at the young Targaryen knight by his tent. He had short dark hair with one silver streak and a pair of mismatched eyes like his father but Duncan could not see that from afar.

There was a woman standing next to him, she had a red flowy dress that stood out amongst other noble women. She was holding a helmet under her arm and fixing the young knight’s hair.

“It is Prince Valarr, the eldest son of Prince Baelor, second in line to the Iron Throne,” Egg explained.

“And the woman?”

“The woman is his mother, Princess (Y/N) Martell,” Egg said and Dunk swallowed thickly as he squinted his eyes to see her better. He should have known that. After all, everyone knew Prince Baelor’s wife was from Dorne. “Prince Valarr is a mummy’s boy,” Egg giggled.

Princess (Y/N) finished fixing her son’s hair and kissed his forehead before watching him mount his horse. Then, she handed him his helmet.

“She is as beautiful as they say,” Duncan mumbled out as Egg smirked.

“Yes, she is. They call her The Unbowed,” the boy told him.

Duncan nodded as he watched her walk away from her son’s tent. She went to the royal box to take a seat next to her husband as they watched their firstborn joust. 

Dunk spotted that the Prince and the Princess were holding hands.

Valarr is not an easily jealous man. 

In fact, Valarr would say he is not jealous at all. Jealousy is for lesser men—insecure men. Men who fear losing what is theirs because, somewhere deep down, they know it was never truly theirs to begin with. Valarr has never counted himself among them. He is a prince of the blood, second in line to the Iron Throne after his father. He has had the world in his hands since the moment he was born. There has never been much that could be taken from him. 

Or, perhaps more accurately, there has never been much he cared enough about to fear losing.

So, when his wife spends an afternoon hawking with the twins and returns bright and smiling in a way that Valarr has hardly ever seen from her, he does not care.

When Aerion lingers around her, keeping her so engrossed in conversation that she does not even notice Valarr entering the room, he does not care.

When she laughs at Daeron’s jokes during a feast while Valarr is forced to entertain a balding marcher lord, Valarr does not care.

He notices, certainly, because Valarr notices everything, but noticing is not jealousy. 

In fact, it makes Valarr happy. It does. He knows that you have been struggling to adjust to life in Westeros. He knows that you are lonely. He is happy that his family is welcoming you, that they are making efforts so that you might feel comfortable. He is happy that the court is starting to warm up to you.

He is.

He really is.

He is glad that you come back to your shared chambers smiling more often than not now, because his heart ached every time he returned to find you sitting by the window in silence, staring east toward a sea that would never carry you home. There had been nights when he woke to find your side of the bed empty, mornings where your eyes were red, days where you smiled, strained at the corners, forcing yourself because courtesy demanded it. 

It had haunted him—truly haunted him. When he joined his father at meetings, he would find his mind drifting to you, wondering what you were doing, if you were alone, if he would have time to stop at the kitchens to have them make a Qartheen dessert to bring up to you. When the two of you were in the same room but separated, his eyes always followed you, searching for the cause of every frown and distant look, because maybe if he could identify who was upsetting you, he might be able to fix everything.

Valarr could win jousts and navigate court politics, but he had spent months watching you wither beneath loneliness and homesickness, and there had been little he could do about it. So, yes—he is happy that you are enjoying time with his family, and you return to your shared chambers with stories and smiles instead of tears.

He is. 

Mostly. 

The trouble is that sometimes he gets a little—well, peeved when he realizes you might enjoy spending time with his cousins considerably more than you enjoy spending time with him. Not that Valarr is keeping track of who you seem to enjoy spending time with the most and who you don't, because he isn’t, that would be absurd. He notices things. 

For example, he notices that you are quick to seek out Aelor and Aelora during events. He likes to believe that it’s because you know that he’s frequently occupied with princely duties and do not wish to burden him when the twins are more readily available company. It is a much more pleasant explanation than acknowledging that the twins care little for keeping up appearances, so you might feel more comfortable around them. They are quick to jump down someone's throat if they look at you the wrong way, whereas Valarr is bound by his duty and his future to keep the peace, so he is forced to take more civil approaches, even when every instinct is telling him to be considerably less diplomatic.

