Valarr dismounts his palfrey and is greeted immediately by his squire, who takes his shattered lance with mud-stained hands. The prince then pulls his helm from his head. His hair clings to his forehead, dark with sweat, his cheekbones pink as he spares a look over his shoulder. The sounds of the tourney meet his ears: people shouting their approval, roaring praise as he leaves the tiltyard, peering at his opponent, who picks himself out of the mud with a loud groan.

“An incredible joust, your grace,” a young worker in Targaryen colours says earnestly, taking the prince’s palfrey before leading him away.

“At this rate, you will surpass your father in tourney victories,” a Dornish nobleman, a cousin to some degree, remarks as Valarr heads towards his tent.

“Perhaps the ‘Breakspear’ name will fit well with you also, your grace,” another nobleman, from some lesser house in the Stormlands, adds as Valarr passes by.

The prince offers all those who give him their congratulations a polite smile, but it is largely to conceal a grimace. He had received a solid knock to the ribs, the blunt head of a lance cracking off the edge of his shield and finding the curve of his armour. Despite the steel holding strong, the impact rattled him enough to bruise.

“Where is my wife?” Valarr asks suddenly, glancing up towards the Targaryen pavilion that overlooks the tiltyard. You, his wife, are nowhere to be seen—the seat between his father and his younger brother achingly vacant.

His words seem to fall on no ears at all as the excitable crowd disperses around him. However, he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he turns to find an elderly woman with a kind smile and even kinder eyes. She dresses in shawls of varying lengths and colours, presenting herself as a traditional healer that frequents the villages throughout the Crownlands.

“Your grace, do your ribs pain you?” The woman asks, and Valarr instinctively raises a hand to his side. The woman notices the movement and nods solemnly, brushing one of her shawls aside and revealing a belt laden with small pouches. She takes one between two wrinkled fingers, presenting it to the prince. “This is a tannin that will ease the pain and reduce bruising. Simply mix it with water—”

The woman is interrupted by a hand gilded in white armour. Valarr sighs softly as Ser Roland plucks the small pouch from the woman and inspects it with little interest.

“Be gone, witch,” Roland says, dropping the pouch onto the ground. With his head, he gestures in the opposite direction. “If you approach his grace again with your poisons, you will be hanged.”

Valarr bristles, eyes snapping back to the elderly woman, who he expects to look petrified. But as his mismatched eyes find her, she appears calm, almost serenely so. She appraises Roland carefully, looking him up and down with dark eyes that seem to bore directly into his soul. Valarr notices the way Roland stands a little straighter.

“I hold no poisons,” the woman says, still looking at the man of the kingsguard. “And you, Ser Roland Crakehall, should know that.”

Roland clears his throat, obviously a little shocked that the woman knows his name. She continues looking at him, before gesturing to the pouch on the ground. Roland looks to Valarr, who simply nods as he silently observes, and the knight sighs through his nose. He plucks the pouch from the ground and hands it back to the woman.

“Thank you,” the woman smiles at Roland, then turnes her attention back to Valarr. “As I was saying, your grace, simply mix this tannin with water and drink hot. It will ease your pain.”

Valarr takes the pouch, ignoring the sharp look from Roland. He bows his head in respect. “Thank you.”

“And this,” the woman continues, pulling another small pouch from her rope belt. “Will… improve your celebrations, should you find your wife. You can mix it with the tannin, if you like. It will improve the taste most definitely, but be aware that it will also increase the properties of—”

“Your grace,” Roland interrupts. “It would be foolish to—”

Valarr raises a hand and stops his guard. He takes the pouch along with the other, and offers the woman a kind smile. He then turns to Roland, gesturing to the elderly woman with a wave of his arm, his armour clinking.

“Pay the woman, Ser Roland,” Valarr orders, then backs away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my wife.”

He leaves Roland with the woman and heads for his tent. Inside, it is spacious but warm, glowing gold with lantern light. Servants flock him immediately, hands working to unhook and unlatch the plates of his armour. He hands the two small pouches to one of his attendings as he stands atop a small platform.

“Please brew a tea with these,” he says, and the servant nods before disappearing somewhere behind him. 

