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Lost
Bloodbound
Rhaella noticed the ring was gone halfway through a sentence.
“Will you ask my husband when he might-oh!”
The sound cut off sharply.
Her hand froze against the swell of her stomach.
Then she gasped. Loudly, completely startled, in dread.
Every maid, Septa, and guard lingering nearby looked up immediately.
Rhaella stared at her bare finger.
No ring.
No golden band with all the engravings that Valarr had made for them. The ring he gave her with a declaration of his love. The ring she had never taken off since the day she received it.
Gone.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
One of the younger maids stepped forward at once. “Your Grace?”
Rhaella’s breathing quickened instantly as she pushed herself upright from the garden bench. “My ring.”
The girl blinked. “Your ring?”
“My ring is gone.”
Panic hit her all at once.
Not a slow rising worry. Immediate panic.
She grabbed at the folds of her gown uselessly as though the ring might somehow appear there. “No no no, I had it this morning.”
Another maid hurried closer. “Perhaps it slipped into the ground, my lady?”
The young maid runs her hands over the grass as some of the other maids made other suggestions.
“Maybe your chambers?”
Rhaella shook her head rapidly. “I took it off because my fingers were swelling and I remember holding it and then I...” Her voice broke. “Oh gods.”
Within minutes the entire castle seemed to know.
Servants searched corridors. Maids checked every table and windowsill Rhaella had passed that day. Guards glanced beneath benches and carpets. Even the kitchens were turned half upside down.
By the time Valarr crossed the outer yard after finishing the day’s affairs, Dragonstone had become strangely frantic.
Two servants nearly collided in front of him carrying lanterns. The sun was beginning to set, and if the ring was not found, it surely would not in the dark.
Another rushed down the hall muttering about the princess’s ring.
Valarr frowned slightly.
He caught one of the passing maids gently by the arm. “What has happened?”
The girl looked startled to find him there. “Your Grace, the princess has lost her wedding ring.”
For one brief moment, relief moved through him so strongly it nearly made him exhale.
Nothing worse.
Gods.
With the pregnancy advancing, every unexpected commotion tightened something deep in his chest now. Every hurried servant. Every raised voice.
He had thought for half a heartbeat that Rhaella was hurt.
“Surely the ring will turn up, is all the bustle necessary?” He asks.
“The Princess is quite distraught, my Prince…and she is very kind to us, kinder than she has to be, we all want to help and ease her worry,” the maid tells him.
Valarr nods, smiling softly at her description of his sweet wife. “She has a way about her. Where is my lady wife?”
“The gardens, my prince.”
Valarr released her arm and headed there immediately.
The gardens were full of searching people.
Even Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard was kneeling beside a rose bush with visible confusion on his weathered face.
Valarr paused beside him. “You as well, Ser?”
Ser Donnel looked up with a sigh. “The princess has begun to cry, my prince. I fear no one stands a chance against her tears.”
That sounded accurate.
Valarr’s gaze moved farther into the garden until he spotted Rhaella beneath the shade of a tree.
She sat directly on the grass despite the protests that several maids were clearly attempting to make. Her hands pressed anxiously over her face, silver hair loose from its pins from all the pacing she had evidently been doing.
The moment she looked up and saw him, her eyes filled immediately.
Oh, sweetheart.
Valarr crossed the garden quickly.
Rhaella stood too fast when he reached her. “Valarr.”
His hands settled on her arms at once to steady her. “Slowly.”
“I lost it,” she blurted, tears already spilling down her cheeks. “I am so sorry. My fingers had swelled so terribly and I misplaced the ring, I am a horrid woman.”
Valarr’s expression softened immediately. “My love, you are no such thing. You have enraptured the hearts of all in our service, so much so that they all search for your ring to ease your worry. You must calm yourself, the worry can’t be good for the babe.”
“I promised I would never take it off.”
“You had to.”
“But I lost it.”
“You did not lose it intentionally.”
“It does not matter.” Her voice wavered miserably. “You gave it to me.”
Valarr brushed damp strands of hair back from her face carefully. “My dear, take a breath. It will be found.”
“I tried to remember where I left it and I cannot and I know it is only a ring but it was your ring and now it is gone.”
That made fresh tears gather instantly in her eyes.
Valarr pulled her gently against him despite the audience around them. One hand settled broad and warm against the small of her back while the other cradled the back of her head.
“It is alright,” he murmured against her hair.
“It is not.”
“It is.”
“No, it is not.” She sniffed miserably. “You gave it to me the first time you said you loved me and I told you I would wear it forever.”
Valarr kissed her forehead softly. “Then I shall have another made.”
Rhaella immediately shook her head against his chest. “It would not be the same.”
That one hurt him a little.
Not because she had lost it.
Because she sounded genuinely heartbroken over disappointing him.
Valarr leaned back enough to look down at her properly. “Rhaella.”
Her red-rimmed eyes lifted reluctantly.
“I am not upset.”
“You should be.”
“I am relieved.”
That startled her enough to interrupt the crying briefly. “Relieved?”
“When I heard the castle in chaos, I thought something had happened to you.”
Her face crumpled softly.
“Oh.”
Valarr thumbed tears carefully from beneath her eyes. “You matter more to me than the ring. Understand?”
Rhaella swallowed hard and nodded once, though she still looked devastated.
The maester had warned him this might happen.
Heightened emotions. Sudden tears. Fierce attachment to small things.
Valarr did not mind it nearly as much as Rhaella did.
He guided her back down onto the grass beside him. “Tell me your day.”
Rhaella blinked. “What?”
“Everything you remember.”
She sniffed again, trying to gather herself. “Breakfast.”
“With me.”
“With you.” Her voice steadied slightly. “Then I bathed because I smelled like rosemary oil from the maester.”
“You did smell like rosemary oil.”
“I took a walk along the eastern corridor. Then I came here to read.”
“You ate here as well?”
“Yes.” She frowned, thinking hard. “I wanted to go riding but the Maester advised against it.”
“A brave man.”
Rhaella huffed a watery laugh despite herself.
Valarr watched her carefully, his hand warm on her belly. “Anywhere else?”
She hesitated.
Then her eyes widened slightly. “The kitchens.”
Valarr nodded once immediately. “For what?”
Rhaella looked mildly embarrassed. “The plum pastries.”
“Mm.”
“The cook made fresh ones.”
“They are excellent pastries.”
Valarr glanced toward one of the nearby maids. “Check the kitchens please.”
The girl nearly sprinted away.
Rhaella twisted her fingers anxiously together. “What if it is not there?”
“Then we continue looking.”
“You truly are not angry?”
Valarr looked at her steadily. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“You are carrying our child and crying in a garden because you think you disappointed me.” His thumb brushed another tear from her cheek. “I could not be angry with you if I tried.”
Rhaella’s lower lip trembled.
Gods.
Valarr slips his own ring off his finger and places it into your anxious hands.
“Hold onto mine for me, it will calm you,” he says softly as your fingers skim along the ridges.
Valarr leaned over and kissed her temple before she could start crying harder again.
Around them, servants continued searching flowerbeds and pathways with intense determination.
Ser Donnel was now interrogating a shrub.
Several long minutes passed. His hand rubbed steady circles on her back.
Then hurried footsteps sounded across the garden.
The maid returned breathless and flushed with triumph.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “We found it.”
Rhaella shot upright so quickly Valarr had to catch her elbow again.
“You found it?”
“It was beside the flour bins in the kitchens.”
The maid held out the ring carefully.
Rhaella made the smallest broken sound of relief.
Valarr took the ring from the maid gently.
For a moment he simply looked at it resting against his palm.
Then he turned toward his wife.
Rhaella’s eyes were wet again already, though this time with happiness.
“Come here,” he murmured.
She held out her hand immediately.
Valarr slid the silver band carefully back onto her finger.
It fit loosely now with the swelling.
The second it settled into place, Rhaella burst into tears again.
Valarr actually laughed softly this time.
“There it is,” he said warmly. “Safe.”
“I thought it was gone forever.”
“It would have found its way back to you.” He kissed her damp cheek gently. “Everything important always does.”
Rhaella leaned into him immediately.
Valarr rose first before helping her carefully to her feet, one hand firm around hers while the other instinctively steadied her waist.
Then he looked toward the relieved collection of servants and guards scattered through the garden.
“You have our thanks, you all went above and beyond your duties, it will not be forgotten,” he said simply, gratefully as he bowed his head at them.
Everyone relaxed at once.
Ser Donnel looked particularly grateful to stop searching plants.
Valarr guided Rhaella slowly back toward the castle while evening settled softly over Dragonstone.
“You frightened yourself terribly,” he murmured.
Rhaella looked down at their joined hands. “I could not help it.”
“I know.”
She touched the ring lightly with her thumb. “It is my favorite thing I own.”
Valarr glanced at her.
“More than your jewels?”
“Yes.”
“The crown your mother gifted you?”
“Yes.”
His expression softened quietly.
Rhaella swallowed. “Because you gave it to me.”
Valarr’s hand tightened around hers.
“When I look at it,” she admitted softly, “it reminds me you love me.” Her free hand drifted unconsciously over her stomach. “It makes me feel safe.”
Valarr stopped walking.
Before she could question it, he cupped her face and kissed her slowly beneath the torchlight corridor.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
“I will have a necklace made for you,” he said quietly. “If you ever need to remove the ring again, you may wear it there instead.”
