INSERTS HIMSELF WHERE?

Around that time when you moved to King’s Landing to marry Prince Valarr, one of Lady Jena’s ladies-in-waiting – Aemma – left the court to come back to her castle. Apparently, she turned out to be pregnant after her husband’s visit.

You were very happy for the woman because she seemed to be kind and understanding but also funny. You knew she would be an amazing mother and the sight of her glowing face reminded you that soon you would become a mother yourself.

It was a scary thought – to become pregnant with a man you only just met. But you knew it was inevitable. Perhaps other marriages could wait a year or two before starting the journey of parenthood but you were marrying the heir to the throne. You knew your position and your place. You would become the Queen one day but in return you had to offer your body and womb to the battles of nearly constant pregnancy and childbirth.

Prince Valarr himself was not scaring you, though. You couldn’t believe that an arranged union with an heir to the throne could turn out to be so harmonic. He was charming, handsome, chivalrous and smart. Not much older than you, not a brute, not a drunkard, not a man-whore. It felt as if you won a lottery.

Not a man-whore at all. In fact, he was as pure for you as you were for him. 

That was one of the reasons why he demanded that no bedding ceremony was to be held. He didn’t have to convince his father for long, though. Prince Baelor would be surprised if his son requested this tradition to take place.

“You must not worry, my Lady,” Valarr held your hands after leaving his father’s chambers. You were waiting for him in the corridor, pacing nervously. “My father agreed to ignore the bedding ceremony tradition. I explained to him it would be disrespectful to my wife and the future Queen of the Realm. It is not proper for anyone to see you like this. Anyone but me, that is,” he added with a blush.

“Oh, my Prince, thank you so much!” You squeezed his hands tight. “I am so grateful.”

“You should not be. It is my duty as your betrothed to be your protector whether it means shielding your body from injury or your honour and pride.”

After a beautiful and elegant wedding feast, without any prying eyes, the wedding night was rather heavenly. You were over the moon for the whole morning and still giggling slightly while having supper, squeezing Valarr’s hand under the table. His cheeks were crimson red while his parents were exchanging looks. King Daeron seemed to be pleased that your union was so happy and Prince Matarys was furrowing his brows, not understanding why you were acting like that.

After the supper you were supposed to take a walk in the gardens with Lady Jena. She spotted your impatience during the walk as you couldn’t wait to join your newlywed husband in your chambers and do all the things from the night before once more.

“(Y/N), my dear… There is something I must inquire about,” Lady Jena began carefully.

“What is it, my Lady?” You asked her.

“It is… awkward to talk about but…the maid has informed me that your bedsheet this morning was… clean,” she swallowed thickly, struggling to find the right words. “I hope you understand it is important for people to see the… the blood,” she finally muttered and you widened your eyes at her words.

What did she mean that the people needed to see blood?!

Lady Jena noticed your scared facial expression.

“I don’t mean to accuse you! My son is pleased with you and I have no reason not to be either. But you did not have a bedding ceremony and people need proof that…” Lady Jena hesitated once again. “You did consummate the marriage, right?”

“O-of course!” You gasped.

“Perhaps my son’s lack of experience is to be blamed for the inconvenience…” Lady Jena kept speaking in unfinished or mysterious sentences, which was frustrating you greatly. “Just please, do so again tonight.”

“Oh, we will!” You fervently assured with a head nod and she cracked a smile at that.

When you finally went back to your chambers, your excited and blushing husband was already waiting for you. He opened his arms for you to hug him but you sighed and frowned instead.

“What is it, my sweet?” He asked, worryingly. He approached you and rubbed your arms. “Do you not feel well? Do you need anything?”

“No, it’s just… Your mother told me…” You huffed and he furrowed his brows. “That the maid was complaining about our bedsheets being too… clean,” you explained, hoping he would know what that meant but he seemed to be as puzzled as you were.

“Too clean?” Valarr blinked a few times.

“Apparently it should be stained with blood as a sign of consummation,” you whispered shyly and his cheeks turned even more pinkish than before.

“Oh,” he took a step back from you. “Well, that is the most curious and odd custom. I do wonder why my father has never told me about it.”

“I wasn’t told either. But I got an impression that your mother rather insisted,” you said, looking down.

“Do not worry, my Lady, I will not let any harm come to you,” Valarr took his dagger from the desk as he approached your bed. “I assume the custom is for the woman to bleed but I am a gentleman,” he assured you and cut the inside of his arm right below the elbow slightly. You hissed and looked away.

He made sure the blood dropped onto the sheets and then he walked away to clean the fresh wound and bandage it quickly. It was a shallow cut and did not require much attention. He could easily hide it beneath his tunic during the day and it would heal in no time.

“Thank you so much, my Prince,” you approached him to kiss him on the lips.

“At your service, my Lady,” Valarr smiled sweetly and leaned in to kiss you back.