He notices how Aerion listens whenever you speak of home as though the subject genuinely interests him, asking questions and remembering details that Valarr himself sometimes struggles to keep straight, and he finds the realization oddly aggravating, especially because Aerion has never been known for his patience. His cousin is sharp-tongued and capricious, and he possesses a sort of cruelty that occasionally borders on artistry, yet somehow all of that seems to vanish whenever you are involved. 

And he especially notices how Daeron somehow always manages to appear wherever you are. If you are in the garden, Daeron is in the garden. If you are in the library, Daeron is in the library. If you are attending some unbearably dull feast that neither of you particularly wished to attend, Daeron will inevitably materialize at your side before the first course is served. 

Worse, you always seem pleased to see him. Valarr will look across a room, hoping to find your eyes on him, but will find Daeron leaning against your chair, saying something undoubtedly idiotic, and you will be smiling, and then comes the laughter—the real laughter, bright and unrestrained, not the polite courtly ones Valarr has become used to—and Daeron, naturally behaves as though drawing the sound from you is his life’s greatest achievement, and it—

It is irritating. It is deeply irritating. 

Not because Valarr dislikes seeing you happy—quite the opposite, really. For months, he would have given anything to hear you laugh like that. The aggravating part is that Daeron accomplishes it so effortlessly. Valarr spends hours carefully choosing gifts from home, remembering passing comments, searching for ways to ease your loneliness, while Daeron simply appears, says something absurd, and suddenly you are laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

Valarr thinks about it far more often than he’ll ever admit, but it is not jealousy.

If anything, Valarr is grateful, because Daeron is succeeding where he has failed. When you first arrived in Westeros, Valarr spent months trying to draw you out of your shell. He took you riding, and he brought musicians from Essos to court; he commissioned cooks to learn Qartheen dishes and listened patiently whenever you wished to speak of home.

Yet, it is Aelor and Aelora who convince you to leave your chambers when homesickness threatens to swallow you whole.

It is Aerion who can keep you talking about Qarth for hours without ever looking bored.

It is Daeron who manages to make you laugh until tears run down your face.

His eye twitches, knuckles whitening around the goblet in his hand as he stands at the window of the chambers he shares with you, staring out over the Blackwater. You have still not retired for the night; you left the feast early to join Aelor and Aelora in wandering the gardens, and Valarr had assumed you would be in your shared chambers waiting for him by the time he finished entertaining the Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower with his father, so he’d brought up a Qartheen spiced liquor, hoping to share it and spend some time with you before bed.

Rationally, he knows you have done nothing wrong. 

You had smiled at him when you entered the hall earlier. You had kissed his cheek before taking your seat. You had even sought him out briefly between courses to tell him where you were going and who you would be with. He had just—he had hoped to spend time with you. That is all. 

Unfortunately, jealousy is not a particularly rational emotion.

Not that Valarr is jealous.

He straightens when the door finally creaks open, turning to look just as you slip into the room. It is awful, truly, the combination of fondness and bitterness that washes over him at the sight of the breathless smile on your lips as you enter the room.

“I hope Aelor and Aelora walked you back,” Valarr murmurs as he places his goblet down and makes his way over to you. He relishes the way your expression softens when you turn your attention to him. It’s almost enough to overwhelm the greenness eating away at his chest. Almost. “You should not be wandering the halls alone at this time of night, wife.”

You tilt your face up as soon as he draws near, and he dips his head down to brush his lips against yours. You make a soft noise into his mouth, curious, and he fights a flush when he feels your tongue dart out to lap at his lower lip.

You pull back, eyes alight as you ask, “Is that Qartheen?”