Rhaella smiled shakily. “That is clever.”
“I occasionally have useful thoughts.”
“Rarely.”
“Hm.”
She laughed softly.
Later that night, they retired early exactly as Valarr promised.
Rain tapped gently against the windows while Rhaella lay curled against his side beneath heavy blankets, exhausted from crying and worry and relief.
Valarr’s hand rested over the curve of her belly, thumb moving absently back and forth.
The baby shifted faintly beneath his palm.
His entire expression changed every time it happened.
Rhaella watched him sleepily in the firelight. They had both promised not to get too attached, for fear the babe would not live, but Valarr couldn’t help himself-and you couldn’t help but feel his hope. Sometimes you would scold him when you saw him like this, gently though, but you did not this time. “You are smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“A dangerous accusation.”
She moved closer until her cheek rested against his chest.
For a while neither spoke.
Then quietly, Rhaella whispered, “I love you.”
Valarr kissed the top of her head.
“I know.”
She pinched him weakly.
A low laugh rumbled through his chest before his hand slipped up to cradle her face gently in the dark.
“And I love you,” he murmured.
Rhaella smiled against him, eyes drifting shut as his thumb brushed softly over her cheek.
Safe.
Always safe beside him.
Painting
YLML
“…I’m sorry I was so mean to you when I first got here, you’re actually really nice,” you tell Maria as you help her tidy up.
“You were right to distrust us, I would’ve done the same thing. I get it,” she offers you a smile as she places a hand on your shoulder.
“But I’m glad to know you’re more comfortable here, that you know it’s safe. Tommy hates to admit we’re all basically communists, but we all look out for each other, everyone works together. You’re one of us now,” she tells you as you put the plates away and she takes a seat, her hand rubbing over her very pregnant belly.
It had been 2 weeks since Joel and Ellie left. The doctor had taken out your stitches yesterday, your hands were still a bit sore but at least you could move them again. Tommy and Maria tried their best to insist you stay with them, not liking the idea of you alone in that big house, but the room they were offering was meant to be their nursery. Besides, you liked the privacy. They agreed to let you stay because they knew it was right across the street and they could be there at a moments notice if need be.
“Thank you, Maria, you really have no idea how much I appreciate what you and Tommy have done for me,” you tell her as you sit across from her.
She offers you another smile. As she got further into her pregnancy, she had started taking a step back from some of her duties, which meant she was stuck at home for longer than she would’ve liked. It gave Tommy some peace of mind though. As you’ve started to warm up to Jackson, you’ve begun to keep her company.
“Do you want me to cut your hair? It’s getting a little long,” she offers. Your hands go up to your hair, pulling at the ends before letting the curls bounce back up.
“Oh…I’m ok. Maybe another time, I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet,” you answer. You don’t know why you felt such resistance to the thought of cutting your hair. For most of your childhood, your mother cut it, then after she was gone Henry did it. Not well, mind you, but he could at least cut off the ends straight enough when you asked him to do it. Of course, there were also times when you cut some here and there but that was rare. Once you cut some very awkward looking bangs and they took ages to grow out again.
“Sure. Why don’t we go into town today? You can get a better look around and we have a little surprise for you,” She tells you.
You nod in agreement before getting your coat and shoes on. When Maria struggles to get down, you kneel down and tie her shoelaces for her.
“Everyday, I see less and less of my feet,” she sighs as you both exit the house.
“It’ll all be worth it when the baby comes, or so I hear,” you humour as you fall into step beside her.
“I know it is, it’s just hard to remember sometimes when you have killer heartburn,” she chuckles.
You follow her into the council hall. Maria takes her seat while you sit in front of them. You smile at Tommy when he jogs in a bit after you, last to arrive.
“Odette, we have taken your request under advisement. We don’t typically arm our residents-“ Maria says as the door opens again. A man walks in with a small bag and lays it out in front of you. It was all the weapons you, Ellie, and Joel had on you when you first got here.
“-but you have mentioned a knife had some sentimental value to you. You can keep it, if you want,” Maria tells you as you immediantly grab your knife, spinning the hilt a few times.
You glance back at the table, spotting the gun Joel had on him. Your fingers brush over the hilt.
“Henry, put it down! Henry, please!”
Your lips press together, vision starting to blur with tears as you take a shaky breath.
“Can I keep the gun as well?” You ask, and quieter than you meant it to be.
“Why?” Tommy asks, speaking on behalf of the council.
“Sentimental value,” you answer back, eyes still transfixed on the gun.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to give us a little more than that, sweetheart,” Tommy says. You can hear the regret in his voice. He doesn’t want to push, but the council would never agree without good enough reason. Even then, the others still might reject it.
“My little brother was shot and killed by this gun, my other brother killed himself with it, in front of me,” you sniffle. It’s so quiet, you can hear a pin drop. Then there’s some shuffling, but you zone out bit. You press a hand to your temple, where the gun had jammed on you. So much time had passed since then, you had grown, you almost felt like a different person. Which of course, you came to feel guilt for, you had the chance to grow while Sam and Henry laid dead.
You hadn’t told Tommy or Maria about your history, about the years you had lived before making your way to Jackson. Joel didn’t really explain too much to Tommy either, partly because he felt it wasn’t his place. All they knew was that Joel and Ellie had come across you in Kansas City with some family, shit went south, and now you’re here alone.
“You can keep the gun, but only after Tommy makes it unusable,” Maria relents. You nod silently, it made no difference to you. Perhaps it would be a good thing, the guns evil legacy finally coming to an end.
The council is dismissed, and you’re left with a knife and gun.
“Your brother made that knife?” Maria asks as she comes over you after.
“It was his, he had to fix the hilt a couple years ago, spent ages carving the wood. It was last thing he gave me,” you answer.
“Come on. Councils over, Tommy will immobile the gun. You and I can continue our walk,” she suggests as she squeezes your shoulder. She gives you a moment to wipe your tears.
“You don’t talk too much about your time in Kansas City, you want to talk about it?” She asks you as you get outside into some fresh air.
“There’s nothing much else to say,” you shrug.
She doesn’t pry, but points out a couple different shops around.
“Joel mentioned you liked to draw, you any good?” She asks as she leads you into a small building. She turns on the light and you’re confronted with…something short of a miracle. There are easels, paints, brushes, paper, coloured pencils, palettes, and more.
“Wha-I mean, people have told me I am,” you answer back, flabbergasted.
“How did you find all this?” You ask as you walk into the room. It’s quite dusty in here, obvious that it’s been a while since anyone’s been in here.
“My father was a patron of the arts, I guess. He thought art and music and all that is what made people uniquely human, and he didn’t want to lose all that, even after the outbreak, especially after. We try to keep the kids out of here, and no one else really has the affinity for art,” she explains as you walk around.
“It’s yours, if you want. It even has a small washroom and we got the heat running in here,” she smiles, unable to help herself. You look happy here, maybe it was the hormones but she felt happy that you were so.
“I couldn’t possibly, Maria-“
“You can. This place has been locked up and quiet for too long, someone’s got to use this stuff. Use it, draw, paint, I don’t know, do whatever you want,” she laughs.
“I’ll make something for you and Tommy,” you promise.
“Good, I’ll be counting on it. Make something for the baby maybe, the nursery is looking a little bare,” she suggests.
“Consider it done,” you agree.
“I’ll leave you to look around. I gotta find Tommy again anyway,” she says as she gets up.
You wave her off before sitting down in front of an easel. The paints were expired but you’re sure they still work.
You think about what you should paint first. You glance at the knife laid out in the table beside you.
Henry and Sam. At night, you feared the day you’d forget their faces, forget the sound of their voice, their laugh, even their synchronized snores at night. Henry had spent every night for an entire week whittling away at a piece of wood to fix the hilt of his knife, which had been your father’s before. One night, he had left it unattended and Sam got into it, chipped a piece off. The knife dug weird into the side of your palm now because of it.
You smile softly at the memory of Henry finding the chip. He was mad, Sam was upset, you were mad because he accused you first, then Henry spent the rest of the night consoling you both.
You pick up the paints, spreading them in on a palette, and get to work.
When Tommy and Maria find you later, you’re asleep on the table, bits of paint smeared on your face. The painting, however, is done.
Two young men look back at Tommy and Maria, both with gentle smiles on their faces. The younger boy, with a faint orange mask over his eyes.
This is how you resolved to remember them, happy and carefree, not how they ended, despite the nightmares that never let you forget.
Left Behind
YLML
When you wake up the next morning, it’s because the sun is on your eyes. You reach for Ellie but she’s gone, she’s no longer beside you.
“Ellie?” You call out as you get up and put your shoes back on. You rush to open the door.
“Ellie? Joel?” You yell as you go through every door in the house. They’re gone.
It had never occurred to you that they’d leave you behind. No, someone must have taken them.
You look for something you could use the defend yourself. In the kitchen, they have glass plates and mugs. You take a plate and smash it, gathering a particularly sharp piece before running outside.
You contemplate going to Tommy and Maria’s, but you didn’t know who you could trust. You run through the town, fear and anxiety biting at your chest at every wrong turn and corner.
You finally make it to the gate. You’re winded, the cold air burns your lungs, but you don’t care.