Lady Jena was pleased in the morning as she nodded at you by the breakfast table. You nodded back, feeling so mature now.

Months passed and you were not blessed with a babe of your own. At first everyone was understanding and kind about it, telling you that it took time sometimes. But when Lady Aemma already had her own and you still were not pregnant, people started worrying.

You were worrying the most, terrified they would consider you useless and send you away. You were aware of the fact that you were failing at the only task you had been sent to King’s Landing for – to give Prince Valarr heirs.

“Please, my Lady, we still have time. Besides, I will not allow anyone to send you away. I swore to protect you for the rest of my life,” Valarr assured you as he held you tight when you were crying on the edge of the bed. He put his arm around you and placed a kiss upon your temple.

“My Prince, you say that now but soon they will manage to convince you to get rid of me! I am good for nothing if my womb is barren!” You sobbed, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

Valarr awkwardly patted your back and shushed you, caressing the back of your head.

“My darling, you are to be my Queen. That means much more than carrying my heirs,” he whispered.

“If I don’t give you sons, your bloodline and legacy end with you,” you sniffled and squeezed him even tighter.

“I have a brother, I have cousins. My family’s bloodline is safe,” Valarr tried to convince you.

But he also tried to convince himself. He loved you – of course. He loved you as much as he could love someone. He had been waiting his whole life to meet his future wife and finally be happy and devoted like his parents were. But he knew that if you were truly infertile then your future would be a difficult one and full of whispers in the court. 

And he truly wanted to have children with you. More than anything.

“Perhaps the problem lies in me, not you,” he added and you moved away to look into his wet mismatched eyes. “We do not know who is to be blamed.”

“They always blame the woman,” you reminded him.

“We will make them blame me. If it comes to cruel gossip and accusations, I will make sure they all believe the fault is in me,” Valarr promised, his lower lip trembling slightly.

He would do anything to protect you.

You sobbed even more now, this time out of the amount of love that you felt for this man. You cupped his cheeks and pressed your forehead to his, your tears mixing.

“I love you,” you breathed out.

“I love you,” he replied. “And nothing will change that.”

Lady Aemma visited with her babe when her husband was in King’s Landing for business. The boy was six moons old already and the cutest baby you had ever seen. His name was Steffon.

You frowned at the sight of him, though, as you sipped on your tea in Lady Jena’s chambers. Your mother-in-law was cooing to the boy, beaming with happiness and you couldn’t help but feel jealous. Your heart was stinging at the sight because you knew how much she had to wish to be a grandmother finally.

“What an adorable little boy he is,” she smiled at Lady Aemma. “You are so lucky, my dear. I am so happy for you.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Aemma bowed her head. “Does Lady (Y/N) wish to hold the babe?” She glanced at you.

“I am not sure,” you admitted, putting the cup of tea down with a forced smile. “I lack experience with babies.”

“Nonsense, it comes naturally,” Lady Aemma insisted as she put the boy into your arms.

You held him awkwardly. He was staring at you with big eyes and you began to rock him softly as you imagined it should be done.

“See? A natural,” Lady Aemma smiled at you.

“If it was natural for me, I’d be blessed with a babe by now,” you muttered.

“Hm?” Lady Aemma asked but you were not looking at her anymore, focused on Steffon. So she laid her eyes on Lady Jena.

Your mother-in-law sighed and took Aemma by her elbow to walk her to the corner of the room.

“Lady (Y/N) and Prince Valarr struggle to conceive,” she whispered but you still could hear. You gritted your teeth but said nothing, pretending that you were too busy with the babe that you were not aware of the conversation taking place.

“Really? I thought they simply wanted to enjoy their marriage and wait,” Lady Aemma confessed.

“No,” Jena shook her head. “They have been trying since their wedding night.”

Long silence occurred.

“Oh!” Lady Aemma exclaimed and turned around to look at you. “But what can possibly be so difficult about conceiving a babe?”

Lady Jena’s eyes widened. She extended her hands as if she begged her former lady-in-waiting to drop the subject but Aemma was already approaching you.

You were looking at her with a terrified expression. You were surprised at her insolence but also the way she seemed to be so confident was quite intimidating.

“I am already expecting my second,” she caressed her small bump that was now visible under her hand. You blinked a few times in disbelief.

“Congratulations,” you whispered, handing Steffon to Lady Jena who sat next to you.

Lady Aemma took a seat in the armchair in front of the sofa you and your mother-in-law were occupying.

“I am an expert now, I guess,” Aemma chuckled. “I can give… tips,” she laid her eyes on Lady Jena as if she was waiting for her approval.

Lady Jena sighed and nodded. She knew her son and you were desperate and she hadn’t been bold enough to speak so openly with you herself. Nothing Lady Aemma would say could possibly make your situation worse anyway.

“My Lady?” Lady Aemma looked at you now and you nodded, hesitantly. You fidgeted your fingers with the hem of your sleeve nervously.