He stands patiently, arms and legs widened as his servants strip him of his tourney armour. When the steel is lifted from his body, and his padded, sweat-damp gambeson is stripped from his torso, he dismisses his servants as politely as he can. His ribs ache something fierce, and he finds himself staggering across the tent in his linen chausses and breeches, bare chest shining with a thin layer of sweat.

The last servant in the room is the one whom he’d asked to brew him the tea. She approaches the prince with her eyes lowered and, bless her heart, trying very desperately not to look at the toned abdomen directly in front of her. She offers the prince the cup of steaming tea, before taking her leave and skittering out of the tent like a frightened mouse.

Valarr sinks down into his plush chaise, peering into the surface of the tea. It’s a milky white in colour, perhaps something closer to cream, but there is an intense berry-sweetness that catches him by surprise. The steam caresses his warm face as he brings the cup to his lips, taking a tentative sip. There is an obvious bitterness in the initial wash across his tongue, but it does not linger.

He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tasting between sips. The sweet acidity of ripe mulberries is heavy on his tongue, and it takes him back to his youth, where he and Daeron would fill their pockets with the berries from shrubs that sprouted plentifully in the woodland near Summerhall.

He drinks the tea happily, enjoying the silence of his tent. He listens to the distant noise of the tourney, and only when the bottom of the cup stares up at him, pinkish-white sediment sticking to the bottom, does he realise he still hasn’t found you.

With a small huff, Valarr gets to his feet and places the cup aside. Immediately, there is less of an ache in his ribs as he stretches his arms above his head. He pops the tension from his upper back before approaching the flap of the tent, pulling it back and getting the attention of one of his kingsguard.

“Will you find my wife and bring her to me?” Valarr asks, and the guard nods then disappears.

Valarr peels back into the tent, and when he turns, the entire interior seems to glow even brighter beneath the suspended lanterns. He freezes, bare feet on the red Myrish rug that obscures the ground. He peers around the tent, eyes narrowing, as he realises that everything seems clearer. Everything looks more colourful: the reds and blacks of his tent seem even more vibrant, the silver of his sword glints even brighter where it lays across its mount.

That is what he notices first. What he notices second is the fact that his body is on fire.

His blood boils beneath his skin, but it doesn’t pain him. Valarr lets out a strangled groan as he pitches forward, catching himself on the post that holds the ceiling of the tent up. It doesn’t cause him pain, like a blade through flesh, but it causes him discomfort, like the press of an orgasm that just didn’t want to release.

He groans again, body suddenly overcome with this heat. Sweat beads high on his forehead, along the nape of his neck, between the muscles of his pectorals. Something contracts low in his stomach, and he looks down, mouth agape, as blood rushes south and heat spreads through his pelvis.

His hands find the ties of his chausses, and he rips them from his body as he stumbles deeper into his tent, now just in his breeches. His cock pushes painfully against the linen, hardening with each step towards his chaise. By the time he sinks into the plush cushions, he’s completely hard and pitching a tent in the front of his breeches.

His heart hammers wildly in his chest, eyes wild as he lowers a clammy palm to his pelvis. Pushing against the tent there does not help, and he lets out a pained hiss as the friction seems to sear a path up the column of his spine. His hips twitch involuntarily, and his face flushes red as he realises he’s leaking against the soft white linen, a little wet patch spreading across the front.

“Gods, oh gods,” Valarr mutters, fingers tearing apart the knots of his breeches. 

Biting his bottom lip to hide any more sounds, he dips his hand beneath the material and grasps himself. He successfully swallows a groan, his cock hot against his palm, velvet skin pulling taut across Valyrian steel. His chest shudders when he wraps his fingers around himself, the head already wet with pre-cum. He smears it, biting down another desperate groan as he gives himself a short, sharp tug. Sinking into the chaise, he spreads his legs as he jerks himself again, a heavy knot finding its way into the base of his stomach.

Then, the flap of the tent pulls back, and his eyes shoot up to find you stepping inside, dusting your hands down the front of your dress. Your eyes are elsewhere as you pull your cloak from yourself and hang it on an adjacent rack.