Tommy and Maria are by the gate with some others, and the gate is closing.
“Woah, slow down there sweetheart,” Tommy says when he sees you running.
“Where the hell are Joel and Ellie?” You demand as you hold the glass up.
You haven’t even realized that the glass is digging into your palms, having left a trail of blood wherever you went.
“What did you do to them?” You ask, your eyes flittering back and forth between him and Maria.
“Nothing, listen, they just left-“ Tommy starts, he has his hands up and takes slow steps towards you.
“Step back! Open the gate, right now, I want to see them,” you order as your hold gets tighter.
“Odette-“
With the amount of people circling you, your breathing gets erratic. You know you won’t be able to fight Tommy off if he lunges for you.
So you point the shard of glass to your neck.
“Open the gate, or I’ll do it. I’ve done it once before, don’t think I won’t do it again,” you threaten.
“Fuck, open the gate! Open the gate! Just put the glass down,” Maria gasps.
Once the gate is opened, you slowly back up.
“Joel!” You yell out once you’re through.
Joel and Ellie haven’t gotten too far yet. They’re on horseback.
When Joel hears you call, he turns his head. You’re running towards him, a trail of blood left behind. They turn their horse back, and Joel dismounts to catch you when you run into him.
“Odette, what have you done?” He asks as he grabs your wrists. He takes the glass from you and tosses it before taking a closer look at your palms.
“Why did Tommy kick you out? Where are you going?” You ask, panic still evident on your face.
“Tommy didn’t kick us out. Ellie and I are leaving, I’m taking her to the university-“
“Well then I’m coming with you. Why wouldn’t you wake me?” You look half crazy, Joel thinks.
“Odette, I want you to stay here. I thought long and hard about it-“
“No, Joel, I don’t want to stay here. I want to go with you,” you cry.
“Odette, listen to me,” Joel frowns as he lets go of your wrists. He holds onto your shoulders, to stop the shaking.
“Henry asked me to get you somewhere safe. It’s safe here. I can’t put you in anymore danger-“
“Ellie! Tell Joel he’s being ridiculous. Come on, we promised we’d never leave each other,” you look up at Ellie, ignoring Joel’s words entirely.
“Maybe it’s safer this way, Odette. With one horse, it’ll be easier for Joel and I to go undetected,” Ellie frowns. She looks away from your hands, obvious your panic was seeping to her. She didn’t want to leave you anymore than you wanted her to.
“Odette, that’s enough! You’re staying! This is mine and Ellie’s mission, not yours! I got you this far because it was a dying man’s last wish, but you are not my responsibility anymore. You’re cargo, and I’ve fucking delivered. Now stop with the goddamn nonsense, and get back behind those fucking walls!” Joel roars at you, so loud it made your ears ring. His hands squeeze your shoulders so hard you writhe out of them.
You stumble back and bump into Tommy, who had jogged out after you.
Joel regrets the words the second they leave him, the second he sees your heartbroken face. But he had to say it, you’d never stay if he didn’t. He can’t bring himself to look at Tommy either, he knew Tommy would be disappointed in him. All the growth Joel had gone through since Tommy left him, since Tess, since you and Ellie, all of it disappeared in this exact moment. He forced himself into the ugliest version of himself.
“Screw you, Joel, if I was such a burden you should’ve left me in Kansas city like I asked, you fucking traitor!” You yell back as you slay at his chest. Nevermind the fact it only splits your palms open more.
Tommy, in his pittance, tries to stop you but you shove him back.
“Seems like I would’ve saved myself a fuck load of trouble if I did,” Joel spits back as he turns around and gets back into the horse.
“Joel!” Ellie interjects.
“Go then, you sick son of a bitch. I hate you, I never want to see you again,” you cross your arms.
You don’t want to give Joel the satisfaction of seeing you cry. So you don’t.
You wait until they ride off, with Ellie glancing back at you every couple seconds until they’re out of view.
It’s then that you fall into the snow, sobbing so loud it damn near draws a tear from Tommy himself. He tries to pick you up, but you fight him off, screaming whenever he tried to grab you.
You’re on your hands and knees, rocking back and forth, crying so hard you can’t even breathe. You cry so hard you think you’ll throw up.
Tommy gets down to your level, brushing some of the hair away.
“Come on darlin’, he ain’t worth a single tear you shed. I know you’re scared, I know you have no reason to trust any of us, but I promise you we are good people. You have a home here, we take care of each other here. Just…you’re turning blue kid, let us get you inside and fix up your hands,” Tommy pleads.
You can’t tell if you’re exhausted, maybe it’s the blood loss, but you don’t push Tommy off when he grabs you again. He lifts you up, walking back into Jackson. He walks past a puddle of your blood, something he glances down at before furrowing his brows at Maria.
He walks you all the way to their little hospital, where their medic decides the cuts are so deep you need 5 stitches on each hand.
Machin Shin
Evermore
Aemon keeps you close to him as you walk through the Waygate, practically dragging you along.
He keeps you in front of him. You catch up with Loial, laying a hand on his arm.
“I feel weak in here, Loial, is that to be expected?” You ask him. Your muscles felt sore, like a weight had been placed on your shoulders. You’re sure you only made it this far because Aemon kept you so close to
“My lady of the sun grows weak in the dark, I was afraid something like this might happen,” Loial’s deep voice booms. Lan glances back at you, concern evident in his eyes.
“Like a flower who droops in the dark. My lady will be better once we are outside, and any subsequent travels will be easier,” Loial promises. You thank him for the advice before hanging back to rejoin Aemon.
In one hand, he holds a torch. In the other, his sword is drawn.
“Stay ahead of me, Gael, watch where you step,” he warns. You glance at him and nod, grabbing hold of Egwene’s hand once she starts falling behind. She offers you a weak smile and you both wrap arms around each other, silently encouraging the other on.
“I would ask how you met Aemon, but I hardly think now’s the right time,” she chuckles awkwardly.
Despite yourself, you were afraid of the dark, always had been.
“He saved my life. I was travelling, he had been following me, and when there was a trolloc attack on our village, he helped fight. There was a fade at my back that I didn’t see, he stepped between us and killed it,” you tell her.
“Why was he following you?” She asks as she glances back at her old friend.
“That’s a long story, and the two of you need to pick up your pace,” Aemon cuts in.
Both you and Egwene jog up a bit, catching up with the main group.
“What was he like when he was young?” You ask her.
“Self righteous, a little bit. His father kept him busy, but he always managed to sneak down mountain with Rand to come play. Rand was the only one who could keep up with him, those two used to rough house so bad they were banned from-“
“Are you talking about me?” Rand asks as he turns his head.
“No, mind your own business,” Egwene smirks as she shoves his back. You wondered if they were together romantically. Aemon had told you Rand had a crush when they were young, but he had been gone for too long to know what became of it.
“Anyway, they got banned from our lake because they nearly drowned each other. Somehow they roped poor Perrin and Mat into everything and they didn’t get to swim all summer, the hottest summer in my memory,” Egwene smiles as she finishes her story, albeit a tad more quieter than she was speaking before.
“I imagine the Two Rivers to be very beautiful, Aemon promised to bring me one day,” you tell her.
“You should come! They say the old blood is strong there, our town is right where the old Kingdom of Manetheran once stood,” she begins to explain, until the entire group stops.
The guiding stone in front of Loial has been defaced. Aemon grabs you and brings you to the front, joining Loial, Lan, and Moiraine.
“An ogier would never deface the stone like this,” Loial says, shock evident on his face. Sadness too, that even more of the beauty that once stood here had been destroyed.
“Can you still read it, my friend?” You ask him as you place a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes…it will just take me some time. I ask you all for some patience,” Loial says as he turns to face the others.
“If he’s asking for patience, we’ll be stuck here forever,” you hear Rand quip quietly. You smile softly at that, looking up at Aemon to see if he found amusement too.
He did not. He joins Lan.
“We’re being followed?” He asks quietly. Moiraine and Lan look at him and nod.
“I’ll guard our front, you guard our back,” Lan says, to which Aemon agrees.
“We’ll rest here for a while. It is still a days travel to our next waygate. Get some sleep while you can,” Moiraine tells the others as you go back.
“Get some rest,” Aemon tells you as he takes off his cloak and wraps it around you instead.
“Only channel to save yourself,” he says quietly as he slips his knife into your hands. You nod and he presses a kiss to your forehead before standing guard at everyone’s back.
“Won’t he need rest too?” Egwene asks.
“Warders are allowed exceptional strength through our bond. They’re stronger, faster, healer quicker, and can run on less sleep. He’ll be alright, as will Lan. We will be safe enough to get some sleep while they keep watch,” you assure them all.
You lean against one of the railings, close enough to Aemon but not so much you’d distract him. You clutch the knife to your chest, ready for whenever you need to get up. You feel safe with Aemon so close, and so you let the exhaustion take over as you allow yourself to sleep.
・˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆・˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆・˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆ ・˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆・˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚
When you wake, you’re being dragged up by Aemon.
You’re groggy, so groggy, too groggy. You can barely stay up on your own two feet. You were getting weaker the longer you remained in the Ways.
“What’s happening?” You ask as he slowly backs up, kicking Rand and Perrins feet to wake them. Lan comes closer, his sword drawn and senses on high alert.
“I can hear something, someone,” he whispers to you.