Valarr hums in agreement, hands sliding down to your hips as he looks down at you, thumbs smoothing easy circles over the fabric of your dress. 

“It is,” he says simply, and then he raises his eyebrows, beckoning a response to his initial unspoken question.

“Oh. Aelor and Aelora retired to their chambers early,” you tell him. Valarr’s brows immediately furrow, incensed by the idea of his cousins leaving you to make your way back alone. “Daeron walked me back.”

In Valarr’s defense, he truly does not mean to scoff. He doesn’t even realize he has until he sees your face change. You blink once before your brows raise questioningly, beckoning an explanation for the reaction.

“Is that a problem?” you ask after a moment, bemused. 

“No,” he says immediately, and he also does not mean for his voice to come across so strained, but from the way you raise your brows further, he fails miserably. He clears his throat and repeats more carefully, “Of course not.”

You study him for a moment too long. Valarr can hardly hold your gaze, so he resigns to looking at the painting to your left as though it’s the most interesting thing in the room. From the corner of his eye, he sees the moment your face smooths out in realization, and a pit forms in his stomach.

But all you say is, “I missed you today.” 

Valarr exhales through his nose, sinking into you when he feels your arms wind around his waist. What little fight remains drains from him immediately; for all of the time he spends stewing in his own thoughts, for all of the ridiculous conclusions he manages to draw from a few hours apart, it is remarkably difficult to maintain any sense of grievance when you are standing in front of him looking at him like this. 

“I missed you too,” he admits quietly, one hand lifting to cradle the back of your head as you prop your chin on his chest to look up at him. He dips down to brush his lips against the crown of your head, eyes sliding shut. “Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower kept me occupied for the better part of the evening. I am beginning to suspect it was deliberate.”

“There was a conspiracy against you, was there?”

“There usually is,” Valarr agrees mournfully.

“My poor prince,” you coo, lifting your hand up to brush your fingers against his cheek. 

Valarr leans his face into your touch. “Your poor prince indeed. I am suffering terribly. You should do something to fix it.”

You laugh prettily, and Valarr feels the last of his irritation dissolve into something much uglier: guilt. Because here you are, smiling up at him, arms wrapped around his waist, telling him that you missed him, and all evening he had been sitting at the high table feeling resentful because you’d spent time with his cousins. 

You have spent months lonely in a foreign kingdom, struggling to find your place and navigate a court that had viewed you with disdain from the moment you arrived. Now, you finally have people who seek you out and make you laugh, people who make Westeros feel a little less cold, and Valarr, instead of being grateful for it, spent half of the evening sulking like a child over it.

The realization is profoundly embarrassing, and he cannot help the sigh that escapes his lips. 

“What is it?” you ask him, thumb stroking over his cheekbone in a way that only serves to make him feel worse, but he takes advantage of the comfort you offer him anyway, because he is greedy for anything and everything you deign to give him. “Valarr?”

“I was unfair to you,” he says after a moment, voice quiet. 

Your brows furrow, and you tell him, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I have,” he insists, fingers tangling gently into your hair, nails scratching your scalp lightly in the way that always makes your lashes flutter shut, because he knows that you know what was bothering him when you entered the room, and he would prefer for you not to think you might be doing something wrong just because he is petty. “I am happy that you have my brother and cousins. Aelor and Aelora… Aerion and Daeron. I am, truly. I desperately wanted you to have friends here—wanted you to feel welcome. I spent months worrying about you; every time I saw you upset, I felt as though I was failing you somehow. I am glad.”

He hates that he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

There is a terribly knowing expression on your face as you search his face, and then you press closer to him, arms tightening around his waist, face burying into his chest. Valarr sinks into the warmth of your embrace, pressing his face into the top of your hair and inhaling the saffron hair oil he’s become intimately accustom to. 

“You know I would always prefer to spend time with you than them,” you murmur after a few moments pass. “You need not be jealous.”

Valarr closes his eyes, mortification washing through him instantly.