“Please forgive me, my love,” you begin, voice soft in the relative silence of the tent. You bend and remove your shoes as well. “You remember Ser Raymun Fossoway, don’t you? Such a lovely lad he is. Well, he and his lady invited me into their tent for a cider, and I just couldn’t refuse. It was delicious, by the way. We really must purchase—”

You finally look up and notice your husband panting in his chaise, his pale skin slick with sweat, his chest heaving. You pause, back to the flap of the tent, brow furrowing as you take him in.

“My love?” You question, taking a step forward. But you stop yourself, eyes shooting down to where Valarr’s hand moves in quick, short strokes beneath the white linen of his breeches. Your eyes widen, then rise, skimming across your husband’s flushed face. “Valarr?”

“My sweet wife,” Valarr breathes, stilling his hand and simply clutching the base of his cock. His other hand lifts, begging you to draw closer. “Gods, I have missed you.”

You stay rooted to the spot. “Valarr, what’s happening?”

Valarr groans at the way you say his name, his cock giving a feeble jerk in his hand. His heart clatters against his sternum too, nearly rendering him breathless.

“I believe,” he starts quietly, eyes roaming across your body. “I have been given a… stimulant of sorts.”

You gape at him, noticing the cup beside him. You sigh then, turning back to the flap and enclosing your fingers around it. Before you can peel it open, Valarr lets out a broken whine behind you.

“No, no, please don’t leave me,” he begs, wobbling to his feet. 

You peer at him over your shoulder as he staggers, hand flying out of his breeches, which sit low on his hips now, a thatch of neat hair—dark but flecked with white—exposed where they fold open. He makes it to the post in the centre of the tent, wrapping an arm around it in support as he gazes at you, desperate and absolutely ragged with desire.

“Wait,” you instruct him, and your husband’s whimpering quietens. 

You poke your head out of the tent then, urging for the nearby kingsguard to draw closer. The day was slipping away now, sky alight with the colours of the setting sun. 

The kingsguard approaches, and you speak to him quietly. “Please ensure no one interrupts us for the rest of the night. My husband is… unwell.”

“Of course, your grace,” the guard says, and you offer him one last smile before dipping back into the tent. 

When you back into the tent, your back collides with a warm, sweat-damp body, and you immediately sink back into the heat as Valarr wraps his arms around you. You quickly tie the tent door shut for good measure as Valarr buries his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling and whining, hips bucking until he can grind his hard cock into the curve of your arse.

“I’m very proud of you, by the way,” you tell him, hands smoothing across his forearms as you shift your head to the side, allowing him to drag his nose along the junction of your neck and shoulder. “That might’ve been your best tilt of the tourney.”

Valarr groans into your shoulder, and then his teeth come down in a bite. It’s not hard, not at all, but he sinks his teeth into your skin just enough to leave little indents. You hum, then muster as much strength as you can to pry his arms away from you. He hiccups around a groan as you turn and step out of his embrace, your back pressing to the tent canvas.

“What have you taken?” You ask, crossing your arms across your chest. The action presses your breasts a little higher in your low-cut dress, and Valarr can’t help the way his eyes follow the movement.

He groans, still looking at the swell of your chest. “A tea…”

You huff and breeze past him. Valarr closes his eyes as your movement shifts the air, and he catches the smell of your perfume: powdery and sweet and enough to make him salivate. But your warmth leaves his personal space and he whimpers at the loss, spinning on his heel so fast he loses his balance. He falls and catches himself on the post in the centre, watching as you cross the tent and pick up the porcelain cup.

You inspect the inside, finding the pinkish sediment gathering at the bottom. Without another thought, you dip your finger and wipe the sediment from the base, lifting your finger and watching the white-pink granules sparkle like sugar.

Valarr leans a shoulder against the centre post, his hand dipping back into his breeches. As he grasps his cock and hisses serpent-like into the heated air of the tent, he watches the way your eyes glisten as you inspect the strange powder.

You look over at him when he whines. His breeches finally fall, slipping down his hips and pooling at his ankles as he strokes his cock. You try your best not to look down, but you can’t help it: his cock hangs heavy between his legs, the tip blushing pink and wet. His lips part as he strokes himself, his brows furrowing.