“How often do you lay with your husband, may I ask?” Lady Aemma asked. “Frequency is important with these things.”

Lady Jena blushed and you could feel your cheeks burning, too.

“N-nearly every night,” you answered.

“Good, that’s good,” Lady Aemma smiled warmly. “Well, now, many people fail to realise that what helps women to conceive is … the pinnacle.”

Lady Jena looked away immediately and you furrowed your brows.

“Pinnacle?” You asked.

“Do you experience it?” Lady Aemma asked, excitedly waiting for your answer.

“I do not know that that is,” you admitted, openly.

“It is a feeling of… Of intense pleasure,” Aemma explained patiently. “When you lay with your husband, that is.”

“Oh!” Your eyes sparkled as you nodded. “Oh, yes, I do. It feels very nice to lay with Valarr.”

Lady Aemma smiled politely.

“Hm, I’m not sure if we understand each other correctly. It is no ordinary pleasure…” She scratched the back of her head and your smile dropped. You were lost again. “A woman’s pleasure is somewhat more subtle than a man’s…” Lady Aemma was trying to look for the right words.

You were so confused. Each time you were talked to about those things, people seemed to struggle. Your mother, your septa, Lady Jena, the maester and now even Lady Aemma. You had a feeling this whole baby-making thing had to be extremely difficult after all. Perhaps that was why you were failing constantly.

“You see…” Lady Aemma took a deep breath in. “When he… inserts himself…”

“Inserts himself?” You interrupted her. “Insters himself where?”

Lady Aemma did not finish her sentence nor answer but her mouth stayed open slightly. She looked at Lady Jena and your mother-in-law looked back at her with equal astonishment. Meanwhile, you couldn’t understand those reactions and still wondered what the insertion was supposed to be about.

“My darling… When you lay with my son… What do you do, exactly?” Lady Jena asked.

“Oh!” Your cheeks burnt as you looked down to avoid her gaze. “We… We kiss a lot! We kiss like we couldn’t kiss when we were only betrothed. And we… We touch… We touch each other and it feels so nice,” you couldn’t help a loving smile even though you were embarrassed. “I enjoy being close to him. That’s more than I could ever ask for.”

Lady Jena smiled sweetly. Even though she found the situation both shocking and funny, she did not laugh. She handed the fussy babe to Lady Aemma and moved closer to you as she put her arm around your shy form to hold you closer. You looked up at her with a scared gaze and she kept on smiling.

“It warms my heart to witness how much you love my son. Truly,” she assured you and fixed your hair gently. “But darling… It is no wonder any longer why you cannot conceive a child.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, swallowing thickly. You laid your eyes on her, then on Lady Aemma.

“To conceive a babe you have to… become one,” Lady Jena explained. “The act of consummation requires Valarr to… insert himself inside of you and spill his seed,” she added, her face red as tomato now. 

“H-his what?” You asked.

Goodness, that was all so odd and scary.

Lady Jena cracked a smile and put her hand on your abdomen to rub it gently.

“When a man spills himself inside of a woman, the babe grows in her womb from the seed he planted there,” she explained.

“But what does he insert and where?” You shook your head, still confused.

“The intimate parts,” Lady Aemma answered quickly. “His… you-know-what must go into your… you-know-what.”

You winced at the thought, which made the women laugh.

“It is painful for a woman but only at first,” Lady Aemma added. “Do not get discouraged. After that, you will find pleasure you never thought would be possible to experience.”

“Speaking of,” Lady Jena furrowed her brows as she laid her eyes on your face. “What was the blood on your bedsheets after the wedding night?”

“We thought it was a tradition to cut the bride… Valarr cut his arm instead… I guess we thought wrong?” You bit your lower lips and the women chuckled once more.

“What a gentleman our Prince is,” Lady Aemma commented.

“Oh, darling, no… No one cuts brides on their wedding nights. The blood should come out of your… you-know-what,” Jena used Aemma’s phrasing, “after the first… insertion. That is why it’s so important. It is proof that the marriage was consummated.”

You blinked slowly a few times. You finally understood as it clicked inside your brain.

Your marriage remained unconsummated even though you had been married for over a year now.

Now you had to figure out how to announce it to your husband.

“Wh-what?” Valarr asked, his pretty mismatched eyes widening and his hands sweating already.

“Our marriage is not consummated properly,” you repeated quietly and looked down. He was sitting by his desk after answering the letters and you were standing above him, nervously playing with the sleeves of your dress between your fingers. “That is why we can’t conceive.”

“Who told you that?” He asked, swallowing the lump forming in his throat.

“Lady Aemma and your mother agreed with her after she learnt that there was no… insertion,” you whispered.

“Insertion?” Valarr raised his brow at you.

He felt extremely stupid. As your husband, he should have been the one to show and teach you. If he had failed at that… It meant he was a pathetic excuse of a Lord Husband. Perhaps staying pure and never visiting brothels before his marriage hadn’t been that good of an idea.