“Loial, are you getting any closer?” You ask the builder.
“I am, I only need a few more moments,” Loial nods.
You gasp as a trolloc jumps down in front of you. 2 others attack the group, but you think Egwene channels and pushes one away. Lan kills the other.
You fall back as Aemon makes quick work of the monster before you, cutting its head in one swift blow. But the trollocs loud screams attracted too much attention.
“A trolloc in the ways? Impossible,” you gasp as Aemon picks you up, wiping trolloc blood from your face.
“That explains how they made it to the Two Rivers without being detected, how they’re travelling so quick,” Aemon deduces.
“Is it just me, or has it gotten colder in here?” Perrin asks shakily.
“Machin Shin,” you murmur as you look toward Loial.
“What is Machin shin?” Nynaeve demands answers.
“It translates from the old tongue, meaning Black Wind. It will speak to you, do not listen,” Moiraine warns everyone, just as you can hear the screeches get closer.
“We’ll never make it to our waygate, neither will Gael. Loial, is Fal Dara’s gate close? Do you know the way?” Lan asks as the screeches get closer.
“It is-“
“Take us there,” Moiraine orders as she urges everyone to run.
Aemon takes back his knife before grabbing your hand and running. When you make it to the gate, Machin Shin descends down upon you all.
You will kill him in this life again. Your people are dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Your son, dead dead dead. Aemon would live if you weren’t alive. Release him from his burden, release him from you.
You grab your head as Machin Shin discovers your deepest, darkest thoughts.
“Nynaeve, no!” You hear Egwene scream. You struggle to lift your head, watching as Nynaeve walks toward the edge. With a burst of exertion, she channels, but the chaos around her distracts her. She can’t channel more than a slight bubble around herself, and she fights against herself to do more.
You get to your feet, joining her at the edge as you take her hand. With a heave, you channel all the light you can muster.
It keeps the darkness at bay.
“Moiraine, the waygate!” You yell over your shoulder. Moiraine is finally able to weave again, opening the gate after a moment.
“Everyone run!” Moiraine yells as she goes through. You let go of Nynaeve’s hand when Lan comes to pull her off the edge. You hold your shield until everyone gets through.
It is Aemon’s hand that guides you off the ledge, towards the gate. The two of you are the last to fall through, and you fall to the ground in exertion.
Your hands cradle your stomach. Your son. Your boy. It had been so long since you thought of him. Your dreams of him were far and few between now. It made you sick to your stomach.
A tear falls down your face at the memory.
“Well done, all of you,” Moiraine praises as she turns. It’s obvious everyone is reeling from what they heard. Aemon places a hand on your shoulder, offering you a hand to help you up.
“Where are we?” Nynaeve asks.
“The fortress city of Fal Dara, the last hold against the blight,” Loial tells her. You look back at Lan, who is already looking toward the direction where Malkier once stood. How different your lives would be if the blight hadn’t overtaken it. He, a King, while you would be a daughter of Malkier living with your family.
“The eye of the world is a days walk beyond the city. But rest is close at hand, we have friends in these borderlands,” Moiraine tells you all.
“Whatever you saw in there, put it out of your minds,” Moiraine advises before she starts her walk toward the fortress.
Everyone follows after her quietly. You don’t say a word.
Your stomach twists in knots.

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I didn’t even mean to do it but I just realized, when Daeron and Kiera have a child, some 13 years after Valarr and Rhaella die, they name their daughter Vaella.
Va-for Valarr.
Ella-for Rhaella.
Then when Egg has a daughter, he names her Rhaelle.
Then, because Egg and Aemon and Daella and Rhae spoke so often of their elder sister, Egg’s son names his own daughter Rhaella.
Also I’m headcannoning that when Dyanna Dayne was dying, they asked her what they should name her last daughter. Rhaella happened to be by the door, desperate to see her mother. Dyanna uttered “Rhae…” almost as if to say she shouldn’t be there, but Dyanna died and the last thing she said was Rhae.
DYANNA
Bloodbound
The pyre burned for most of the day, the flames clawing high into the gray sky above Summerhall. The scent of cedar and oil was sharp in the air, mingling with the smoke that curled into the clouds. It settled in everyone’s lungs, heavy and suffocating, like the grief that hung over the courtyard.
Rhaella stood with her siblings before the fire, holding the newborn baby tightly against her chest. Rhae’s tiny face was serene, her lips parted in sleep, but Rhaella could not stop the shiver of dread that ran through her. She had been born only hours before their mother had died. She could feel the fragility of her sister as though the child might vanish if she let go for even a moment.
Daeron stood beside her, a firm presence despite his own grief. He carried Daella on his shoulder, the little girl’s face pressed against his neck, trembling with quiet sobs. Behind his legs, Aemon and Aegon clung to him like vines, Aemon gripping the back of his boot, Aegon clinging to his calf, peering nervously at the fire. Every sharp crack of the flames made them flinch.
Aerion stood on Rhaella’s other side. He tried to appear brave, chest stiff and chin lifted, but every so often he leaned toward her, and Rhaella’s arm would slip around his shoulders, pulling him close. She felt like she must hold them all together, though her own heart felt like it might break.
Across the courtyard, Maekar stood like a statue. His eyes were hollow, unseeing. He had not spoken since the maester delivered the news of Dyanna Dayne’s death. There was no anger, no sorrow, no life in his face, only emptiness. Beside him, Baelor stayed close, one strong hand resting on Maekar’s shoulder, steadying him when he swayed. He whispered to him gently, but Maekar did not hear. Aerys and Rhaegal were nearby too. The four sons of Daeron the Good.
Rhaella could not look away from the flames. Memories of her mother pressed against her mind: Dyanna’s dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she braided Rhaella’s white strands, her soft laughter filling the sunlit chamber. You must sit still, little star. The warmth, the lavender-scented fingers brushing through her hair, it all felt impossibly distant.
Tears slipped down Rhaella’s cheeks. She wiped them quickly, ashamed to be seen so vulnerable, but Daeron noticed. He always noticed.
He shifted Daella carefully in his arms and reached out, pulling Rhaella gently until her head rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to hide it,” he murmured softly.
“I must,” Rhaella whispered. “For them.”
Daeron looked down at Aemon and Aegon clinging to him. “You don’t need to be strong for them, I will be strong enough for us all,” he said gently. Her lip quivered and she turned her face into his shoulder, silent sobs wracking her body.
Rhaella looked down at the sleeping Rhae. She would never hear their mother’s voice. She would never know the warmth of her mother’s laughter. The thought made her chest ache.
The days after the funeral were long and hollow. Summerhall itself seemed to mourn. Maekar wandered the halls like a ghost, often silent for hours, sometimes locking himself in his chambers, sometimes staring at empty walls. Baelor stayed close whenever he could, guiding him, holding him upright, whispering words that fell unheard.
Daeron carried the rest. He rose before the others to see the younger children fed. He comforted Daella when she cried herself to sleep. He soothed Aemon and Aegon when they worried, carried Aegon when he refused to walk. And yet, the weight of responsibility sometimes showed.
Rhaella saw him cry alone, head in his hands. He wipes his tears when he noticed her and pulled into a hug. She wanted to comfort him, but she had begun to cry again and so he comforted her. He gently shushed her and said mother would not want them to cry.
One evening, during supper, Rhaella wore one of the small purple star ornaments her mother had once loved. It caught the candlelight among her white hair, delicate and bright against the shadowed hall. She touched it briefly, feeling as though her mother’s presence lingered just above her shoulder.
Maekar entered late. He moved slowly, dragging his feet as though each step required all his will. For a moment, he seemed not to notice anyone. Then his eyes fell on Rhaella. The star in her hair, small and bright, became the center of his focus. Something broke inside him.
“What is that?” His voice cut across the hall, sharp and trembling.
Rhaella froze. “It was Mother’s,” she said quietly.
Maekar rose. His gaze burned. “Take it off.”
Rhaella’s hands went instinctively to the ornament. “I only-”
“I said take it off!” he shouted, his voice low and dangerous.
He stepped forward.
Rhaella’s fingers trembled in her hair, her fingers shaking so terribly that she couldn’t take out the pin even if she tried. She had never been yelled at before.
Maekar reaches forward, to rip it from her head if need be. The sound of chairs scraping stops him. It is Daeron who stands, who shoves his hand away before it can reach you.
In his own anger, Daeron shoves him again. 2 handed on his chest, so hard that Maekar stumbles back.
“You dare strike your father, boy!”
From the corner of your vision, you see Daeron throw a punch. You can hear its impact. It is then that more chairs scrape. Baelor rushes over, to prevent Maekar from doing anything he might one day regret. Your uncle Aerys grabs Daeron before he can hit him again. Your grandmother ushers the other children away.
You run away, the guilt of it all settling deep inside. It feels like your insides are being eaten. As you run away, you hear Daeron yelling at your father.
“I will sooner strike you down before I let you touch a single head on their heads. You disgrace my mother! She would be ashamed of you, she would hate you! You shame her memory!”
Evening turns into night by the time anyway finds you again.
It is uncle Rhaegal, in all his simple wisdom, who finds you among the flour in the kitchen.
“Hush now, child, you have no need to be frightened,” your uncle coos as he tries to gently detangle the hair ornament from your hair. In all the commotion, it had gotten rather tangled.
