~a

Despite your extensive education on ladylike comportment, you could not seem to soothe your nerves as the evening of your wedding went on, your fright taking over your body like a fever. 

Valarr had seen you grow more and more preoccupied as the evening had progressed, and even the coming darkness and the forgiving lights of the torches and candles had not been enough to hide your sunken eyes and downturned mouth. It perplexed him rather, as he had believed the match to be a happy one. 

You were a lady of noble birth and proper education, and upon setting eyes on you for the first time, he had been perfectly satisfied with your appearance. His father had made it clear that in his duty, marriage was of the utmost importance, and that the quality of a man could be found in the way he treated those gentler than him, and ladies were among those who necessitated more delicate treatment.

He was not the most gentle of young men—he did not fear to joust with his cousin Aerion, and never backed down from a challenge in the courtyard. He stood his ground and knew how to navigate difficult arguments much like his father. At times when it was needed, he knew how to be firm and asserting, but in his marriage, he aspired to be attentive and soft, if a softer touch was what his wife required.

Walking from the hall of Dragonstone towards Valarr’s chambers after the feast felt like walking to the gallows, your throat growing tighter until you knew you would not be able to speak a word to your husband. The door was barely closed behind you and Valarr before he cleared his throat and it startled you into action. 

Valarr watched, increasingly worried, as you immediately stepped towards the bed, reaching for the laces of your gown—gone were the glimpses of your true character that he had seen during your courtship or earlier in the night. Instead you had become cold and silent, and dread settled in his stomach.

Taking a deep breath in, he attempted to remember what his father had told him of the wedding night. While he was no stranger to the touch of a woman, his bride certainly was pure and untouched, and it was his role as husband to guide her unto those new territories. If he played his cards well, this night could be the start of a most satisfying harmony in the marriage bed.

“I am aware we do not know each other, and it must not be a comfort to you to welcome a stranger into your chambers,” he tried, wincing at his own hesitance. “But I would not have you afraid of me.” 

“I am not afraid of you, my prince,” you were quick to reply, unwilling to look at him over your shoulder, keeping your hands busy with your intricate gown.

“What of, then, if not of me?” he inquired, taking a few steps towards you.

When you did not answer, he decided upon offering patience instead of placating words. Instead, he came up behind you and assisted you in pulling the laces. You were shaking, your breathing growing even shallower under his hands, and his distress grew with it—he would take no pleasure in consummating with an unwilling bride, and yet it had to be done for security.

“Does the prospect of consummation frighten you so?” he asked softly, perhaps too bluntly.

Still, you did not look at him. He heard you swallow and take a shaky breath through your mouth. If his words could not appease you, then perhaps his touch would, he thought. As your gown loosened around your frame, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss at the back of your neck gently. He placed his hands on either side of your shoulders, hoping to ground you, but his endeavor failed, and your trembles turned into shudders.

“I will not mistreat you,” he assured, and to his horror, a silent sob wracked your trembling frame.

Valarr came to face you, his gentle hands settling on your waist, but you could not meet his eye nor acknowledge his kind words—every second that passed, you feared to unleash his frustration by your tears, but your instincts had taken over, and you could not calm yourself. 

“You have nothing to fear from me. It might be uncomfortable, at first, but only for a moment,” he promised, carefully taking the hand that had been hiding your mouth in his grasp. “What have you been taught, to frighten you so?”

At that, you finally shook your head and your eyes rose to meet his worried gaze—his eyes were different colors, you had noticed upon your first meeting, one a dark brown and the other a striking blue, and there was warmth in them both. “Not so much what I was taught, my prince, but what I was told, about…” you started, but stopped yourself. “I do not wish to cause offense.”

Valarr pressed a firm kiss to the back of your hand, and it loosened some of the tension in the pit of your belly. “You may be honest with me. What sort of marriage would this be if we could not speak our mind to one another?”

His thumb drew circles on the back of your hand, settling your nerves long enough for the words to come out. “My cousin met your own cousin, Prince Aerion, at a tourney and—” but in the end, you could not bring yourself to say it.

Still, understanding spread over Valarr’s handsome face, along with a sad smile. “His reputation is a grim one indeed,” Valarr said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I vow to you, I am nothing like my cousin.”

Relieved that he had not taken offense, you gave your husband a small smile, and his answer nearly took your breath away—he dipped forward slowly but resolvedly, letting his nose slide alongside yours until his mouth was pressed to yours, firm and confident. 

“Allow me to prove myself,” he said against your lips. “To show you the sort of husband I intend to be.”

Without a word, he hooked his fingers at the shoulders of your gown and brought it down, smoothly sliding to his knees to catch the fabric before it could pool at your feet. This time, your breathlessness was not due to nerves, but the caring and honorable gesture—for a second he remained there, a knee to the cold floor and his piercing eyes looking up at you with confidence.

Once you had stepped out of your gown and he had placed it on the back of a chair, he guided you, gently but firmly, with the sort of touch a husband should use while leading, to lay down on the bed. His eyes remained on you, warm and trusting, and he undressed. Warmth pooled in the pit of your stomach, shy and tentative, but present nonetheless.

Valarr cleared his throat, licking his lips before asking. “Do I please you?” he asked—and pleasing was perhaps not strong enough a word, in truth. Freed from his usual calf-length doublet, miles of creamy skin stretching over firm muscle were open for you to gaze at. Moles dotted his complexion here and there, from his broad shoulders down to his slimmer waist.

A breathless chuckle left your mouth. “Am I allowed to say?” you inquired. “Or to even think it?”