Just like your septa had told you once to just lay down and take it, his father had only told him that he would know what to do. Obviously, both of you remained oblivious.

“They mentioned seed. That it must be spilled inside a woman for the child to grow,” you looked into his eyes nervously and his mouth opened slightly.

“A-ha…” He gasped. “I… I think I might know what that part means.”

“I was thinking of that, too. Is it that wet thing that…?”

“Yes,” Valarr interrupted you as he nodded, his face becoming red in an instant. 

“Apparently this… fluid should go inside of me,” you sighed.

“How? Through that… insertion?” Valarr looked up and you nodded.

“You should put your… Into my…”

“I think I know now,” Valarr shushed you as he stood up, wiping his sweaty hands into his breeches. After that, he put his hands on your arms and looked deep into your eyes. “Do you want to try it?”

“I mean… We have to… to have a baby,” you explained. “But… But I am scared. They mentioned it will hurt me at first. And the blood… There will be blood,” you bit on your lower lip.

Valarr hesitated.

“How am I supposed to be doing this when I made an oath to protect you from harm? How can I be the one to bring you pain?” He wondered out loud.

“I do not know!” You nearly sobbed. It was all so scary and confusing but you also felt like a complete idiot that you two had failed at something that seemed to be simple for others.

“There must be a way around it… There must…!” Valarr leaned in to peck you on the lips as he took a step back. “I shall speak to my father. He will tell me everything. And we will try tonight. Only if you wish to,” he added, looking carefully at your facial expression and looking for any sign of disapproval.

“No, no, please do. We must,” you insisted, lifting your chin up. “We must,” you repeated.

One moon later your monthly blood did not come. Another moon later you fainted while walking up the stairs, which caused the maester to confirm the happy news.

Three moons after finding out about the insertion, your abdomen was already slightly swollen with the growing babe.

Valarr was exceptionally proud, his hand constantly rubbing your bump, his face beaming with joy and pride. You were equally happy but you felt awkward each time Lady Jena and Prince Baelor were smirking at the sight of the growing life inside your womb.

The fact that you were finally expecting and the rumours had stopped meant more than anything, though.

You were sitting in the garden and embroidering by Lady Jena’s side. You were making a blanket for the babe and she was making a tiny hat for her first grandchild.

“Can I ask something?” You inquired after biting on your bottom lip for quite a while now, waiting for the right moment.

“Darling, always. Please, always inquire. No matter what the question is about,” Lady Jena looked at you intensely.

“I was thinking… How long after the babe is born do we have to wait until we can… lay together again?” You asked, less shyly than before because over the past few weeks you had learnt how educational such conversations could be.

Lady Jena chuckled.

“Usually the maesters ask for at least six weeks of abstinence after the labour. That is if everything goes well. Why?” She answered.

“Oh… So six moons and six weeks more?” You looked displeased. “Goodness, it is a torture.”

“Wait… You… You have stopped now?” Lady Jena raised her eyebrow.

“Well, of course! We do not want to harm the babe!” You gasped, looking at her funny.

“But the maester said the babe is alright and the pregnancy is going well,” Lady Jena explained. “There is no need for abstinence,” she added.

“I see…” You hummed to yourself. “Well, I will tell Valarr to inquire from the maester about it. Just to make sure.”

“Very well then,” Lady Jena nodded with a chuckle.

“Lady Mother?” You went back to your embroidery so you weren’t looking at her anymore but you wanted to keep the conversation going.

“Yes, dear?”

“Lady Aemma was right. There is truly nothing difficult about conceiving a babe,” you admitted with a shrug of your arms.

Your mother-in-law laughed but it was a laughter filled with affection and joy.

“I’m glad, my dear. Hopefully it means I will become a grandmother to many children.”

The stone of the Red Keep was a perpetual, aching cold, a damp, marrow-deep chill that no braziers could ever truly banish. It seeped through the thin soles of your silk slippers, a constant, unwelcome reminder that you were no longer home.

There, the very marble of your mother’s house had been sun-warmed, holding the golden light long into the violet dusk. Here, the grey fortress swallowed light and warmth alike.

You had been a gilded prisoner within its labyrinthine walls for three days, though it felt like three lifetimes. The betrothal decree, read aloud in the throne room with chilly finality by your grandfather, King Daeron the Good, had been the last lock snapped shut on the cage.

You, the forgotten daughter of a disinterested prince and his foreigner wife, were to marry Prince Valarr Targaryen. A name. A legacy of conquest and dragonfire. A stranger meant to chain you to this cold, northern rock forever.

You would not do it.

The plan was born of sheer, desperate will. You had waited until your handmaid, a stern, silent woman who watched you like a jailor, was distracted, then slipped into a disused corridor hung with faded tapestries. From there, a narrow garderobe’s stair, slick with condensation, led down to a secluded courtyard near the armory. The air here smelled of forged steel, leather, and the distant, pungent scent of the stables.