“My father will never forgive me,” you weep into his arms. It was easy to find comfort in your simple Uncle Rhaegal, his dark hair was like your mother’s.
“Your father did not mean to frighten you so,” your uncle says softly as you settle into his lap, sobbing terribly into his shoulder. The flour you were covered in, now covers his fine clothes, but Rhaegal was never the type to care for the finer things.
“Valarr, dear, come help fix our little princess’s hair,” you peek over your shoulder and see Valarr standing there, rather awkwardly. But he does as he’s beckoned, and his tiny fingers pull at the knots and apologize quietly when it hurts. Rhaegal continues to shush you gently, patting your back as you calm down.
“Uncle, we will need scissors,” Valarr says after a while.
“No! You can’t cut my hair!” You screech again, your weeping beginning again just as soon as Rhaegal calmed you.
“Nonsense, find me the butter. It will soften it all right up. Hush child, we shall not cut your hair,” your uncle promises. Behind your head, Rhaegal sticks his fingers into the butter and works it into your hair. Valarr is about to look for his mother, but the butter apparently works and the star shaped ornament falls out.
“There we go, see, all done,” your uncle says as he hands you the star.
“Come, my girl, we shall go to your room and fix the rest of your hair,” Rhaegal says as he stands, carrying you up with him.
“I am too big to be carried now uncle,” you tell him.
“Are you? I don’t think so,” your uncle laugh gleefully as he carries you through the castle. He spins and dances with you, delighting in your own laughter. Valarr follows dutifully behind, until Rhaegal remembers he is there and takes his hand, encouraging him to spin and dance as well.
Once in your room, a maid is asked to bring warm water so your hair can be washed. You lean back against the basin as Rhaegal gently runs a brush through your locks.
“You look like my grandmother, Queen Naerys, did you know that?” Your uncle asks as he wets your hair.
“Grandfather told me once,” you admit. You were the first of his grandchildren to be born with silver locks like his. Daeron was more blonde, and Valarr had come out looking more like this father.
“You must forgive your father, child. He did not mean to lose his temper so horribly, he just misses your mother, is all. It was wrong of him to try and take your ornament, whatever belonged to your mother is yours now and you should wear it as you see fit,” your uncle tells you.
“I am not angry with my father,” you deny.
“Than you are better than most. I suspect Daeron will be harder to convince, though I cannot fault the boy either,” Rhaegal hums.
Valarr sits on the edge of your bed, watching from afar.
“What saddens you now, child?” Your uncle asks as he runs the soap through your hair.
“My mother used to wash my hair for me,” you sniffle. Your uncles face softens as he looks down at you.
“I will wash your hair whenever you ask, dear. It’s quite fun actually,” he insists. “Isn’t it fun, Valarr?” He asks as he glances at his nephew.
“Yes, uncle, very,” Valarr nods quickly, eager to help. He climbs off the bed to lean over the bath. He pours the water over your head to clean the soap while Rhaegal runs his hands through your hair.
“All done. We have gotten rid of all the tangles, rescued your hair piece, and done it all without shears,” Rhaegal clap proudly as he dries your hair.
“All will be well, child, you will see. I know you miss your mother, but you will not always be so sad. One day you will wake up and remember her fondly,” Rhaegal promises you. You nod weekly as he continues drying your hair.
“You have been very strong, you have taken care of your brothers and sisters, your mother would be very proud of you,” Rhaegal continues.
“It is Daeron who takes care of us all,” you shake your head.
“Yes, but I can’t imagine he could do it all without you. It is you who sits with Aemon while he helps Daella, and someone must entertain Aerion while Daeron puts Egg to sleep. It is you who cares for Rhae. Daeron has been very strong, but so have you,” your uncle tells you, a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“You will see your mother again one day, Rhaella. One day, we will all die, and we shall return to the Mother’s arms and see all those who we loved and lost. It is there we shall wait for and watch over those we left behind. Your mother is well, she is no longer in any pain, and we shall be well too in time,” he promises. You nod your head as you look down.
“I do not want to die,” you sniffle.
“It will be many many years before you do, but you mustn’t worry about that,” Rhaegal shakes his head.
“You having one of your good days, Rhaegal?” Your other uncle, Aerys asks as he walks into your room. Rhaegal rolls his eyes as Aerys pats your head.
“Is my father still angry with me?” You ask him.
“He is not angry with you, dear, he is more upset at himself,” Aerys assures you.
“Why would father be angry with himself?” You question, not understanding. Aerys sighs as he tries to find the words.
“You will understand when you are older, child. Why don’t you try getting some sleep? I am sure things will be better by the morning,” Aerys suggests.
“Will you stay with me?” You ask your uncles. They glance at each other, they had wives to attend and surely Baelor would need their help as well.
“I can stay,” Valarr volunteers, desperate to be put to use.
Rhaegal carries you to bed and tucks you in.
“We will come find you in the morning to break our fast. I shall speak to your father and see that he apologizes,” he promises.
“My father has never apologized for anything,” you remind him.
“We are still his elder brothers, we have ways of getting him to do what I want,” Aerys promises, fake punching his fist. You cannot imagine Rhaegal and Aerys beating your father up, surely it would be the other way around, but still the thought is funny.
“Where is Daeron?” You ask, suddenly worrying for your eldest brother.
“Daeron is well, your grandmother and grandfather are calming him. Aelinor and Alys are putting the others to bed,” they tell you.
Your uncles wish you a good night and you’re left with Valarr. He lies on the other side of you, on top of the blankets.
“My father will fix it all, I am sure of it. He always does, and Maekar will listen to him,” he says in the silence.
“Your father cannot bring my mother back, that is the only thing that will fix everything,” you answer back.
Valarr does not say anything back, he cannot.
“Uncle Rhaegal says you shall see your mother again one day. All will be well in time,” Valarr promises. When he hears you sniffle, his hand finds yours in the dark.
“Valarr, you mustn’t tell anyone. A raven came today from the reach, I have received a marriage proposal. I stole it from the maester, I dreamt it came in the night,” you whisper to him.
“From who?” He asks, feeling a slight discomfort at having to hide this information from his father.
“A second son of Lord Hightower,” you answer.
“That is unseemly, Lord Hightower is old and his sons are all grown,” Valarr thinks.
“How dreadful! How could I ever go to Oldtown-“
“You mustn’t worry, Rhaella. You will not marry a second son, you are the first granddaughter of the King. The first princess in a generation,” Valarr reminds you.
“My mother was better suited to these conversations, my father always said she was meant to arrange our matches. Who knows where I will end up now that she is gone,” you frown.
“I would marry you myself to save you, Rhaella, worry not. If a match is made that isn’t to your liking, you only need to tell me and I shall demand you for myself. I will tell my father and grandfather that I shall give up my place to the throne, then they must let me marry you,” he decides.
“Will you really?” You ask hopefully.
“Yes,” he answers simply.
You squeeze his hand before sleep overtakes you.
Old Valyria
Bloodbound
The path along Dragonstone’s cliffs curved gently, worn by wind more than footsteps. Rhaella moved slowly this time, not wandering ahead but keeping close to Valarr’s side, their fingers loosely entwined. It had not been long since they moved to Dragonstone, and they had begged Ser Donnel not to follow them outside today, he only agreed as they promised not to go far and to be back before the sun neared the horizon. You would not be surprised though, if the good Ser followed anyway.
The sea stretched wide and gray below them, restless and constant, and the air carried that sharp, briny edge that made every breath feel clearer.
Valarr glanced down at her, then ahead, then back again, as if making certain she was still there. His thumb brushed absently over her knuckles, a small, unconscious motion.
“You are watching me,” she said without looking at him.
“I am making sure you do not drift into the sea,” he replied.
She smiled faintly. “I have not done that yet.”
“There is always a first time.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, tilting her head just enough that her hair slipped over her shoulder. “Would you follow me into the sea then?”
“I would catch you,” he said, the same quiet certainty in his voice as always.
She turned her face then, studying him properly. The brown of his hair stirred in the wind, that streak of silver catching the light, and his mismatched eyes held hers without wavering. There was something grounding in that, something steady she could always return to.
They walked on, the castle shrinking behind them, the land opening into a quieter stretch where the grass grew thicker between the black stone. Rhaella’s steps slowed.
Valarr felt it again, that subtle shift in her hand.
“My love?” he murmured.
She stopped.
For a heartbeat she only stood there, her gaze fixed ahead. Then her fingers tightened around his, not in fear, but in focus. Her breathing grew shallow, her shoulders stilling as if she were listening to something no one else could hear.
“They are here,” she said softly.
Valarr stepped closer at once. “Who?”
Her eyes did not move. “Our ancestors…Queen Rhaenyra and Daemon.”
The wind seemed to fall away.
“I see them,” she whispered, her voice distant, threaded with something almost reverent. “Not clearly. Only… a piece of it.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “They were standing right before me. The grass is darker beneath them. There is a cup between them. They cut their hands… and they drink.”
Her fingers trembled in his.
“There is blood on their mouths,” she went on, quieter still. “They are smiling.”
Then it was gone.
Rhaella blinked, her breath catching as the world rushed back in. The wind, the sea, the weight of Valarr’s hand in hers.
She swayed slightly, and he steadied her at once, his free hand coming to her arm.
