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“The realm cannot afford the luxury of time, boy,” Daeron sighed, and there was genuine compassion in his tone, but also the firmness of a king. “You are the heir to the heir. The line of succession must be secured. Rumors are already beginning to circulate, lords are whispering. We need stability.”

“She is barely cold in her grave.”

“I know. And I regret with every fiber of my being that it must be so. But the realm…”

“To hell with the realm!” Valarr turned sharply, and for the first time in weeks, there was fire in his eyes. “Am I nothing more than a breeding tool? A stud to produce heirs?”

Daeron did not retreat before his grandson’s anger. Instead, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You mean much more than that, Valarr. You are my grandson, and I love you. But you are also a prince, and with that title comes a price. A price we must all pay.”

Valarr pushed away his grandfather’s hand, but the fury had vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only ashes.

“How much time do I have?”

“A month. We have selected appropriate candidates. A young woman from House Tyrell is most favorable. Beautiful, educated, of good birth and good health according to the maesters.”

Good health. As if his future wife were a breeding mare.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” the words came out mechanical, empty.

When Daeron left, Valarr looked back at Kiera’s tomb.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me, my love.”

Then he met you at the betrothal ceremony, exactly one month after Kiera’s death.

You were beautiful, he couldn’t deny it. Dark hair that fell in cascades over your shoulders, eyes that shone with intelligence and caution, an educated smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You wore your house colors with pride, but there was something in the way you kept your hands clasped in front of you that spoke of nervousness.

“My prince,” you made a perfect curtsy, undoubtedly rehearsed hundreds of times. “It is an honor.”

“Lady Tyrell,” he responded with equal formality, taking your hand and barely grazing your knuckles with his lips. “The honor is mine.”

Lies. All polite lies.

During the betrothal dinner, you barely addressed each other beyond required courtesies. Valarr drank more wine than he should, and you maintained your composure with a grace he found simultaneously admirable and irritating.

That night, alone in your chambers, you allowed yourself to cry. You had always known your marriage would be arranged, but you never imagined you would be the replacement for a lost love, a second choice born of a realm’s desperate need for an heir.

Your lady in waiting, sweet Meredyth, embraced you as you sobbed.

“He is handsome, at least,” she tried to cheer you. “And they say he is noble and just.”

“They also say he is in love with a ghost,” you responded bitterly. “How can I compete with a dead woman? The dead make no mistakes. The dead remain perfect in memory.”

There was no answer to that, because you both knew it was true.

The wedding was a sumptuous affair that neither bride nor groom enjoyed. Valarr spoke his vows in a firm but distant voice, and you did the same, your voice barely trembling.

When he kissed you to seal the union, it was chaste and brief, his lips barely grazing yours before pulling away.

The banquet was endless. You smiled until your cheeks ached, accepted congratulations from lords and ladies you barely knew, and all the while felt Valarr’s absence at your side. He was there physically, but his mind was elsewhere, with someone else.

When the wedding night finally arrived, your anxiety reached its peak. The ladies prepared you, dressed you in a silk nightgown so thin it was practically transparent, braided your hair with pearls and roses, and left you alone in the nuptial chamber.

Valarr arrived half an hour later, and he had been drinking, you could smell it. But he wasn’t drunk, just… numb.

“Wife,” he said, and the word sounded strange in his mouth.

“Husband,” you responded, hating how your voice trembled.

He approached you slowly, and you could see the internal battle in his blue eyes. When he touched you, it was with expert but impersonal hands, hands that knew a woman’s body but did not seek to know yours specifically.

It was… functional. Not painful, thank the gods, because at least he had the consideration to be careful, but not pleasant either.

It was the fulfillment of a duty, nothing more and nothing less.

When it was over, he immediately withdrew from you, dressed in silence, and spoke without looking at you:

“Rest. Good night.”

And he left for his own chambers, leaving you alone in the great matrimonial bed, feeling emptier and lonelier than you had ever felt.

That set the pattern for your marriage for the following months.

The months passed in a monotonous and painful routine. Valarr came to your chambers three or four times a week, always after nightfall. He fulfilled his marital duty with clinical efficiency, and then left.

You rarely spoke beyond basic courtesies.

“How do you find yourself tonight?”

“Well, thank you. And you?”

“Likewise.”

And then silence, except for the necessary sounds of what you did, an act devoid of emotional intimacy despite the physical intimacy.