Apparently, he is not nearly as subtle as he thought. 

“I am not jealous,” he mutters petulantly into your hair. “I only—”

What exactly is his defense here?

I only spent the entire evening staring across the feast whenever Aelor and Aelora made you laugh?

I only felt irrationally irritated when Aerion remembered some insignificant detail about Quarth that you mentioned months ago?

I only had a distinct urge to throw my own cousin into the Blackwater when you said he walked you back to your chambers?

I only wish it could be me with you instead of them? 

None of those sound particularly persuasive. 

“I am a little jealous,” he admits at last, shoulders slumping in defeat. Valarr grimaces when your shoulders begin to shake, face heating up again. He says, affronted, “You are laughing at me.”

“I am not,” you disagree, but he can hear the laugh in your voice.

“You are,” he accuses, pulling back to look down at you with a scowl that lacks heat, considering he cannot help the way his lips curve up at the sight of the smile on your face.

“I would never.”

The blatant lie is so outrageous that Valarr actually huffs. 

You lean up on your tiptoes to ghost your lips against his, and he sighs lightly into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back as though drawn there by instinct. The annoyance that had been simmering beneath his skin all evening dissipates a little further when he feels you smile against his lips. 

He follows when you begin to pull away, stealing one more kiss before finally relenting. Even then, he cannot quite bring himself to put any real distance between the two of you, pulling you so that you’re flush to him, walking backward slowly until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. 

He sinks onto the mattress with a quiet exhale, drawing you with him until you’re comfortably settled on his lap. 

Impossible woman, he thinks fondly.

He can never get enough of you. He has known since he was young that his grandfather or father would arrange a marriage for him. It was simply the reality of being born who he was. Princes did not marry for love; they married for alliances, and for peace, and for duty. As a boy, he prayed that if he could not find love in whatever match he was assigned, he would find the same type of friendship his parents had found in one another. He would have ocnsidered that enough—more than enough.

Valarr knew the moment he laid eyes on you descending from your ship that he was doomed. The memory remains painfully clear—the harbor had been crowded that day, warm and sunny, and he was filled with dread and anxiety as he waited for the Qartheen ships to dock. Lords, ladies, gold cloaks, servants gathered nat the docks—all eager to catch a glimpse of the Qartheen daughter who had crossed half the world to marry into House Targaryen. 

Valarr remembers very little of them, but he remembers you. The sea wind had caught at your silks as you descended the gangplank. Gold and sapphire glimmered at your wrists and throat; chin lifted high despite the hundreds of unfamiliar eyes fixed upon you. You had looked terrified—you had hidden it beautifully, but he had seen the tension in your shoulders and the way your gaze swept over the crowd, searching for something familiar and finding nothing.

He rehearsed his introduction to you a thousand times before that day, and he still fumbled over his words the moment you were finally in front of him. He remembers the brief look of confusion that crossed your face, and the way he wanted the ground to open to swallow him hole.

Then you smiled, wide and bright, a laugh bubbling from your lips, and he lost whatever hope he had of approaching this marriage sensibly, because he has spent every day since chasing the memory of it, hoping to draw that sound from you a second, a third, a fourth time, hundreds of times, thousands. 

It became more difficult as court life weighed on you. He would seek out trinkets from Qarth in the market and commissioned a musician who knew songs from your homeland, but nothing ever seemed to be enough to wash away the morose expression on your face at the day's end. Every difficult day that ended with you smiling at him instead of staring silently out at Blackwater Bay felt like a battle hardwon.

Perhaps that’s why the jealousy cuts so deeply. It is not because he begrudges his cousins for making you happy; it is because they are enjoying something he spent months fighting for. But looking at you now, in his lap, eyes bright and lips curved up into a smile that exists solely because of him, Valarr finds that he cannot bring himself to resent any of them for long. 