She exhaled, her gaze dropping to the ground where she had been looking moments before. The grass bent and swayed as though nothing had ever happened.
“They were married here,” she said, more present now, though her voice still carried a trace of wonder. “I am certain of it.”
Valarr followed her gaze, then looked back at her. “Then we have chosen a good place to walk.”
She smiled faintly, though there was something thoughtful behind it now. Her thumb traced the side of his hand, slow and deliberate.
“Do you remember our wedding?” She asks him.
Valarr let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “I remember standing with you before the Septon, I remember the feast after, I don’t remember much else. We were so young,” he laments.
“You stepped on my dress.”
“You stepped on my foot first.”
“I was trying not to forget the dance steps.”
“You still forgot them.”
“I was distracted.”
That earned him a proper laugh, soft and warm, and she leaned slightly into him as it faded.
“I did not really understand what it meant…our vows,” she said after a moment. “Not then.”
“Neither did I.”
Her gaze lifted to his again, steady and searching. “We understand now, I would like to…redo it if we could.”
He didn’t answer right away. The wind moved between them, tugging at his shirt, at her sleeves. His expression shifted, something more serious settling in.
“You mean…” he began, then stopped, as if wanting her to say it plainly.
“I want to marry you again, Val, now that we are older and understand what it means. Now that love has grown between us. Let us marry anew and let Dragonstone be our new beginning,” she said sweetly.
There was no hesitation in her voice. Only certainty, and something softer beneath it.
Valarr studied her for a long moment. “And because we choose each other, and would choose each other again if we had the choice.”
His grip on her hand tightened slightly, grounding himself as much as her. He let out a slow breath, glancing once more at the place around them, as if weighing it.
“We could do it in the old way,” he said at last. “As they did. As our ancestors did before us.”
Rhaella’s lips curved, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Go on.”
Valarr straightened a little, as if unconsciously slipping into something more formal. “It is important to honor traditions,” he began, “and to remember our forebears, and the rites that-“
She giggled.
It caught him off guard enough that he stopped mid-sentence, blinking at her.
“What?” he asked, a hint of embarrassment creeping in.
“The way you say it,” she said, smiling more openly now, a hand rising to press against his cheek. “You sound like our grandfather.”
He huffed softly, looking away for a moment.
“I like it,” she added quickly, her fingers squeezing his. “When you begin to ramble like that. You sound very certain of things.”
“I am certain of this,” he said, quieter now, the shyness there but steadied by something deeper. “If we do this, it should mean something.”
“It will,” she said.
That was enough.
Valarr nodded once, decision settling into him. He released her hand only to draw his knife, the motion deliberate but not dramatic. Rhaella watched him, calm, her breathing just a touch quicker.
“This will not be perfect,” he said. “We do not have all the rites. The cup, the words…all of it.” Valarr was a stickler for history, part of him wants to return to the castle and gather all the necessary materials, but one look at Rhaella and he knows it does not matter.
“We have enough. We are doing this for us, we do not need anything else,” she replied softly. Both of them had grown up learning the histories. Rhaella had a vague idea in her head what a marriage in old Valyria would have looked like, but Valarr always had a better memory than her. He would know where she did not.
He met her gaze, then took her hand again, turning it gently in his.
The cut was quick. She flinched, a small intake of breath, but she did not pull away. A thin line of red welled against her pale skin. Valarr’s jaw tightened as he did the same to his own palm, the blade biting cleanly.
They knelt together in the grass.
For a moment, neither spoke. The world seemed to narrow again, the sound of the sea distant and muffled.
Valarr shifted closer, pressing his bleeding palm to hers, their fingers interlacing. The warmth of it, the slickness, the simple fact of their hands joined like that made something in his chest tighten.
He lifted his other hand to her face, hesitating only briefly before brushing his thumb along her lower lip.
“This part will hurt,” he murmured.
“I know,” she said.
He cut his own first this time, quick and sharp. The taste of iron followed immediately. Then he reached for her, gentler now, and she leaned in, trusting, her breath catching softly as the blade nicked her lip.
Their foreheads nearly touched, their hands still pressed together.
Valarr drew in a breath.
“I take you,” he says in high Valyrian, his voice low but steady, “as my wife. I take you because you are mine, and I am yours. One flesh, one heart, one soul.”
Rhaella’s eyes shone, her lips parted slightly as she listened.
“I take you,” she answered back in the language of their ancestors, her voice softer but unwavering, “as my husband, in this life and every shadow of it I may see. We are one flesh, one heart, one soul…we shall always be together.”
Their joined hands tightened.
Valarr leaned forward first this time, closing the distance between them. The kiss was not careful at first, the sting of their split lips sharp, the taste of blood unmistakable. But it softened quickly, deepening, lingering.
Rhaella’s free hand rose to his face, her fingers brushing along his jaw. He answered in kind, his hand cupping her cheek, holding her there as if he never meant to let her go.
When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His thumb brushed her cheek, slow and certain. “I love you too, Rhaella, more than any words could ever describe.”
For a moment they simply stayed like that, hands still joined, the wind moving gently around them.
Then Valarr shifted, glancing down at her palm. Blood still welled faintly from the cut.
“Hold still,” he said.
He tore a strip from the edge of his shirt without ceremony, the fabric ripping cleanly in his hands. Carefully, he wrapped it around her palm, his movements precise but gentle.
“You did not have to-” she began.
“I did,” he said, not looking up. “You are my wife.”
That word settled between them, warm and solid.
She smiled, watching him tie the cloth in place. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, his face had gotten so serious as he tended to her wound. Their gold rings caught the light as his fingers moved, familiar now, no longer strange on their hands.
When he finished, he pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles, just above the bandage.
“Better?”
“Much,” she replied.
They rose together, and this time when their hands found each other, it felt different. Not new, not entirely, but deeper. Chosen.
The walk back to the castle was slower. They did not hurry. Sometimes their shoulders brushed, sometimes they laughed softly at nothing at all. Once, he pulled her closer simply because he could, and she went easily, resting briefly against him as they walked.
By the time Dragonstone’s doors closed behind them, the marks of what they had done were still visible. The cloth at her hand, the faint split at their lips, the quiet, unmistakable way they looked at one another.
The maids noticed. But they had not known what occurred, only that their lord and lady returned with identical cuts.
It felt like their little secret, something only for them. They gave so much to the realm already, and they cherished what they could keep only to themselves.
In the days that followed, the cuts healed. The skin smoothed, the redness faded, until there was little left to see.
Everything that mattered remained.
LEE DUTTON (1)
miscellaneous
The first thing anyone ever said about you and Lee Dutton was that you made sense.
Not in the way storms make sense over the Montana plains or the way cattle follow a fence line, but in a quieter, steadier way. Like two things that had always belonged together and somehow found their way back, no matter how far they wandered.
You met him as children, at school, you don’t remember the specifics. You can’t remember a life before Lee. Before legacy meant land and blood and sacrifice. Back then it was just dust under your boots, scraped knees, and Lee grinning at you with a missing tooth, holding out a hand like you were already his.
You took it.
And you never really let go.
By the time you were teenagers, people had stopped asking if you were together. They just assumed. Lee didn’t talk much, never had, but everyone knew where he stood when it came to you. It was in the way he looked at you across a crowded room, like everything else blurred out. In the way he stood just a little closer than necessary, like the world might try to take you if he didn’t.
He loved the ranch with a kind of devotion that ran bone-deep. Early mornings, long rides, the smell of leather and hay and sweat. That was where he was most himself. But numbers, contracts, negotiations, those things never sat right with him. He could do them if he had to, but they didn’t belong to him the way the land did.
That was where you came in.
You understood the business side. The paperwork, the meetings, the careful balance it took to keep something like the Yellowstone alive in a world that kept trying to swallow it whole. Where Lee was instinct and grit, you were strategy and clarity. Together, you fit the shape of the future John Dutton wanted for the ranch.
He trusted you. Not just because you were capable, but because you loved it too. Maybe not in the same way Lee did, but enough to fight for it.
And you loved his family like they were your own.
Beth, sharp and unyielding, had always respected you. Not easily given, that kind of respect, but you earned it. You never flinched when she tested you, never backed down, and never tried to be anything but yourself. Somewhere along the way, it turned into something softer. Not quite sisterhood, but close.
Jamie was easier in some ways. You understood him better than most people did, saw the pressure he carried even when he tried to hide it. You were kind to him without pity, and he never forgot that.
And Kayce…
Kayce had been just a kid when you started coming around. Dirt-smudged, stubborn, always trying to keep up with Lee. You’d patched him up more times than anyone could count, sat with him when he got in trouble, talked him through things he couldn’t say out loud. By the time he left for the army, he already saw you as something steady in his life. Despite what happened with his father, you made sure he was ok, and made sure he knew someone was on his side. It was because of you that he and Lee didn’t fall completely out of touch.
While he was gone, you made sure Monica and Tate were never alone. You brought groceries, fixed things around the house, sat on the porch with Monica when the nights got too quiet. You never made it a big thing. You just showed up.
That was who you were.
And Lee loved you for it.
He loved you for everything.
The day he came home and found you on the couch, something felt off before he even understood why.
The house was too quiet.
You were sitting there, shoulders drawn in, your gaze fixed on your hands. Your wedding ring caught the light as you twisted it over and over again, like you were trying to wear a groove into your own skin.