He looks at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the realm. Well, if you ask him, you are the prettiest thing in the realm. The prettiest woman in the known world.

“Taste it,” Valarr whispers, the vowels broken around a poorly hidden whine as he supports himself against the tent’s post.

You frown at him, but raise your finger anyway. You smell summer berries and jasmine, and you lock eyes with Valarr as you stick your finger in your mouth and suck the granules clean from your skin. The act makes Valarr moan, and you watch as his cock drips as he gives himself another sharp stroke before he’s crossing the tent towards you.

You like the taste. It’s sweet and acidic, and the smell lingers in your sinuses as you place the cup back down.

“I don’t want to know where you got this from,” you say, dancing around your husband as he makes a move to grab you. Your laughter lifts through the room, and Valarr groans, collapsing onto the chaise with a blush heavy on his cheeks. The dresses of your skirts whip around your bare ankles as you stand over him. “But I assume it’s not from our maester.”

Valarr whines, fingers tight at the base of his cock. “No.”

“No? Oh, Valarr.”

“Please,” Valarr pleads, eyes shining like gemstones as he gazes up at you. His long eyelashes flutter as his pupils expand. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, I just—I didn’t think—”

You hold up a hand, and he silences with a whimper. With that same hand, you reach down and cup his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into the contact, his skin burning. You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone, glancing down at where he holds his cock.

“Don’t apologise,” you say gently, and your husband’s eyes open. “We shall discuss it later. For now—” Your hand drags up the side of his face until you can thread your fingers into his damp hair. The sound that leaves his throat is broken as you continue. “—does my champion need some help?”

“Please,” Valarr hurries out, and then groans when your fingers leave his hair. But he waits before complaining, watching instead as you gather your skirts enough to slip your fingers through the ties of your smallclothes. Slowly, you pull them down, your skirts dropping as your smallclothes hit the floor. Valarr gapes as you kick them aside, knowing you were now bare beneath. “Oh, pretty girl—”

“I love watching you compete,” you utter, approaching slowly. Valarr leans back in the chaise as you step between his spread legs. “You’re so strong, and you look so good in your armour.”

“Yeah?” Valarr has stars in his eyes.

His cock aches, the knot in his belly heavy, pressure building along his spine, but he ignores it all to reach for you. Two hands find your hips, but he doesn’t try to pull you to him. Not yet.

“Yeah,” you reply, hands covering his atop your hips. You stroke your fingers across his knuckles, across the bones of his wrists. “That armour… gods, Valarr, you look so good.”

Valarr gapes at you. His cock jerks against his stomach, smearing across the skin.

You gaze down at him, fingers ringing around his forearms now. “I can’t help myself. It makes me so wet watching you like that—”

“Oh, fuck,” Valarr curses, pulling you to him. He buries his face into the mound of your lower stomach, nuzzling you there as a moan rips free of his throat. One of your hands finds his hair again, this time carding through the streak of white, and you feel him shudder where he hides himself against you. “Oh, my sweet girl. My pretty wife.”

“I’ll take you so well,” you purr, delighting in the way your husband squirms in your hold, whining into the thick fabric of your bodice. “I’ll take all of you.”

“I know you will,” Valarr gasps out, lifting his head. 

You finally allow him to pull you, and you find yourself straddling his lap as he sinks back into the chaise. You had long given up arguing about being too heavy to sit in his lap like this, for he simply retorted that you could sit on his face instead if you wish. You slide into his lap, skirts billowing out around you as his mouth finds yours, with the initial contact making him moan down your throat.

The kiss is messy. He’s burning hot against you, and his hands hold you tight as his tongue licks the berry-sweetness from your lips. You make a noise from the back of your throat when his tongue finally bullies inside, finding yours and pulling another little noise from you. He whines in response, one of his hands bundling into your skirts and pushes it up around your hip as you press yourself further into his lap.

As his tongue smooths against yours, you find yourself heating up. Suddenly, the material of your dress is too hot against your chest, your nipples pebbling beneath your chemise and a shiver running down your spine. You pull out of the kiss to suck in a breath, eyes opening and finding the room glowing with previously unseen colour. The lantern suspended overhead blares like a trapped sun, and when your eyes find your husband’s, the lighter one seems to shine.