“Perhaps I will join you next time then,” you muse, looping your arms around his neck. Valarr lets his eyes slide shut again when he feels you peck his jaw, trailing kisses along his flushed skin. “I can spend the entire day listening to Lord Tyrell discuss harvest, and Lord Hightower complain about tariffs from Braavos. Then we can be miserable together.”

“A compelling proposition,” Valarr replies, lips curving up into an easy, lidded smile as he looks up at you. “Though I fear you might start dozing off mid-conversation, wife.”

“I would never!” you gasp, faux-offended, and Valarr laughs, arms tightening around your waist, and he smiles when he hears the yelp that spills from your lips when he lays you back gently against the mattress, following you down until he is hovering above you, forearms braced on either side of your head. 

For a moment, he can only look at you. His wife, in his arms, in your shared bed, smiling and happy, looking at him as though he’s the only thing in the room worth seeing, and Valarr loves you. He loves you more than he knows how to articulate, so much that it scares him sometimes, because you awaken instincts in him that he scarcely recgonizes in himself.

Protectiveness, of course. Possessiveness, maybe. 

But also something much darker. 

Valarr has always considered himself a rational man, but that composure seems to evaporate whenever you’re involved. Every time he sees you upset, every time your smile falters because of some careless remark, something ugly stirs inside him. He wants to know who caused it; he wants names and answers. The urge is immediate and irrational, a vicious thing that he’s not particularly proud of, but it makes him understand why men have started wars for the woman they love. 

But you are smiling now, warm and happy beneath him, and for the moment, that is enough.

Valarr dips down to press his lips against yours again. He kisses you slower this time, savoring in the faint taste of lemon on your lips; when he pulls back slightly to take a breath, you chase his lips, nipping at his bottom lip before you pout and lay back against the mattress, looking up at him with big eyes that make Valarr’s heart jump. 

He lifts one hand to your face, cradling your cheek gently in one hand, thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. 

“I mean it,” you say after a moment, nosing into his palm briefly before looking up at him again. “The court probably expects it of me anyway—to be at your side while you handle all of your princely duties, I cannot keep running off with your cousins to socialize.”

Valarr’s expression softens. “No,” he says immediately. “Do not martyr yourself for my sake. I spend enough time trapped in those conversations for the both of us. You should enjoy yourself. The Seven know you’ve spent enough time miserable in this Keep already.”

You look unconvinced, and Valarr feels ashamed, because this is his fault, his pettiness, his jealousy that got you to this point. You are finally at a place where you are starting to feel comfortable; he has spent months wanting nothing more than to see you smile, and now that you finally are, he has somehow managed to make you question whether you should.

“I do not care what the court expects, and I certainly do not care what some lord thinks my wife should be doing during a feast,” he tells you. “I want you happy, and if that means spending an evening with my cousins while I suffer through discussions of grain yields, then so be it.” 

The court might slowly be warming up to you, but they still love to get their snide comments in just to see how you react. He would sooner carve out his own heart than watch that careful, guarded expression return to your face because he had been selfish enough to keep you at his side, forced around people who seek to remind you that you do not belong instead of the few people in this keep willing to bare their teeth on your behalf the moment someone forgets their manners.

He sighs lightly as he leans down to press his lips against yours again, hand sliding from the side of your face to rest at your throat. His thumb presses lightly into your skin, and he swallows thickly when you flutter your lashes up at him. 

“Will you come with me to the gardens tomorrow then?” you ask after a moment, lips curved up as you look up at him, and how is Valarr ever supposed to deny you when you look at him like this? “I saw a flower tonight. It reminded me of your eyes. I wanted to bring it up here to show you, but I didn’t want to kill it.”

A lump forms in his throat, because yes, you had spent the evening with his cousins, but you had still seen something beautiful and thought of him.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, and your smile widens, bright and full of light in a way that Valarr will spend his life guarding. 