And there it was: a high fence of weathered wood, shrouded in thick, creeping ivy. It was the outermost boundary you could reach, and on the other side, you imagined, lay the teeming, anonymous freedom of the shadowed alleys of King’s Landing.

The fence, however, was a deceitful thing. Taller and smoother than it appeared from a distance. Your first leap was pitiful, your fingers barely brushing the mossy top. You cursed under your breath in the liquid High Valyrian of your father's people, gathered the ridiculous, voluminous skirts of your Myrish lace gown and prepared to attempt something truly undignified.

“That looks like a strategy doomed to end in either a torn dress or a broken ankle,” a voice remarked, tinged with amusement.

You spun, your blood turning to ice water. A young man stood framed in a nearby archway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He was dressed not in court silks, but in fine, tooled leathers and a dark tunic, the practical attire of a knight or an advanced squire. He had a pleasant, honest face, crowned with a tumble of thick brown hair and one eyeof a clear, bright blue and the other of a warm brown. No silver-gold locks, no piercing, haughty violet gaze. He was no Targaryen prince, just a handsome bystander, a son of some lordling perhaps. A witness.

Panic sharpened your tongue. “It’s only doomed if one lacks conviction,” you retorted, turning your back to him to glare at the offending fence. “Now, are you going to assist, or do you make a habit of merely spectating while ladies are in distress?”

You heard the soft scuff of his boots as he pushed off the archway and stepped into the courtyard. “Assist with what, precisely? A sudden, passionate study of masonry? Or is the ivy here particularly fascinating?”

“I am attempting to run away from my betrothed,” you declared, as if announcing you were going to fetch a book. You pointed at him, your gesture imperious. “And you look like a knight, or near enough. It is chivalric to aid a lady. It’s in your vows, I’m certain of it.”

A startled, warm laugh escaped him, the sound echoing softly off the stones. “My vows, is it? You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. And who is this dread betrothed who inspires such… inventive escape attempts?”

“Prince Valarr Targaryen,” you hissed, the name feeling like a betrayal on your lips. “The ‘Young Prince.’ He’s likely in some council chamber right now, practicing his solemn looks and weighing his future glory. I, however, have no desire to be a traded trinket in their endless dynastic game.” You waved impatiently at the fence, your lace cuff catching on the ivy. “Now, a boost. Unless your courage fails at the thought of defying the Crown Prince’s grandson.”

The stranger’s expression shifted. The amusement didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a flicker of genuine surprise, his eyebrows lifting. He recovered quickly, that easy smile returning as he gave an exaggerated, appraising look at your ensemble, the delicate gown, the slippers meant for palace halls, the fierce, unyielding set of your pretty face.

“I see. A most dire predicament,” he said, his tone sober but his mismatched eyes alight with unconcealed delight. He closed the distance between you. “Well, I’ve heard tales of this Prince Valarr. They say he’s… painfully dutiful. All solemnity and sigils. Probably reads ledgers for pleasure. A terrible fate, to be sure.”

“You see?” you cried, feeling a surge of camaraderie. “A life of utter tedium awaits! A boost, ser, I beg you!”

He moved behind you, his hands coming up to hover respectfully at your sides. “As my lady commands. On my count, then. One… two…”

On “two,” his strong hands gripped your waist and lifted. You gasped, scrambling against the wood, the rough grain snagging your sleeves. Your slippers slid uselessly against the fence. You were lodged there, hopelessly straddling the top, dignity in tatters.

“You know,” he mused, his voice slightly strained from supporting your weight, “I’ve also heard he’s rather intrigued by this match. Might even be… hopeful about it. Might be walking the gardens right now, dreaming of his elusive bride. It would be quite a blow to his princely pride if she were to vanish over a fence like a common thief.”

You kicked out, desperate for leverage. “Then he should dream of someone who wishes to be dreamed of! Stop jostling!”

“My most humble apologies,” he chuckled, his grip firming. With one final, solid heave, you were unceremoniously pushed over the crest. You landed on the other side with a soft oomph, in a tangled heap of lace and wounded pride. You scrambled upright, brushing dirt from your arms, a wild, triumphant laugh bubbling in your throat.

Freedom! You turned, peering back through the dense lattice of ivy and wooden slats. Your accomplice was dusting off his hands, that annoyingly attractive, lopsided grin still firmly in place.

“Thank you, kind and noble ser!” you whispered fiercely. “You have served the cause of freedom bravely this day! May the gods bless you!”

He offered a shallow, theatrical bow. “The pleasure was entirely mine. Though, my lady… a point of information.” He nodded past you, down the narrow, shadowed alley where you stood. “This path leads directly to the royal kennels.”

Your triumph curdled. “The… what?”