“I would like my wife to find me handsome, yes,” he replied, his hands finally reaching for the laces of his breeches, but after a second of hesitation, he decided on leaving them on for now. “Later,” he informed you, sounding rather embarrassed. “This moment is for you, first.”

The white strand fell into his face as he crawled up the bed, as gracefully as he had sunk to his knees before you, and it amazed you how a man could look so regal while doing it. 

Eyes fluttering close, your hands curled into fists at your hips, you awaited the weight of your husband’s body atop yours, but it did not come. Instead, Valarr’s lips found the inside of your ankle, pressing a reverent kiss to it.

You looked down and watched, breathless, as he made his way between your parted legs, his mouth tracing a path from your ankle bone to the inside of your knee, making you shiver. His mouth lingered there, his hands paving the way—his palms were warm and a bit rough, confident as they pressed your thighs further apart.

The white strand of hair at the front of Valarr’s head fell into his eyes and he smiled, wide and honest. Your lingering fears melted away, replaced by a warm wave of trust and excitement. 

“Lay back,” he said, a suggestion more than an order, a ripple of heat coursing through him when you complied. There were not many things headier in this world than the trust of a beautiful woman, and it filled him with determination. 

Valarr pushed your cotton shift out of the way, pressing a grounding kiss to your hipbone. His smile grew when his lips grazed your most intimate place and you gasped, then arched your back under the gentle press of his mouth. One of your hands uncurled from your side only to tentatively find the crown of his hair, and a sigh that could have been his name left your mouth.

Slowly, he traced the seam between your folds with his tongue, trying a soft, then firmer pressure, curling the tip of it at your core. Your moans were shy at first, then breathier and loudier, and it got to his head faster than any strong wine. With each pass of his tongue your hips rocked back against his touch, and when he kissed your pearl you gasped aloud, the sound breaking whenever he followed it with a gentle suckle.

His jaw ached after a while, but he pushed through the discomfort for your sake, enjoying the reward that were your moans of pleasure, and your arching body under his hands.

Eventually, his tongue wandered lower, in search of the entrance into your body, and his thumb took over, drawing circles at your numb, spreading your wetness. He kissed the inside of your thighs again, gently nudging them apart so he could fit his shoulders more comfortably between them. He groaned when you hook your heel at his back, and he guided you to hook your knee over his shoulder. 

Inside of his breeches, his own arousal was pulsing, hot and impatient, and he ground his hips into the mattress, hoping for some relief, but it only served to incense him further.

His tongue prodded past your wet folds, and finally found what he was most wanting for—the dip leading inside your body. The tip of his tongue pressed into it and you arched your back higher than before, his answering moan vibrating against your sensitive skin.

“Gods be good—” you cursed, your voice broken, and it spurred him on. 

Your hand tightened in his hair, the sharp ache a necessary distraction from his restless hips. The friction of his cock on the hard bed through his breeches and the sheets was torture and ecstacy at the same time, and he yearned to get a hand around himself.

However he was determined to see through the task at hand—to have you find your please before he did.

Ignoring his own pulsing need, he pushed his tongue harder into the dip of your body, bringing it up between your folds until it met his thumb, still tracing regular, tight circles. Like he would practice the flit of a sword in the yard, he repeated the movement at the same pace, even when your back did not come back from its arch and your hips quivered in his grasp. 

“Valarr, please keep—” came your ragged plea, and for a moment he feared you would bring him over the edge alongside you.

A pleasure, sharp and hot like you had never known, pierced through you—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, from your core to your toes, shivering up your back, with the force of a mast cracking under the pressure of the wind. After the intense peak had abated, a simmering satisfaction spread along your skin, and you wanted to laugh at the beauty of it, especially when you glanced down again and saw your husband looking up at you.

Between your parted thighs, he looked more alive than you had seen him so far, his eyes blown wide and dark. He made quick work of his breeches, but as he uncovered his length, wrapping a hand around it, you were not so afraid of it.

His eyes did not leave your face as he gave himself a few slow strokes, his hips quivering, before pushing to his knees and crawling over you, his mouth dipping into your neck to press a comforting kiss. “Trust me,” he murmured. “It will be over in a moment.”

There was no time for you to fear the pain, and your limbs felt so loose you even doubted it would come. Valarr guided the head of his cock between your folds, the sensation unfamiliar but not unpleasant. You felt him take a steadying breath, and curled a hand at the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair gently. The strands were thick between your fingers, cropped shorter at the back but long enough for you to enjoy.

Forehead to forehead, he pushed into you in one, smooth stroke, taking your breath away with it—the burn was intense, and the stretch rather uncomfortable, and yet you felt safe, caged in by his strong arms. Your quiet moan of pain was quickly swallowed by a kiss, deep and slow. In time, you would come to enjoy it, you thought. For now, holding him and resting easy in the pleasure he had already given you was enough. 

Valarr took you, slow but firm—a hint of a claim, if he was honest with himself—and it was the sweetest release he could have imagined. Still riding the high of your peak, it did not take long for his own pleasure to crest. You held him as he started shaking and he found refuge in the crook of your neck, biting back his moans, his cock pulsing inside of you. 

You welcomed his kiss again, lips warm on yours, when the shuddering stopped and he was instead left with a gentle quiver. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, breathless.

“No, you were lovely,” you replied, your heart thundering in your chest, but he knew the full truth of it.

Valarr rose again on his elbows, his eyes seeking yours. “We shall have many more nights, and I will make sure you find your pleasure in this as well,” he vowed, making heat erupt in your cheeks. 

None of the fears that had plagued your day were to be found—instead, there was only trust mirrored in your husband’s eyes and in his warm smile, and you knew yourself to be lucky, to have been given to a man who would treat you as a prince should. 

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Not beta read. Requests are open for this character.

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