For a moment, he simply watches you—the way your eyes shine and the way your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem of his tunic. You are his, and Valarr was never really a possessive man until he met you, but now there is no denying it, because the sight of your tears ruins his day, and a careless remark from a lord leaves him imagining increasingly creative ways to make someone regret opening their mouth. Because seeing you hurt awakens something so violent in him that he almost forgets that he is meant to be his father’s son. 

There is concerningly little that Valarr would not do for you if it meant making you happy.

So he will join you in the gardens tomorrow, because he cannot deny you at all, much less when you are laying beneath him with wide eyes and a small smile. Because you are his wife, and he loves you.

Tomorrow, he will abandon the small council meeting he’s supposed to attend with his father, and he will endure whatever disapproval is directed his way, because his wife found a flower in the garden and wants to show him it, and that is infinitely more important than whatever trivial issues that are going to be discussed in the Tower of the Hand.

Valarr is a prince of the blood, a dragon, a knight, but before anything else, he is a husband who is deeply and desperately devoted to his wife. 

“I am sorry if I kept you waiting tonight,” you say quietly after a moment, reaching up to tuck a dark lock behind his ear before absently running your fingers through the silver streak that runs through his hair. “I hope I didn’t ruin any plans you had for the evening.”

Valarr’s expression softens. He ducks his head down to press his lips against your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he replies, “You could never ruin anything, ñuha jorrāelagon. My only plan for the night was to spend it with you.”

My love.

“Well, you’ve got me all to yourself, husband,” you say with a teasing smile. “What do you plan to do with me?”

Valarr gives you a sharp, boyish grin. “Oh, I’m sure you have an idea, wife.”

“Tell me anyway please?”

One sennight had passed since they’d arrived at Summerhall, and Dunk had finally been assigned duties – real, actual guard duties. 

He was to stand at the end of the corridor for the first shift of the night – hardly a glamorous task, but he vowed to give it his all just the same. Prince Baelor had trusted him enough to take him under his employ following the Trial of Seven – Dunk would not do anything to jeopardise that trust now that the maester had finally declared him recovered enough from his injuries. 

Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him.

The Crown Prince had saved Dunk twice over, thinking of the well-being of a simple hedge-knight even before his own – his brother’s mace had given the prince a serious concussion, though they had not known it then. It had been only when Steely Pate had lifted Prince Baelor’s helm that the man collapsed, falling unconscious. 

Dunk had caught him before his body could even touch the ground, and for a single horrible moment his stomach had plummeted, certain Prince Baelor was dead. 

He had not been, thank the Gods. Though he had given everyone an awfully big fright. Later, Dunk had been told that he had whispered Up, up, ser, rise with the prince in his arms, though he could not remember. 

Prince Baelor had not risen then. It had, in fact, taken three days for the Crown Prince to awaken, and three more for him to be steady enough to depart Ashford.

As part of the prince’s household, Dunk had followed, and Aegon – who insisted on staying on as his squire – in turn followed him.

Summerhall was to be a stop on their path to King’s Landing – they would stay for a fortnight, let the horses rest and stock up on food and rations for the Kingsroad. 

Prince Maekar, Egg had mentioned, would join them instead of staying in Summerhall as had been originally planned – the King had summoned them all to explain why a Trial of Seven had taken place at a girl’s nameday tourney.

It was daunting to think that in a moon’s turn, Dunk might be standing in front of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk just hoped he would not embarrass himself. 

He shifted on his feet, trying not to think too hard on it – there was no sense, Ser Arlan had always said, in worrying about things you could not change.

Still…Dunk had put his foot in his mouth already – at least once that he knew for certain. 

It had been upon their arrival in Summerhall, where he had discovered that the keep – contrary to what he’d believed – did have a Lady.

When Aegon had told him his mother was dead, he had just assumed…well, that Prince Maekar was unwed. He was not. 

In Dunk’s defense, he had only remarried recently, barely six moons ago. 

Though nothing could have saved him from his blunder.

When Aegon had spoken of having two sisters, he had always just mentioned that one of them was older than him, the other younger. Never their ages.