“The kennels. His Grace’s hunting hounds. Very loud. Very… enthusiastic about newcomers.” As if on cue, a cacophony of deep, inquisitive barks erupted from the far end of the passage, followed by the sound of rattling chains and a kennelmaster’s shout. “Prince Valarr’s own pack, I believe. They say he has a gift with animals. Fiercely loyal, impeccable trackers.”

Your heart plummeted through the soles of your useless slippers. You were not free. You were trapped in a foul-smelling, barking cul-de-sac, still very much a captive within the Red Keep’s endless sprawl.

From the other side of the fence, his warm, rich laughter floated through to you, utterly unrepentant. “A humble suggestion? The lemon cakes set out in the main hall are exceptional today. Far sweeter than splinters, and with significantly less… canine involvement. I’m told even broody, significant princes have been known to enjoy them.”

Before you could muster a scathing reply, he leaned closer to the slats, his blue eyes capturing yours, the amusement in them softening into something that felt almost like… kindness. “Farewell, my fleeing lady. This has been, without question, the most entertaining interlude of my week.”

And then he was gone, the sound of his retreating footsteps fading into the general hum of the keep, leaving you alone, fuming, and hopelessly lost amidst the rising chorus of barks.

---

They had found you in the kennel yard, of course. A stern-faced steward and two guards, summoned by the commotion, had escorted you back through the keep with all the dignity of a captured fugitive. Your Myrish gown was snagged, your hair had escaped its pins, and you were fairly certain you smelled of hounds. The handmaidens had tutted and clucked and stripped you of your ruined clothes as if you were a child, then set to work with bath oils, and a gown of deep Targaryen red that felt like a brand.

"You have the look of your mother," one of them said, not unkindly, as she fastened a collar of pearls at your throat. "The softness. The prince will be pleased."

You said nothing. You were too busy plotting seventeen different ways to escape through the window, none of them feasible from the third floor of Maegor's Holdfast.

The engagement feast was already underway when they finally released you into the wild. The great hall blazed with torchlight and candlelight, the long tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats and sugared fruits, the air thick with music and laughter and the suffocating press of courtiers. You were announced—"the Lady Y/N, Princess of House Targaryen"—and the name felt like a collar around your throat.

Your grandfather, King Daeron, smiled benignly from the high table. Your father, Prince Aerys, was notably absent, as he had been for most of your life. Beside the king sat Prince Baelor, the heir, and beside him an empty chair. Valarr's chair. Your betrothed was nowhere to be seen.

Good, you thought viciously. Let him choke on his lemon cakes.

You were swept into the current of the feast before you could breathe. Lords and ladies you didn't know approached with smiles that didn't reach their eyes, offering congratulations you hadn't asked for, speculating on wedding dates you hadn't consented to. You smiled until your cheeks ached, nodded until your neck cramped, and desperately wished for home.

Then the dancing began.

The first partner was some lord from the Reach, eager and sweaty-palmed. The second was a Dornish envoy who moved with serpentine grace but spoke only of politics. The third was a lannister who held you at arm's length as if you carried a plague. You spun and stepped and smiled until the faces blurred together, until the music became a meaningless thrum, until you were certain you would scream if one more person asked if you were excited for the wedding.

And then, mid-turn, you were passed from one set of hands to another—a smooth, effortless transition that left you blinking up at a new partner.

It was him.

The boy from the courtyard. The knight who had boosted you over a fence and laughed while the hounds cornered you. He was dressed for the feast now, in a tunic of deep blue velvet that brought out the strangest thing about him: his eyes, mismatched. One was a warm, sunlit brown. The other was a clear, striking blue. They regarded you now with that same infuriating, delightful amusement, and his hand was warm and steady at your waist.

"You," you breathed.

"Me," he agreed, sweeping you into the rhythm of the dance as if you'd been partners for years. "Though I confess, you look considerably less... ivy-covered than when we last met. The hounds were not too rough with you, I hope?"

"You abandoned me to them!"

"I gave you excellent advice about lemon cakes," he countered, spinning you. "You chose not to take it. That's hardly my fault."

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it—a surprised, genuine sound that felt foreign in your own throat. "You call that advice? 'Go eat cakes while your escape crumbles around you'?"

"I call it pragmatic." He pulled you closer as the dance brought you together, his voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "Besides, I had a feeling we'd meet again. I wanted you to remember me fondly."

"Fondly." You raised an eyebrow. "You tricked me."

"I helped you." His mismatched eyes sparkled. "There's a difference. I could have summoned the guards immediately. Instead, I gave you a moment of true freedom, however brief, and the memory of a handsome stranger who lifted you over a fence. That's practically chivalric."

"Practically," you repeated, but you were smiling now, and you couldn't seem to stop. The music swirled around you, the candles blurred into golden smears, and for the first time since arriving in this cold, grey city, you felt something other than fury and despair. This boy—this insolent, charming, impossibly handsome boy—looked at you like you were the most interesting person in the room. Not a political asset, not a foreigner curiosity, not a forgotten daughter finally put to use. Just you.