You tried, at first, to create a connection. You asked him about his day, about his training, about the realm’s affairs. He responded with polite but discouraging monosyllables. You tried to touch his face tenderly once, and he pulled away as if you had burned him.

“Sorry,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand.

“No, I…” he sighed. “Forgive me.”

During the day, you barely saw each other. Valarr immersed himself in his duties as prince, training with the sword, attending council meetings, doing everything possible to keep himself busy. You, for your part, fulfilled your duties as princess: you embroidered, supervised the kitchens, attended court, smiled and nodded at appropriate moments.

In the evenings, you dined in the same hall but at opposite ends of the table, with dozens of courtiers between you. Sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, you caught him watching you with an indecipherable expression. But when your gazes met, he quickly looked away.

“Does the prince treat you well?” your mother asked during one of her visits.

“With perfect courtesy,” you responded, and technically it was true.

Your mother, who was no fool, frowned.

“That’s not what I asked, daughter.”

“It’s all I can expect, mother,” you said firmly. “I am married to a man who does not love me. I should be grateful he at least does not mistreat me.”

“You deserve more than the absence of mistreatment. You deserve to be loved.”

Tears threatened to fall, but you held them back.

“Perhaps in another life.”

Three months after the wedding, you discovered you were pregnant.

Maester Harmyce confirmed what your own suspicions had already told you: your monthly bleedings had stopped, your breasts were tender and swollen, and in the mornings, nausea assaulted you with a vengeance.

“Congratulations, princess,” said the maester with a smile. “I will inform the prince immediately.”

“No,” you said quickly. “Allow me to tell him myself.”

You wanted to see his reaction. You needed to know if at least this, the news of an heir, could open some breach in the wall he had built around his heart.

That night, when he came to your chamber as usual, you stopped him before he could begin the usual ritual.

“Wait. I have something to tell you.”

He stopped, an eyebrow arched in silent interrogation.

“I am pregnant,” you said simply. “The maester confirmed it this morning.”

For a moment, just a brief moment, you saw something in his eyes. Relief? Joy? Fear? But it disappeared so quickly you might have imagined it.

“That is excellent news,” he said, and his voice was warm, warmer than it had been in months. “The realm will rejoice. My grandfather will be pleased.”

The realm. His grandfather. But what about him? Was he pleased?

“And you?” you dared to ask. “Are you… happy?”

Valarr was silent for a moment that felt eternal.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Of course. It is… it is wonderful.”

But the words sounded rehearsed, appropriate, not sincere.

That night, he was gentler than usual when he touched you, his hands almost tender on your body. But afterward, as always, he left.

You lay staring at the bed canopy, one hand on your still flat belly.

“At least I will love you,” you whispered to the baby growing inside you. “Whatever happens, I will love you enough for both of us.”

As your belly grew, the distance between Valarr and you seemed to increase proportionally. He was solicitous in practical ways: he made sure you had the best maesters, that your diet was appropriate, that you lacked nothing material. But emotionally, he remained a stranger.

He stopped coming to your bed after the third month, when your pregnancy became evident.

“I don’t want to risk the baby,” he had said, and it was a reasonable excuse, even considerate. But it meant you no longer even had those brief moments of physical proximity, clinical as they were.

Your body changed in ways that frightened and amazed you in equal parts. Your belly rounded, your breasts swelled, your skin glowed. The court ladies told you that you had never been more beautiful, radiant with the glow of pregnancy.

But Valarr barely looked at you.

When you coincided at court or at dinners, he asked politely about your health and the baby’s. You responded that both were well. He nodded. And that was all.

You spent your days in solitude, sewing little clothes for the baby, reading, walking through the gardens when your body allowed it. 

Meredyth was your constant companion, along with some other ladies, but you longed for your husband’s company.

One afternoon, in the seventh month of pregnancy, you were in the gardens when you felt the first strong kick. You gasped in surprise and wonder, your hand flying instinctively to your belly.

“My lady? Are you well?” Meredyth approached alarmed.

“The baby,” you said with an amazed smile. “It’s kicking. You can feel it!”

Meredyth placed her hand on your belly and laughed when she felt the little thump.

“How strong! It will be a warrior, no doubt.”

“Or a warrior woman,” you responded with a smile.

You looked around the garden, your heart yearning. You wanted to share this moment with Valarr. You wanted him to feel his child move inside you, to share this wonder.