Daeron was a man grown, and he was Aegon’s brother. When he’d seen a young, noble woman in a black and red dress, Dunk had naturally assumed her to be the elder of Aegon’s sisters. Had assumed you to be another Targaryen.

Of an age with Daeron, his twin perhaps. Dunk knew that twins need not always look much alike.

You’d greeted the silver-haired prince with affection, a lingering kiss on his cheek. Dunk had not thought anything of it – you had surely only dearly missed your father.

He had mentioned as such – how nice it was for a daughter to be so concerned – only to be faced with Aegon’s laughter, a small, bemused smile on Prince Baelor’s face and a glare that had been so venomous that Dunk still awoke during some nights, sweating, remembering Prince Maekar’s hatred. 

Confusing Prince Maekar’s young wife for his daughter – it hadn’t done much to endear himself to the gruff man. In fact, Dunk rather thought Prince Maekar despised him, blaming him for the whole mess in Ashford and now feeling insulted by his innocent remark.

Dunk wished he knew how to convince the prince that his older brother had not made a mistake taking him on as a knight.

He sighed, hoping Egg would know of something, when suddenly a noise broke through the silence. 

It was quiet and muffled, but Dunk had a keen ear and Flea Bottom had taught him to pay attention to even the slightest of sounds.

For a moment, he hesitated. Investigating the noise meant leaving his post – though surely he would be forgiven, should it turn out that someone was in need of aid. 

He heard it again, and this time he identified it as a woman’s voice. Calling out, though Dunk could not make out the words.

As he tracked the noise, striding further into the corridor, his countenance darkened. Dunk clutched his sword scabbard nervously, praying to the Gods that his grip would not slip.

Whatever it was, it sounded like–

Like a woman in pain. He had not been able to make out words because they were none, only gasps and whimpers. Then, he heard something else.

A sound that made him cringe, an instinctive flinch overtaking his body. It was the sound of a palm hitting flesh.

Someone is hurting this woman, Dunk thought, first in a panic and then with growing determination as he remembered that he was no longer a boy, helpless Dunk from Flea Bottom. He was Ser Duncan the Tall.

Upon his honour as a knight, he knew he had to intervene.

He knew that the castellan had told him who each of the chambers in this corridor belonged to, but Dunk, for the life of him, could not recall it clearly. It was not important. He could get names later – first, he needed to assist whatever lady was in distress. 

He was proud to say he did not hesitate as he threw open the door, his sword in hand, raised and ready. “Unhand the lady at once!” he roared, putting all his strength into his voice, relieved that it did not shake.

But the accomplishment quickly soured. Everything curdled in his stomach as he beheld the scene he had stumbled into.

There was no maiden in distress – only a lady. A princess by marriage. Prince Maekar’s wife, a lady around Dunk’s age. You.

And you were not in distress, even Dunk could see it. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, your bottom bare and reddened by your husband’s hand. He had been spanking you, Dunk thought, and you were enjoying it. 

A furious, dark blush spread from the tips of his ears to the tip of his toes as two pairs of eyes found him, one widened in alarm, the other alight with anger.

His sword dropped to the floor with a clatter, and he quickly averted his eyes from the sight of your nude body. “I–” he started, “I thought–”

The prince’s voice cut through his stutter. “Fucking imbecile!”

There was movement, though Dunk did not see it. The ceiling was his refuge; he was afraid to look down again.

“I should have you flogged,” Prince Maekar continued, sounding closer than before. Just once, Dunk’s eyes flicked down again, and he saw the prince’s form striding over to him, a pair of breeches hastily covering his lower body. Beyond his shoulder, you had sat up, the sheets wrapped around you. You looked alarmed. 

“My love–” you began. 

Prince Maekar shushed you. “Do not,” he interrupted flatly, “defend him.”

Softer, he added, “He saw you.”