"You dance well," he said, as if the observation surprised him.

"You lift well," you returned. "For a knight, anyway. What house do you serve? Or are you some landed knight's son, haunting courtyards and terrorizing runaway brides?"

He laughed, low and warm. "Something like that. And you—you truly meant to flee? All the way back to your home?"

"All the way back to my mother," you corrected. "She has a house on a hill where the windows open to the sea. You can hear the waves from every room, and the mornings smell of salt and oranges." The longing in your voice was naked, unguarded.

Something shifted in his mismatched gaze, the amusement softening into something quieter, more intent. "That's a cruel thing," he said, "to take a girl from a place she loves and cage her in stone."

"It's politics," you said bitterly. "I'm a piece on their board. A princess to bind an alliance, to strengthen the crown. It doesn't matter what I want."

He was quiet for a moment, his steps never faltering. Then "And if the prince himself wanted something different? If he wanted not a piece on a board, but—" He stopped, shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "Listen to me. I know nothing of princes. Only of fences and lemon cakes and ladies who glare magnificently."

"Magnificently?"

"I've never seen such splendid disdain. You should teach a class."

You laughed again, and it felt like surrender. The dance was slowing, the music winding toward its end, and you realized with a start that you didn't want it to stop. You wanted to stay here, in this bubble of warmth and wit, with this impossible boy who looked at you like you mattered.

The final notes faded. He released you slowly, his hand lingering at your waist a heartbeat longer than propriety demanded. He bowed, you curtsied, and for a breathless moment the noise of the hall receded to nothing.

"Well met, my fleeing lady," he murmured. "Again."

Before you could respond, before you could ask his name or beg him to find you later or do any of the dozen reckless things clamoring in your chest, two figures approached through the crowd.

Prince Baelor, the realm's delight, handsome and smiling. And behind him, your father.

You stiffened instinctively, the old wound of his indifference flaring. But Baelor was beaming, and your father-your father was looking at you with something almost like approval.

"Well, well," Baelor said warmly, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the boy beside you. "This is a pleasant sight. Valarr, I see you've found your bride."

The world stopped.

You turned, slowly, to face the boy with the mismatched eyes. The boy who had boosted you over a fence. The boy who had teased you about lemon cakes. The boy who had just asked, with such careful indirection, if you might want more than a political marriage.

He was watching you with those impossible eyes and there was no amusement now. Only hope. Only fear. Only the desperate, silent plea of a boy who had gambled everything on a dance.

Your father cleared his throat. "It gladdens me to see you getting along so well. Your grandfather will be pleased."

The pieces slammed together in your mind with the force of a collapsing wall. The courtyard. The fence. The knowing amusement. The careful questions about what the prince might want. The way he'd looked at you as if you were not a piece but a person.

"You," you whispered, the word carrying a universe of meaning.

"Me," Valarr agreed softly, his voice stripped of all playfulness. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I wanted to—I tried to, a dozen times—but then you were so fierce, so determined, and I thought if I told you who I was, you'd—"

"Hate you more?" you supplied, but there was no heat in it. Your mind was reeling, caught between fury and something far more dangerous.

"Yes." His hand found yours, brief and tentative. "Or worse, you'd pretend. You'd smile and curtsy and hide that magnificent disdain behind courtesies, and I'd never see the real you again. The girl who climbs fences and curses in Valyrian and dreams of windows that open to the sea."

Baelor and your father were exchanging pleased glances, oblivious to the storm raging between you. "We'll leave you to your dancing," Baelor said genially. "So good to see the young people getting acquainted."

They withdrew, and the crowd swallowed them, and you were alone with Valarr in the center of the swirling feast. The music had started again, a slower melody this time, and couples were drifting back to the floor.

He offered his hand. "One more dance? And then, if you still want to flee, I'll boost you over any fence you choose. I swear it."

You looked at his hand. You looked at his face, those mismatched eyes, that hopeful, fearful expression, the boy who had seen you at your most undignified and liked you anyway.

You took his hand.

"I'm not promising anything," you said severely.

His smile could have lit the entire hall. "I wouldn't dream of asking for promises. Just one dance."

It was not his fault, not really. You two got married too young, too soon, it was what his father expected and so did yours. So you two obeyed and married. Barely had the time to exchange a word before you were standing in the Sept of Baelor under the prying eyes of the court.

You made a sound he prayed to the Gods that it wasn’t a laugh. He pulled back so fast you swore to hear his neck crack. His pale face, already flushed from too much wedding wine, had turned the color of a ripe tomato.

He had been kissed before, but briefly. Nothing more than a little peck in the lips from a pretty wench Aerion had brought for him. He rejected any other suggestions from her because his father taught him to maintain decorum and to be a good prince.

"I'm sorry” he said. Then, louder: "I'm so sorry."