“Hey,” he said, easy and familiar, kicking off his boots by the door.
You didn’t answer.
Lee didn’t notice right away. He moved through the motions of coming home, muscle memory guiding him. Hat set down. Shirt pulled off. A glass poured from the bottle he kept on the counter.
It wasn’t until he leaned back against the kitchen and glanced toward you again that something in his chest tightened.
You hadn’t moved.
“Baby?” he called, softer this time.
Your head lifted.
“Lee.”
Your voice broke on his name.
Everything in him went still.
He crossed the room in a few long steps, setting the glass down without thinking. When he reached you, he sat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. His hand came up automatically, reaching for you, pulling you in.
You pushed him away.
Not hard. But firm enough to stop him.
Lee froze.
You had never done that before.
“Hey,” he said quietly, confusion threading through the word. “What’s wrong?”
You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your ring.
“I went to the doctor,” you said.
The words landed heavy between you.
Lee didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, his expression sharpening, all his attention locked on you now.
“I… I’ve been noticing things,” you continued, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “Changes. I thought it was nothing at first but… it wasn’t nothing.”
Your breath hitched.
“They ran tests. More tests.”
Lee’s jaw tightened. “And?”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, like you were trying to memorize his face before everything changed.
“It’s ovarian cancer.”
The room went silent.
Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful. The kind that pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating.
Lee didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
For a moment, it was like the words hadn’t reached him yet.
“They caught it early,” you rushed to add, the words tumbling out. “It hasn’t spread too far. The doctors think… they think surgery will take care of it. A hysterectomy.”
That seemed to reach him.
Lee blinked once, then again, like he was forcing himself back into his own body.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that didn’t quite match the storm behind his eyes. “Okay. That’s… that’s good, right? They caught it early.”
You let out a small, broken laugh.
“Lee…”
He reached for you again, slower this time, giving you space to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
His hand closed around yours, rough and warm and grounding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, more certain now. “We’ll do the surgery. We’ll do whatever they say. We’ll get through it.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
“I won’t be able to have children,” you whispered.
The words shattered something in the air.
Lee’s grip on your hand tightened.
“I… I won’t give you a family,” you went on, your voice cracking. “No kids to take over the ranch. No one to carry your name the way your father expects. The way you deserve.”
He shook his head immediately.
“I don’t care.”
You stared at him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he said, firm now, no hesitation. “I mean it.”
“Lee, this ranch… your whole life is about-”
“My life is you.”
The words cut through everything else.
You went still.
He shifted closer, his other hand coming up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I love this ranch,” he said, his voice steady, grounded. “You know I do. But it ain’t worth a damn thing if you’re not here with me.”
Your breath hitched.
“I’d rather have you,” he continued, softer now, his thumb brushing under your eye, catching your tears. “I’d rather have you and no kids, no legacy, none of it… than lose you over something that ain’t even here yet.”
“I wanted to give you that,” you whispered. “I wanted to give you everything.”
“You already did.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a moment like he was drawing strength from you.
“You gave me a life,” he said. “Since we were kids, it’s always been you. I never wanted anything else.”
You shook your head weakly. “You didn’t sign up for this, Lee.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, something fierce settling into his expression.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
You frowned, tears still falling.
“The first day I saw you,” he answered simply. “When I asked you to marry me. When I stood there and promised you I was in it for life. Sickness and health. All of it.”
Your chest tightened.
“That wasn’t just words to me,” he added. “That was the truth.”
You let out a shaky breath, your hand coming up to grip his shirt like you needed something solid to hold onto.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
“I know,” he said.
His arms came around you then, strong and unyielding, pulling you into him. This time, you didn’t resist. You pressed your face into his chest, letting yourself break against him.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair. “We’ll face it together.”
You clung to him tighter.
“And the ranch?” you asked quietly.
He let out a breath.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Same way we always do. You and me.”
A small, fragile piece of calm settled inside you.
Because that had always been true.
You and Lee.
Side by side.
Unstoppable, just like John believed.
Not because everything was easy.
But because no matter what came, you chose each other first.
————————
The surgery had gone as well as anyone could have hoped.
For a while, it even felt like life had settled back into something recognizable.
The doctors said the same thing at every checkup. Clear. No signs. You’re doing well.
Lee held onto those words like they were something solid, something he could build a future on. And you let him. You smiled when the doctors smiled, squeezed his hand when they gave you good news, and walked out of those rooms like maybe you had beaten something that didn’t get beaten.
You went back to the ranch. Back to the rhythm of things.
You still handled the business side when you could, papers spread out across the table, your handwriting steady even when your body wasn’t. Lee would come in smelling like sun and leather, leaning over your shoulder to look at things he didn’t fully understand, just because it mattered to you.
Sometimes he’d press a kiss to your temple and say, “Looks complicated.”
And you’d smile, leaning into him. “That’s why you have me.”
“Yeah,” he’d murmur. “Got real lucky there.”
Those were good days.
They felt almost normal.
Until they weren’t.
It started small again. The same quiet signs. The same things you tried to ignore until you couldn’t.
This time, the doctor didn’t smile.
This time, the word came back heavier.
It’s back.
And this time, it wasn’t something you could outrun.
You didn’t tell many people.
You didn’t want to.
Lee knew, of course. He had been there, sitting beside you, his hand wrapped around yours so tight it almost hurt. He didn’t say much then either. Just nodded, asked what needed to be done, and held onto you like if he didn’t, you might slip away right there in that sterile room.
You chose to keep it quiet.
Because that was who you were.
Because you didn’t want to become something people whispered about.
Because you wanted whatever time you had left to still feel like yours.
When Kayce came back to the ranch, it was like something long held apart finally eased.
He had Tate with him, the boy’s laughter echoing across the yard as he ran ahead, small boots kicking up dust.
Lee saw them first.
For a second, he just stood there.
Then Kayce stopped too.
There had been distance between them. Years of it. Not from anger on Lee’s part, never that. Lee had always been steady, the kind of man who didn’t chase after someone who asked for space, but never closed the door either.
Kayce had been the one to pull away.
But when their eyes met, none of that seemed to matter.
Lee walked forward first.
Kayce met him halfway.
And then they were hugging like no time had passed at all, clapping each other on the back, shoulders knocking together in that quiet, familiar way.
“About time,” Lee muttered.
Kayce huffed a small laugh. “Yeah.”
It was simple.
That was all it needed to be.
You watched it from the porch.
Wrapped in a blanket despite the warmth of the sun, your body thinner now, your face pale where it used to glow. Your hair was gone, but there was still something strong in the way you held yourself, something unbroken.
The sunlight touched your face and for a moment, you just closed your eyes and let it.
You wished Beth were here.
“Hey!”
Tate’s voice cut through the air, bright and excited.
You opened your eyes just in time to see him waving at you with both arms.
That caught their attention.
Kayce turned first.
Then Lee.
The moment Lee saw you standing there, something in his expression softened instantly. That same look he had always given you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Kayce’s brow furrowed.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing between you and Lee. “Monica said she was better.”
Lee didn’t answer right away.
He just shook his head, a small, sad smile pulling at his mouth.
“She’s real sick,” he said quietly. “But she’ll get through it.”
Kayce stilled.
“I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t want people knowing,” Lee replied. “You know her.”
Kayce did.
He looked back at you, and something in his chest tightened in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
You weren’t supposed to look like that.
Not you.
Lee was already moving, jogging toward the porch when he saw you take your first careful step down.
“Hey, easy,” he called, his voice gentler now.
You smiled at him, small and soft.
“I’m okay.”
But he was already there anyway.
Always there.
Behind them, Jaime stepped closer to Kayce, giving his shoulder a quiet pat.
Kayce didn’t take his eyes off you.
It hit him then, sharp and sudden, the weight of what Lee hadn’t said.
You reached the bottom of the steps just as Lee steadied you.
Kayce walked over, slower now.
When you hugged him, it was gentle, your arms lighter than he remembered, but the warmth was still there.
“Hey,” you said softly.
“Hey,” he answered, his voice rough.
For a moment, he was a kid again, standing in front of you with scraped knees, waiting for you to tell him it was going to be okay.
“Boys are going fishing,” you said, glancing between them, a hint of your old brightness slipping through. “Sounds nice.”
“You should come,” Tate said immediately, looking up at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Your smile softened.
“Oh, sweetheart…” you murmured. “I think my riding days are over. But I hope you have fun.”
“They ain’t over.”
Lee’s voice was firm.
You looked at him.
“They’re just on pause,” he added, already turning toward the horses. “We’ll ride the same one. I’ll hold you.”
“Lee-”
But he was already moving.
You sighed, the effort of it showing.
Jaime stepped closer, offering a small, careful smile. “Fresh air might be good.”
You glanced at him, then back at Lee adjusting the saddle like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“…okay,” you said quietly.
The ride was slower for you.
But somehow, it felt like years folded in on themselves the moment you settled against Lee.
His arm wrapped securely around you, his hand resting over your stomach, your fingers lacing over his without thinking. You leaned back into him, your eyes drifting closed almost immediately.
You were tired.
So tired.
But his warmth grounded you.
His presence always had.
His nose brushed against your ear, pressing soft kisses there every so often, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Been a while,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said. “Too long.”
You smiled faintly.
“Remember when we used to race?” you asked.