“Where is the prince?” you asked.

“At the training yard, I believe, my lady.”

Against Meredyth’s advice, you headed there, one hand on your lower back and the other on your belly. The baby kept moving, as if it too wanted to meet its father.

You found Valarr in the center of the yard, sword in hand, practicing forms with lethal grace. He was shirtless, his pale skin glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun, muscles flexing with each movement. He was, undeniably, beautiful.

“Valarr,” you called to him.

He stopped immediately, turning toward you in surprise.

“What are you doing here? You should be resting.”

“The baby,” you said, ignoring his tone of practical concern. “It’s kicking. I thought perhaps you would want… would want to feel it.”

You saw something in his face then, something vulnerable and almost painful. He took a step toward you, then stopped.

“I… I’m covered in sweat and dust. I don’t want to…”

“I don’t care,” you said, approaching him and taking his hand before he could protest. “Please.”

Gently, you guided his hand to your belly, placing it just where the baby had been kicking. For a moment, nothing. And then, as if the baby knew its father was there, another kick, strong and determined.

Valarr’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in wonder.

“Gods…” he whispered. “It’s so… real.”

“Of course it’s real,” you said with a soft laugh. “It’s growing inside me.”

Valarr kept his hand there, waiting for each movement, and for the first time since he met you, he truly looked at you, saw you as something more than a duty or a replacement.

“Does it hurt?” he asked softly.

“Sometimes it’s uncomfortable,” you admitted. “But mostly it’s… amazing. Terrifying and amazing.”

He nodded, and you thought perhaps, perhaps, this was the beginning of something. Of a true connection.

But then he withdrew his hand, and the wall returned to its place.

“You should return to your chambers. You must not tire yourself.”

“Valarr…”

“I have to finish my training,” he said, already walking away. “Take care of yourself. And the baby.”

And so, the moment was broken, leaving you alone once more.

Labor began three weeks earlier than expected, in the middle of the night, with a pain that tore you from your sleep with a scream.

“Meredyth!” you called, and your voice was tinged with panic. “Meredyth, the baby!”

Everything became a whirlwind. The maesters were called, the midwives arrived, your chambers filled with women telling you to breathe, to push, to hold on.

“Where is my husband?” you asked between contractions. “Where is Valarr?”

“He has been sent notice, princess,” Maester Harmyce assured you. “He will arrive soon.”

But the hours passed, and the pain intensified to levels you never imagined possible. It was as if you were being torn apart from the inside, as if fire ran through your veins. You screamed and cried, gripping the hands of the women surrounding you until your knuckles turned white.

“Valarr!” you called his name in your delirium of pain. “Where is he? I need him!”

“Focus on the birth, princess,” said one of the midwives firmly. “The baby is almost here.”

But something was wrong. You could see it in the worried looks the maesters exchanged, in the urgent whispers they thought you couldn’t hear.

“Too much blood…”

“The baby is in a difficult position…”

“If it doesn’t come out soon…”

Fear seized you, a primal terror that you would die here, alone, without even your husband’s hand to hold.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please, someone find Valarr. Please.”

But he didn’t come.

Labor lasted eighteen agonizing hours. When you finally felt the final urge to push, you had almost nothing left, neither strength nor hope. 

But you pushed anyway, with every ounce of will you had left, you pushed because your baby deserved to live, even if you didn’t survive.

And then, a cry. Weak at first, then stronger.

“It’s a boy!” the midwife announced joyfully. “A prince! You have a son, my lady!”

You barely had the strength to smile before darkness threatened to swallow you. But you fought against it, fought to stay awake, to see your son.

They placed him in your arms, tiny and wrinkled, covered in blood, and he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. He had dark hair with a silver streak like his father, and when he briefly opened his eyes, they were blue.

“Hello, little one,” you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Hello, my love. Your mama is here. I love you.”

You held him while the maesters worked to stop the bleeding, while the midwives cleaned and moved around you. You held him until your arms could no longer, until someone gently took him from you so you could rest.

“Prince Valarr is on his way, my lady,” someone said. “He will arrive soon.”

But by then, you no longer cared.

Valarr arrived two hours later, when you had already been cleaned and changed, when the baby was asleep in a cradle next to your bed, and when fury had had time to replace fear and pain.

He entered the room with a pale, worried face, his clothes rumpled as if he had dressed in haste.

“Wife,” he said, approaching the bed. “Gods be praised. They told me the birth was difficult. How are you?”