The Sept was empty now. The guests had dispersed about an hour ago, retreating to the Red Keep for the feast in the carriages. You were supposed to follow behind, but Prince Baelor insisted that you two needed some ‘alone time before the eyes of the Gods’ and nothing could’ve made you more nervous. The candles had burned low, guttering in their holders, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Somewhere outside, a servant was humming as they walked by.

And here you were. Husband and wife. Alone for the first time.

"That was—" you started.

"Awful” he finished miserably. "It was awful. You don't have to be kind. I've read the histories, I know what's expected of a husband on his wedding night, and I just—"

He made a vague, helpless gesture at his own face. "My nose. I think it’s too big. I've always suspected it. Now I have proof."

You stared at him.

The Prince of Dragonstone was muttering about the size of his nose and you started to laugh.

Not a delicate, lady-like giggle. A real laugh.

Valarr lowered his hands. His hair was falling into his eyes, and his expression shifted from mortification to confusion to something that looked almost like hurt.

"You're laughing at me” he said.

"Yes” you agreed, still laughing. "I'm so sorry. I am. I truly am." You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. "But you bit my lip, my prince."

"I know." His voice was small.

"And you said your nose was too big."

"It is too big."

"It's a perfectly normal nose."

"It’s a genes thing" he said miserably. "All my ancestors had them. My grandsire has one. My father has one. I've just never—I've never done this before. Kissed someone. Properly. And now I've ruined it."

He sat down heavily on the edge of the statue of The Mother, looking for all the world like a man awaiting execution. "You probably want to go back to your own chamber. I wouldn't blame you. I'll tell everyone it was my fault. I'll tell them I snore. I do snore, actually. So that wouldn't even be a lie."

You looked at him, this strange, solemn, earnest boy-man who was your husband now. The songs had promised you fire and passion, a kiss that would make your knees weak. They had promised you a dragonlord, fierce and bold. Instead, you had gotten a flustered prince.

And somehow, you found that much better. You wouldn’t change him for some bad-tempered Targaryen with the seed of madness. This was much warmer, much tender. He was.

You crossed the room and sat down beside him.

"My prince” you said quietly.

“Please—just Valarr. I’m your husband now.”

“Valarr” you moved closer "Look at me."

He turned his head. His mismatched eyes were wary, braced for rejection. You reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold. You laced yours through them anyway.

"You’re right, you're my husband. But didn’t know what I was agreeing to when I said my vows. And neither did you"

“What i did know is that husband and wife learn together.”

A pause. "Although, to be fair, I didn't know your kissing skills were quite so memorable.”

He almost smiled. "That's cruel” he said, but there was no heat in it. "You're being cruel to me on our wedding night, my lady.”

"I'm being honest on our wedding night. There's a difference." You squeezed his hand.

"The songs are wrong, you know. About all of it. About love at first sight, about perfect kisses, about everything being easy and beautiful and right the moment you look into someone's eyes."

His brow furrowed. "They are?"

"They are” you said firmly. "My mother told me. This morning she said that the first kiss would probably be terrible. That it almost always is. That it takes practice, like everything else.“

Valarr was quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly: "Your mother sounds wise."

"She is." You leaned your shoulder against his. "And I think, maybe, we should practice. If you want."

He turned to look at you. His face was still flushed, but something in his expression had shifted, less like a miserable man and more like a man who had just been offered a plate of lemon cakes.

"Practice” he repeated.

"Practice."

"You're not going to laugh at me again?"

"I make no promises” you said solemnly. "But I'll try very hard not to."

He considered this. Then, slowly, he raised his free hand and touched your cheek. His palm was warm now, or perhaps your skin was just cold. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think, suddenly, with him looking at you like that.

"I should warn you” he said quietly, "I'm still not very good at this."

"Good thing we have the rest of our lives, then."

He smiled.

It was the first real smile you had seen from him, not the tight, polite smile when you first met, it was small and a little bit shy, and it made his whole face change. Made him look even younger.

"All right” he said. "Practice."

This time, when he leaned in, he was careful. Slow. You closed your eyes and felt the soft brush of his nose against yours and the whisper of his breath on your lips. He hesitated for just a moment, as if asking silent permission.

You gave it.

The kiss was nothing like the songs.

It was clumsy in a different way, too much pressure, then not enough, a brief moment where you both seemed to forget which way to tilt heads. You felt him smile against your mouth, felt your own lips twitch in response, and broke apart laughing, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the space between you.

"That was still not very good” he admitted.

"No” you agreed. "But it was better."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were bright, almost teasing now, the solemn mask well and truly discarded.

"Again?" he asked. “Please?”

You reached up and cupped the back of his neck, drawing him down.

"Again”

And the third time with his hand finding the small of your back and your fingers tangling in his hair, the third time was not perfect either. But his lips brushed so softly against yours that you melted. And so did he.