“Oh, I think I feel…” You lose your train of thought as Valarr hums his acknowledgement, head shifting to suck at your neck. You grind yourself down against his lap, and you finally angle yourself well enough to feel the length of his cock rut against your inner thigh. You moan, “Valarr.”

Valarr’s breathing hard against your throat as his hips rock, a desperate string of “huh–uh–uh” as his cock slides against your bare thigh, velvet skin smoothing back, pre-cum a sticky smear as you shift your legs to draw him in closer.

You throw one of your arms around his shoulders. The other dips down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around the thick of him and giving him a teasing squeeze. His kisses across your throat falter, and his head falls back. He whimpers softly as you stroke him, before lifting your hips slightly to drag the tip of him through the wet split of your pussy.

“Oh, gods, sweet girl, you’re soaked,” he moans, holding you tightly.

His breath comes in quick pants, his chest flushed with sweat. You whine at his words and bend to kiss him again, sucking his lip into your mouth as you run the tip of his cock through your folds again. You swallow his whimpers as you rock the wet heat of your cunt against his length with as much precision as you could offer (considering your body was alight like a pyre).

“Please let me have you,” Valarr whines, angling his head to kiss along the line of your jaw.

You nod, sitting higher in his lap to drag the head of his cock to your hole. You notch it there yourself, running a few tight circles before slowly pushing in, sinking at the same time. The sound that leaves your husband is a garbled mix of whimpers and groans of your name as you take him. You put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezing the strong muscle there.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mutters, mouthing where your pulse hammers beneath your ear. Your head tips, allowing him to suck and bite, before lifting a hand from your hip to seize your jaw. He forces your mouth to his, teeth clashing, tongues sweet with mulberries. When he pulls away, a thin string of spit connects your mouths. It breaks when he says, “Keep going, sweet girl.”

You listen, finally sinking all the way down until your arse presses to his thighs. Your skirts fan out around you in a pool of black and crimson.

Valarr groans. “Yes, yes, thank you, fuck, thank you.”

“Valarr,” you whisper as you slowly start to rock your hips. 

You lift as well, then slide yourself back down. The movements are slow, calculated, and it takes the strength of all Seven not to simply drop down and take him to the hilt. There’s a fire burning deep within you, clawing up your diaphragm, spreading through your chest as you sink, feeling every velvet ridge against the walls of your pussy. Valarr hisses, one hand holding your hip, the other still on your jaw—not gripping, just holding, as his mismatched eyes watch your face, utterly transfixed.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he breathes as you lift yourself, circling your hips. He groans, thick from his chest, when you lower yourself back down. Your pussy flutters when he hits deep, angling right up towards the plug of your cervix. He groans again. “That’s it, that’s a good girl. My best girl.”

“Valarr,” you whine. Your body is burning hot as you set a rhythm, rocking in his lap and taking him again and again.

Valarr releases your jaw and hooks his fingers into the neckline of your dress. He tugs roughly, and you gasp out when you faintly hear something tear. Your breasts spill free, and the moan that leaves him rips through the tent so loud that you’re certain it pierces the canvas. But it doesn’t worry you—all that concerns you now is the fact that you’re fucking yourself on your husband’s cock and his mouth is taking a wet hold of one of your nipples.

He sucks, and you keen. “Valarr.”

The prince’s hand works around the other, pinching and rolling as he continues to rut himself into you. His eyes flutter closed as he mouths at you, huffing with each upstroke and each squeeze of your cunt around him. Your fingers find his hair then, threading between the soft, dark strands until you find the strip of white. The hair is slightly coarser, the texture different from the rest against the pads of your fingers as you curl it between your knuckles and give it a solid tug. His mouth leaves you with a wet pop, his lips kiss-bruised and parted around a whine when he looks up at you.

“You feel so good,” you mewl, arching your back. Heavy pressure builds at the base as your thighs start to ache, and you tug at his hair again to steady yourself. Your husband groans, burying his face between your tits. He mouths at the soft skin of your sternum, panting like a dog. You pet his white streak as you grind down against him. “You always make me feel so good.”