“Where were you?” your voice came out cold, colder than you had ever spoken to him.

He blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction.

“I… there was a matter in the city that required attention. When the news reached me, I came as fast as I could.”

“A matter?” you repeated, and there was a dangerous edge in your voice. “What matter was more important than the birth of your son?”

“It wasn’t a question of importance, it was… the messenger didn’t find me immediately. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

But you had heard the rumors, the whispers of the ladies in waiting while they thought you were sleeping. They had mentioned a tavern in Flea Bottom, a dark-haired woman, and him.

“Were you with a mistress?” you asked directly, and the silence that followed was answer enough.

“What?, no…”

“Don’t lie to me!” you shouted, and the baby stirred in his cradle at the noise. “While I was here, bleeding and begging for you, you were in another woman’s arms!”

“It wasn’t like that!” Valarr ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “I was drinking, yes, trying to… I don’t know, trying to find the courage to be present. There was a woman, yes, but nothing happened. I swear by the Seven that nothing happened.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you? I’m supposed to believe the words of a man who has barely given me a warm look in all these months?”

“I was afraid!” he burst out. “Alright? I was afraid. Kiera died in childbirth, our son died, and I… I couldn’t bear the idea of going through that again. Of losing you too.”

“Losing me?” you laughed bitterly. “How can you lose something you’ve never tried to have? You’ve never given me anything, Valarr. 

Nothing except your duty and your grief for another woman.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? FAIR?” you sat up in bed, ignoring the pain the movement caused. “I was in labor for eighteen hours. Eighteen hours in agony, believing I was going to die, calling your name, begging you to come. And you weren’t here.”

Tears ran down your face now, months of pain and loneliness and rejection pouring out.

“I gave birth to your son alone. Alone, Valarr. While you were in a damned tavern, trying to find courage at the bottom of a cup and in the company of a whore.”

“It wasn’t…”

“Get out!” you pointed to the door. “Leave. I don’t want to see you.”

“Please…”

“I SAID GET OUT!”

Valarr looked toward the cradle where his son slept, a baby he hadn’t yet held, and then looked at you, his heart clearly broken on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And he left.

When the door closed behind him, you allowed yourself to collapse into sobs, crying for everything you had endured, everything you had lost, everything you would never have.

Meredyth approached and embraced you, letting you cry on her shoulder.

“I hate him,” you sobbed. “Gods, I hate him.”

But you both knew it was a lie.

The days following the birth were the darkest. Your body healed slowly, but your heart remained broken. Valarr tried to visit you several times, but you asked the guards not to let him in. You weren’t ready to see him, to hear his excuses or his apologies.

You named your son Baelor, after his grandfather. He was a beautiful baby. You loved him with a fierceness that surprised you, an intensity you had never experienced before.

“You are mine,” you would whisper to him while nursing. “My little dragon. Whatever happens, you are mine.”

Maester Harmyce visited you daily, monitoring your recovery.

“You are healing well, princess,” she told you one afternoon. “In another month, you will be completely recovered.”

“Thank you, maester.”

“Prince Valarr asks about you every day,” she added carefully. “He is very worried.”

“Is he?” your voice was cold. “How considerate.”

“My lady… if you will permit me to say something.”

“Go ahead.”

“The prince made a mistake. A terrible mistake, yes. But I have been maester at this court for thirty years, and I have seen many men. Prince Valarr is not cruel nor unfaithful by nature. He is a broken man struggling with his demons.”

“His demons almost cost me my life, maester. His demons meant I gave birth alone, terrified.”

“I know, my lady. And I’m not excusing his actions. Just… perhaps, when you’re ready, consider listening to him. Not for him, but for yourself. Bitterness is a poison that harms the one who harbors it more than the one it’s directed at.”

You considered her words after she left, while rocking Baelor in your arms.

Two weeks after the birth, you finally allowed Valarr to visit you. But you established conditions: it would be a brief visit, and Meredyth would remain in the room.

When he entered, you were surprised by his appearance. He was haggard, with deep circles under his eyes and an incipient beard that suggested he hadn’t shaved in days. He seemed to have aged years in just weeks.

“Thank you for receiving me,” he said in a hoarse voice.

You didn’t respond, simply looked at him with a neutral expression.

“Can I… can I see him? Baelor?”

You nodded, and he approached slowly to the cradle. When he looked at his son for the first time, truly looked at him, you saw something break in his face.