I wish I didn’t, Dunk thought, then wavered, because that sounded like the sight of you had been unpleasant and it had certainly not been, you were quite comely, beautiful even, and–

He cleared his throat. Ser Arlan was right. I’m an idiot.

When the prince was almost upon him, Dunk realised he ought to do something. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped to a knee, his head bowed. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, not sure if he made any sense, “I meant no harm. I merely heard… I thought–” 

“That I was mistreating my wife?” the Targaryen prince asked, brows raised. 

“No!” Dunk yelled all too quickly, fear coursing through him at the thought of what Prince Maekar might do to him, “I couldn’t recall that these were the Lady’s chambers, I swear. I merely– I am a knight,” he said, as though it was an explanation. 

“A fool is what you are,” Prince Baelor’s brother countered, his expression stern. Dunk wished the floor would just swallow him up. He was glad that at least he had not been struck yet. A clout in the ear, Ser Arlan had always called it.

“Maekar,” you said softly, “he did not know any better. He heard a woman cry out behind a closed door. He did what he thought a knight ought to do.” 

Dunk was astonished that your words seemed to be working, placating the dragon that seemed only moments from spewing fire. The prince’s shoulders lost some of their tension, your husband swaying towards you as though drawn by a siren song. 

“He ought have better discernment,” Prince Maekar grumbled, his jaw clenched.

“I am sure he will learn.” Your eyes brushed past the prince’s, locking with Dunk’s. “Won’t you?”

He nodded so fast he was almost dizzy with it. “Yes, of course, m’lady, I will, I won’t make this mistake again, I swear it upon my life–”

“I believe you,” you interrupted him with a giggle. “See, my love? He is as earnest as they come. Baelor chose well.”

Prince Maekar did not look impressed. “He still saw you naked.”

You sighed, drawing the sheets tighter around yourself and stepping up to them. Dunk tried not to look at the shape of your legs. He was still kneeling, his line of sight rather unfortunate – for his well-being at least.

“He did not do it on purpose,” you told your husband, one hand curling around his bicep. 

For a moment Dunk thought Prince Maekar might shake it off, but he did not deny you.

Instead, the harsh prince allowed you to all but wrap yourself around him, and Dunk felt as though you were a wall, protecting him from the Anvil’s wrath.

But the Prince of Summerhall was not quite ready to give up. “That does not change anything,” he snapped. “He had no rights to your body.”

“The maester has seen me naked, are you going to punish him?” you asked with a small smile. 

“That is different.” 

You chuckled, your right hand cradling your husband’s cheek, turning his head your way. 

“I fail to see how,” you commented. “I am not married to Maester Creyle.”

“Do not test me, wife.” It was phrased as a warning, but Dunk could see the prince’s mouth twitching, and he could detect no venom in the older man’s tone.

“But I do so love testing you,” you lilted. You traipsed back towards the bed, sitting down. Even Dunk could notice how charged the air had become – differently than before. Not with anger.

Prince Maekar immediately began following you like a hound on a leash, following its master. Halfway there, he remembered Dunk.

“Leave,” he ordered, not even bothering to look back at the kneeling knight. It was but one word. 

Dunk had never gotten up faster in his life. He scrambled for his sword, sheathing it with clammy hands as he stumbled through the door, quickly closing it behind himself. He pretended he had not heard your squeal, the creak of the mattress. 

By the time he retook his post, his face burned anew. He did not want to listen. Truly, he did not. But without beeswax to plug his ears, it was impossible to ignore what he now knew were the sounds your husband drew from your body. 

When it was time for a change of guards, he did not say a word. He did not need to. Your pleasure was still clear for all to hear. 

Dunk’s eyes met the other knight’s. “You just learn to disregard it,” the man said, a pained grimace on his face. “But it is astonishing, is it not?” Upon seeing Dunk’s puzzled face, he elaborated. “A man his age with a wife that young?” He whistled quietly.

“Dragon blood sure burns hot. Be glad you weren’t here for their honeymoon.”