Valarr kisses the slope of your tits as he gently pulls away, both hands on your hips now as he helps you take him at a steady pace. “Yeah? M’so good to you, aren’t I?”

“So good,” you agree. Your body is on fire, sweat slick where your dress clings to you.

“And you’re proud of me?” Valarr whines out as your fingers card through his hair. His movements begin to quicken, and he thrusts up hard, cock hitting that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing stars. Your head rolls on your shoulders as you whine, your husband continuing as he kisses across your chest. “You’re proud of me winning the tilt? The lists?”

The air of the tent is thick with heat, smelling of arbor gold, ripe mulberries and the musk of sex. 

You shudder as you cry out, then force your reply around a breathy whimper. “Yes, Valarr, yes—gods, m’so proud of you.”

Valarr groans. His hips jerk, and he hits even deeper, the thick of his cock splitting you open as you roll against him. You’re so warm against him, the clutch of your pussy silken and hot, and he whimpers when you drool around him, slick running down his balls as he rucks up.

“Did it for you,” he whines, and you bend to kiss him then. It’s not much of a kiss, the two of you high on the mulberry stimulant that makes the tent glow. It’s more tongue and spit, pathetic little whimpers being exchanged as your lips slide together with no pattern. Valarr’s tongue drags to the corner of your mouth, licking the berry-sweetness from the groove. “I want you to be proud of me. I did it for you, sweet girl.”

Your entire body’s pulling taut now, that pressure in your spine migrating deeper and deeper into your pelvis. You gasp as it settles and Valarr’s cock knocks right up against it. You lift and drop, taking him deep and grinding yourself down until the swollen pearl of your clit catches against his hair. The contact sends you reeling, and you clutch him tightly as your body stretches rigid like a bowstring.

“Always proud of you,” you manage to whisper, knot tight in your belly, pussy fluttering around him. “My prince, always such a good—oh, gods, such a good boy.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Valarr whines into the valley of your tits, arms hugging around you completely now as he holds you to him, rutting like a man driven to the brink.

A breathy whine leaves his throat and you feel his cock jerk before he’s coming deep inside you, hips working himself through it as he chases your pleasure like a hound.

Your orgasm crests then, release taking you hard as the bowstring snaps. Your thighs clench where you straddle him, and the fingers in his hair tighten as you come. His name is a wanton chant from your mouth as something in the depths of your belly clenches and your pussy draws him in tight enough to urge another desperate whimper from his throat. Heat spurs through your veins, bursting like stars as your eyes close, your release hitting you hot and hard.

Valarr moans your name as he continues to spill, seed filling you deep as the rolling of your hips stutters. His heart lurches in his chest as the heat within him begins to dissipate, and he can’t help the satisfied groan that leaves him as his cock finally gives one last weak twitch before it stills inside you.

You pet his hair, resting your head on the crown of his as you fizzle down, embers dying. You feel him dripping out of you as his cock slowly softens, and it feels like you can finally breathe again without igniting the pyre within you.

“Valarr, my sweet boy,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head before withdrawing. He does the same: kissing your sternum one last time before reclining back in the chaise. He gazes at you with those glassy, mismatched eyes you love so much, and you drag your hands to cup his flushed cheeks. “Do you feel better?”

You lean in and kiss him softly on the lips.

He hums, content, eyelids drooping. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” You kiss the tip of his nose, then pull back. You smooth his dark hair away from his forehead, the strands wet with sweat. “Shall I call for a maester to be sure?”

His hands tighten on your hips. “No.”

You give your husband a pointed look, palming the sweat from his forehead as you check his temperature.

He huffs out a lazy laugh. “I’m fine, I promise… and, if I may be honest, I have no intention of letting you leave this tent until the morrow.”

You smile, allowing him to lift his head and capture your mouth in another tender kiss. You cradle his face and return it, trying to hide your smile as you feel his cock twitch heavily inside you.

“Valarr…” You whisper, and your husband just hums, beginning to trail a line of kisses from your mouth, over your jaw, and then down your throat and onto your chest.

“I love you,” he says, mouth over your heart now, kissing the warm skin. “I love you.”

———

i’m a valarr loves giving AND receiving praise truther

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