“Gods,” he whispered. “He’s perfect.”

“Yes,” you said simply. “He is.”

“May I hold him?”

You hesitated, but then nodded. Valarr lifted Baelor with a delicacy you didn’t know he possessed, holding him as if he were made of glass. The baby yawned and snuggled against his father’s chest, and you saw tears form in Valarr’s eyes.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to the baby. 

“Forgive me for not being there when you were born.”

You watched the scene with your heart divided between pain and something softer, something dangerous.

After a few minutes, Valarr returned Baelor to the cradle and turned to you.

“I need you to know the truth. The whole truth.”

“I’m listening.”

He sat in a chair near your bed, but not too close, respecting your space.

“The night Baelor was born, I was drinking. It’s true. I was in a tavern in the city, trying to drown my fear. Because I was afraid, an absolute terror. I had been through this before, I had seen Kiera suffer, I had seen her die, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear the idea of it happening to you too.”

He paused, his hands trembling slightly.

“A woman approached me at the tavern. She offered company, distraction. And for a moment, just a moment, I considered accepting. Because I thought that if I didn’t allow myself to worry about you, if I kept my distance, it would hurt less if I lost you.”

“But you didn’t do anything with her,” you said, and it wasn’t a question, but a statement. 

Because in your heart, you knew it was true.

“No,” he confirmed. “I couldn’t. Because I realized it was a lie I was telling myself. I already cared about you. Despite all my efforts to keep my distance, despite all the walls I built, I had already let you in.”

Your heart beat fast, but you kept your expression neutral.

“And then?”

“And then I left the tavern. I walked through the city for hours, trying to find the courage to return to the castle, to be there for you as I should have been from the beginning. But when I finally arrived, the messenger found me and told me the birth had already begun hours ago. I ran. I ran as fast as I could, but I arrived too late.”

“You arrived two hours after Baelor was born,” you said in a tense voice. “Two hours during which I thought you didn’t care. That you were with another woman because I wasn’t enough. Because I will never be her.”

“Her?” Valarr looked at you confused.

“Kiera,” you said her name, the name that had been between you like a ghost from the beginning. “I will never be Kiera. I will never have her beauty, her grace, her place in your heart.”

Valarr rose from the chair and, slowly, knelt beside your bed. He didn’t try to touch you, but looked into your eyes with an intensity you hadn’t seen before.

“You’re right. You will never be Kiera. But… I don’t want you to be Kiera.”

“What?”

“I loved Kiera. It’s true. And her death almost destroyed me. But she was… she was sweet and kind and soft. She was all light. You,” he took a breath. “You are fire. You are strong and fierce and defiant. You confronted me when most would have cowered. You gave birth to our son even when you thought you would die. 

You are magnificent. And I have been a damned fool for not seeing it before.”

Tears threatened to fall, but you blinked to hold them back.

“Pretty words, Valarr. But words are easy.”

“I know. That’s why I’m not asking you to forgive me now. I don’t deserve it. But I ask for a chance to prove to you that I can be better. That I can be the husband you deserve and the father Baelor deserves.”

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I understand. But let me try to earn it. Please.”

You looked at your son sleeping in his cradle, so small and vulnerable.

“For Baelor,” you finally said. “I will give you a chance. But Valarr, if you fail me again, if you fail us again, there will be no more chances. Do you understand?”

“I understand. And I promise, by the Seven, by the old gods and the new, that I will not fail.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a beginning.

The changes weren’t immediate or dramatic, but they were real.

Valarr began to visit you daily, not to fulfill marital duties, but simply to be with you. At first, conversations were tense and careful, full of formal courtesies. But gradually, slowly, they began to soften.

You talked about Baelor, mainly. Valarr was fascinated by his son, learning to hold him properly, to calm him when he cried, to change his diapers (though his first attempts were disastrous and almost comical).

“No, not like that,” you said, laughing despite yourself when Valarr struggled with the diaper pins for the third time. “Let me show you.”

You approached and guided his hands, showing him the correct angle.

“There,” you said. “See?”

“I think I’d rather face a dozen knights on the battlefield than these damned pins,” he joked, and it was the first time you saw him truly smile in your presence.

That smile did something in your chest, something warm and dangerous.

Valarr also began to tell you things about himself. Small things at first: his favorite food (lemon cake), his younger brother Matarys and his antics, memories of sword training with his father.

“What about you?” he asked one afternoon while you both watched Baelor sleep. “I know so little about you. And I would like… I would like to know you.”

At first, you hesitated. But gradually, you began to share. You told him about your childhood in Highgarden, about your love for gardens and flowers, about how you used to sneak away from your tutors to climb trees and dirty your dresses.

“You?” Valarr sounded genuinely surprised. 

“The perfect princess was a wild child?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you responded with a small smile.

“I’d like to know everything,” he said softly, and there was sincerity in his eyes.

The weeks passed, and the tension between you began to transform into something different. There were moments when your gazes met and lasted a little longer than necessary. Moments when your hands brushed accidentally and neither pulled away immediately.

One night, a month after the birth, Baelor woke up crying. Before you could get up, Valarr was already there, lifting the baby and rocking him gently.

“Shh, little dragon,” he murmured. “Papa is here. Everything is fine.”

You watched from the bed, your heart tight with the tenderness of the scene. Valarr walked back and forth across the room, singing softly a lullaby in High Valyrian, his deep voice surprisingly melodious.

When Baelor finally calmed down, Valarr returned him to the cradle and turned to find you watching him.

“What?” he asked with a small smile.

“You’re good with him,” you said softly. “Better than I thought you would be.”

“I’m trying. I want to be a good father.”

“You are,” you admitted. “Valarr… you are.”

Something changed in his expression, softened.

“Can I sit with you?”

You nodded, and he sat on the edge of your bed, close but not touching you.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he began. “About us. About what I put you through. And I realize that I spent so much time fearing losing you like I lost Kiera, that I didn’t allow myself to truly have you.”

“Valarr…”

“No, let me finish. Please,” he took a breath. “I can’t change the past. I can’t undo the pain I caused you. But I want… I want a future with you. A real future, not just a marriage of duty. I want to know you. I want you to know me. I want Baelor to grow up seeing his parents love each other, not just tolerate each other.”

Your heart beat so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“Love?” you repeated softly.

“I know it’s too soon for you to feel that for me. I know I’ve done too much damage. But I… I think I’m already half in love with you. With your strength, with your fierceness, with the way you love our son. And I want the chance to fall completely in love. If you’ll let me.”

Tears ran down your cheeks now, months of pain finally beginning to heal.

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “I’m afraid to open my heart and have you break it again.”

“I know. And I promise, with every fiber of my being, to do everything possible not to. But if you decide to give me this chance, if you decide to try to build something real with me, I swear I will spend every day of the rest of my life being worthy of that trust.”

For a long moment, you just stayed there, looking at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability he had never shown before.

Slowly, very slowly, you extended your hand.

He took it, intertwining his fingers with yours, and it was the first time you touched with true tenderness, with true emotional intention.

“One day at a time,” you finally said. “Let’s try this, one day at a time.”

“One day at a time,” he repeated, and he smiled at you, a real and bright smile that completely transformed his face.

And when he leaned in slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away if you wanted, and pressed his lips against yours in a soft and sweet kiss, a kiss that asked for nothing but offered everything, you felt the first cracks in the walls around your own heart.

Maybe, just maybe, this could work.

The following months were a revelation.

Valarr kept his promise to try, to be better. He became a constant presence in your life and Baelor’s, not just an occasional visitor but a true companion and father.

Mornings began with shared breakfasts in your chambers, just the three of you. Valarr brought you flowers from the garden, roses mainly, because he had learned they were your favorites. He played with Baelor, making ridiculous faces to make the baby laugh, and the sound of Baelor’s laughter became the most beautiful music for both of you.

“Look at him,” you said one morning, watching Valarr play the fool with the baby. “He already has you wrapped around his little finger.”

“He’s not the only one,” Valarr responded, looking at you with a warmth that made you blush.

Afternoons were spent walking through the gardens. Valarr carried his son while you walked beside him, pointing out different flowers and plants, telling him their names and properties.

“Your mother knows more about botany than most maesters,” Valarr told the baby. “She’s brilliant, did you know?”

“Stop,” you said, feeling flushed by the praise.

“Why? It’s true. You’re brilliant and beautiful and strong. Baelor should know how lucky he is to have you as his mother.”

These moments, these small compliments and gestures of affection, began to accumulate, to fill the empty spaces in your heart.

The nights were the most intimate moments. Valarr began to stay after Baelor fell asleep, sitting with you by the fire, talking about everything and nothing. He told you more about Kiera, not in a way that excluded you, but sharing his memories as part of his past, not his present.

“She was wonderful,” he said one night. “And she will always occupy a place in my heart. But you… you are my present. My future. And I am so grateful to have you.”

“Sometimes I still find it hard to believe this is real,” you admitted. “That you’ve gone from being a stranger to… this.”

“To what?” he asked with a soft smile.

“To someone I care about. Very much.”

Valarr took your hand, kissing your knuckles tenderly.

“I care about you very much too. More than words can express.”

Three months after Baelor’s birth, when Maester Harmyce declared you fully recovered, things changed again.

Valarr came to your chambers that night, as he usually did, but there was a different tension in the air, an awareness that the physical boundaries that had existed during your recovery were no longer necessary.

“Wife,” he said, sitting beside you. “I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t want you to feel you must… that we have to…”

“Valarr,” you interrupted him, taking his hand “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about it too.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. And I… I want to. But this time, I want it to be different. Not just a duty. But something… more.”

Valarr moved closer, cradling your face in his hands.

“It will be different. I promise you.”

When he kissed you, it was with a passion and tenderness he had never shown before. His hands on your body were not functional but worshipful, exploring every curve as if you were precious, as if you were desired.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “So beautiful.”

And you made love, true love, for the first time. It was slow and sweet and sometimes clumsy because you were learning each other, but it was yours. It was real.

Afterward, you lay intertwined, your head on his chest and his arm around you.

“I don’t want to go to my own chamber,” Valarr said softly. “I want to stay here. With you. If you want.”

“Stay,” you whispered. “Stay, Valarr.”

And he stayed. That night and every night after.

The following months were the happiest you had known.

Valarr officially moved into your chambers, and they began to feel like a true home. You woke every morning in his arms, with the sound of Baelor cooing in his cradle as background music.

“Good morning, my love,” Valarr would whisper to you, kissing your forehead.

“Good morning,” you would respond, snuggling closer to him, still half asleep.

Baelor grew quickly, reaching new milestones every day. His first true smile was for Valarr, and you thought your husband might cry with joy.

“Did you see that?” he said in wonder. “He smiled at me! He smiled at me!”

“I know,” you laughed. “I’m here, love.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Well, the second most beautiful,” he added, winking at you. “You’re the first.”

“Charming,” you said sarcastically, but your smile was bright.

The court began to notice the change between you. You were no longer the cold and distant couple they had seen at the beginning, but true companions. Valarr sought you out at court events, keeping you close, his hand on the small of your back. He whispered things in your ear that made you smile and blush.

“What did the prince say to you?” a curious lady asked you once.

“Something completely inappropriate to share in public,” you responded with a mischievous smile, and the lady laughed.

Your physical relationship also flourished. It was no longer just a duty or even just pleasure, but an expression of what you felt for each other. Valarr was an attentive lover, learning what you liked, what made you arch your back and moan his name.

“You’re incredible,” he would tell you afterward, both still catching your breath. “Absolutely incredible.”

“You’re not bad yourself,” you would joke, and he would tickle you until you begged for mercy.

But it wasn’t all physical. The deepest connections came in the quiet moments. When you read to him while he sharpened his sword. 

When he braided your hair while telling you about his day. When you both kept vigil over Baelor sick with fever, taking turns cooling his forehead with damp cloths, mutual support in shared worry.

“He’ll be fine,” Valarr assured you, embracing you while you waited for the fever to break. “He’s strong, like his mother.”

One night, six months after Baelor’s birth, you were lying together after making love, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Wife,” Valarr said softly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You sat up a little, looking at him with concern.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Everything is… everything is incredibly right. And that’s what I need to tell you,” he took your hand, kissing your knuckles. “I love you.”

Your heart stopped.

“What?”

“I love you. I am completely, totally, irrevocably in love with you. With your laughter, with your strength, with the way you love our son. With the way you challenge me when you think I’m wrong. With your kindness, your intelligence, your beauty. Everything. I love everything about you.”

Tears filled your eyes, but they were happy tears.

“Valarr…”

“You don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready. I just needed you to know. I needed you to know that you are everything to me.”

“I love you too,” you said, the words coming out in a breath. “Gods, Valarr, I love you too. So much that sometimes it scares me.”

He pulled you down, kissing you with an intensity that left you breathless.