He huffed a quiet laugh against your skin. “You always cheated.”
“I did not.”
“You cut across the fence line every time.”
“It was strategic,” you corrected, your voice soft with memory.
Up ahead, Kayce and Jaime were doing exactly that now, pushing their horses faster, Tate’s laughter ringing out as he clung on.
You and Lee followed at your own pace.
Slower.
Softer.
You tilted your head back slightly, feeling the scratch of his beard against your skin.
You liked that.
“I am slowing you down,” you said after a moment. “You should’ve left me at home. You could’ve kept up.”
“That’s nonsense,” he replied immediately.
His grip on you tightened just a little.
“Everything’s better with you,” he said simply.
The words settled deep.
At the fishing spot, the world felt wide and quiet.
You lay back in the grass, the blanket tucked around you as the breeze moved gently over your skin. The sky stretched endless above you, blue and soft and uncaring in the most beautiful way.
For a moment, it felt like peace.
Lee came over after a while, lowering himself beside you with a quiet groan.
“Thought you were fishing,” you murmured.
“Caught one,” he said. “I’m done for the day.”
You smiled.
He sounded like an old man.
The thought made something warm flicker in your chest.
Until it didn’t.
Until the realization slipped in, quiet and cruel.
You wouldn’t see him become one.
The smile faded.
Lee noticed.
He always did.
He rolled onto his side, propping himself up so he could see you.
“What?” he asked gently.
You shook your head, but your eyes gave you away.
His hand came up, warm and steady against your cheek.
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he said.
Even now.
Especially now.
Your breath caught.
His kiss was soft, lingering. He tasted faintly of cinnamon, something familiar and grounding and so very him.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” you answered.
As the sun dipped lower, the others cooked the fish over the fire.
You tried to eat.
You really did.
But after a few bites, it became too much.
Kayce noticed.
Of course he did.
You managed half before handing the rest to Lee.
He didn’t say anything.
Just took it and finished it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Night settled around you slowly.
The fire crackled, the sky stretching out in a blanket of stars.
One by one, they lay down to sleep.
Except you and Lee.
You were curled against him, half-asleep on his chest, his arms wrapped around you like they had been your whole life.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you murmured, your voice barely there.
“I won’t be,” he said.
You shifted slightly.
“I mean after.”
His hand moved up, brushing gently through what was left of your hair.
“Hey,” he whispered softly. “Don’t.”
You went quiet.
“It’s been a beautiful day,” he added, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
You didn’t argue.
The next morning felt quieter.
Heavier.
When they returned to the ranch, Lee barely let you walk.
He kept an arm around you, then eventually just lifted you altogether, carrying you up the stairs like you weighed nothing.
Like he refused to let you touch anything that might take more from you.
Kayce watched from below.
Jaime stepped up beside him.
“She’s worse than he says,” Jaime said quietly.
Kayce swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“The doctors…” Jaime hesitated, then exhaled. “They say it’s terminal.”
The word landed hard.
Kayce’s gaze flicked back to the stairs, to where Lee had disappeared with you in his arms.
“He won’t hear it,” Jaime continued. “She wants to refuse more treatment. Doesn’t want to spend what time she has left in hospitals. But Lee…” He shook his head. “He can’t accept it.”
Kayce’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“She didn’t want anyone to,” Jaime replied softly. “You know how she is. Never makes anything about herself.”
Kayce nodded slowly.
“And Lee,” Jaime added, glancing upward, “he won’t tell anyone she’s sick, he can’t even tell himself.”
Silence settled between them.
Upstairs, Lee held you a little tighter than usual.
Like if he didn’t, the years would finally catch up.
Like all those summers when you ran barefoot through the fields, all those winters spent side by side by the fire, all those quiet moments that built a life together…
Like they might slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip.
And he wasn’t ready.
He would never be ready.
——————————————
Lee woke before the sun, the way he always did.
For years, it had been a habit he never questioned. He would come up from sleep slowly, quietly, and lie there for a few extra minutes just to listen.
Your breathing had always been the first thing he reached for.
Soft. Steady. There.
Even before you got sick, he had done it. Some instinct he never put into words. Like if he could hear you, everything was right in the world.
That morning, he listened.
And heard nothing.
At first, his mind didn’t understand it. It tried to fill the silence with something else. The creak of the house. The wind outside. Anything.
But not you.
His eyes opened slowly.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. “You awake?”
No answer.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow, looking down at you.
You looked the same.
Peaceful. Still. Your face softened in a way it hadn’t been in weeks, like whatever had been hurting you had finally let go.
Relief flickered through him for half a second.
Then his hand reached for you.
And everything inside him broke.
You were cold.
Not just cool from the morning air. Not the kind of cold that warmed under his touch.
Cold.
“Hey,” he said again, sharper now, sitting up fully. His hands came to you, one at your shoulder, the other cupping your face. “Hey, no… no, come on…”
He pulled you toward him, gathering you up into his arms like he had done so many times before. Only this time, your body didn’t lean into his.
Your head fell against his chest, and he held it there, his hand cradling the back of your skull, fingers threading through what little hair had grown back.
“No,” he whispered.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t panicked.
It was simple.
Like he could undo it by refusing it.
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re alright. I got you.”
He stayed like that.
Minutes passed. Or hours.
Time didn’t move right anymore.
He talked to you in that low, steady voice he always used, the one meant only for you. Quiet words, small things, the kind you’d share at the end of a long day.
Things you would never hear again.
Outside, the ranch woke up.
John Dutton stood in the yard, checking his watch as the hands got the herd moving.
Lee wasn’t there.
Lee was never late.
John didn’t say anything about it at first. Just watched the dust kick up, the rhythm of the morning carrying on without interruption.
But something in his chest had already settled into place.
He turned toward the house.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
When he opened the door, he already knew what he was going to find.
Still, it didn’t make it easier.
Lee sat upright in the bed, your body in his arms like he hadn’t moved at all. His hands held you carefully, one supporting your head, the other wrapped around you, keeping you close.
His forehead rested against yours.
His lips moved.
John couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to.
He had said things like that once, long ago.
He closed his eyes briefly, then stepped inside.
“Lee,” he said quietly.
Lee didn’t respond.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t move.
John stepped closer, his voice firmer now. “Son.”
Nothing.
Lee just kept talking to you, his voice soft and steady, like you were going to answer him any second.
It took hours before anyone else came.
The coroner arrived when the sun was higher, the light too bright for a day like that.
They spoke gently. Carefully.
Lee didn’t acknowledge them.
It wasn’t until they stepped forward, until they reached for you, that something in him snapped tight.
“No,” he said, his voice low.
“Lee,” John said, stepping in.
“They can’t take her,” Lee murmured, his arms tightening around you. “She’s fine. She’s just… she’s just sleeping.”
John’s hand closed around his shoulder.
“Son.”
Lee shook his head, his gaze fixed on you. “She’ll wake up. She just needs—”
“Lee.”
The word broke.
Something in John’s voice, something final, something unmovable.
Lee went still.
The men stepped forward again.
When they took you from him, his hands lingered as long as they could, fingertips brushing your skin until they couldn’t anymore.
John had to hold him back.
Not because Lee fought.
But because his body leaned forward without him realizing it, like something essential was being pulled out of him.
They carried you out of the house.
Lee followed.
Step by step.
Silent.
They loaded you into the truck.
He didn’t try to get in.
Didn’t say anything.
He just stood there, watching.
Then he sat down on the stairs, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
The truck pulled away.
Dust rose behind it, thick and slow.
He watched until it disappeared.
And then, when the dust finally settled…
That was when it hit.
Not all at once.
But enough.
A sound tore out of him, raw and broken, like something had been ripped open inside his chest.
He bent forward, his hands gripping his head like he could hold himself together.
You were gone.
And worse than that…
You were somewhere without him.
The thought made him feel sick.
The funeral was too quiet.
Too proper.
Lee stood there, hearing none of it.
You would have hated it.
All those people. All those stiff words.
You had always preferred something simpler. Something real.
He kept his eyes on the ground most of the time.
Until he heard it.
A small, sharp inhale.
A sniffle.
He looked up.
Beth Dutton stood a few steps away, her face turned slightly, trying to hide it. But her shoulders gave her away.
Beth didn’t cry in front of people.
Not like that.
Lee moved without thinking.
He stepped over and pulled her into him, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, tucking her against his chest.
She stiffened for half a second.
Then she broke.
Her hands gripped his shirt as she cried, and Lee just held her, steady and silent.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, even though it wasn’t. “I got you.”
When it was over, when the last person had left, Lee stayed.
They had buried you on the ranch.
Where you belonged.
He sat beside your grave as the sun went down, the sky bleeding into dark.
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he said quietly.
The wind moved through the grass.
He stayed there all night.
Didn’t sleep.
Didn’t move much.
Just sat with you, like he had every night when you were alive, making sure you were safe.
Morning came anyway.
It always did.
After that, he didn’t stop working.
He couldn’t.
If he stopped, he might think.
If he thought, he might feel.
And if he felt…
He didn’t know what would happen.
So he worked.
Long days. Longer nights.
He didn’t sleep in the bed.
He couldn’t.
It felt wrong.
Empty in a way that made his chest ache.
Instead, he slept in the chair by the window. The same one he used to sit in when you worked late, watching you with quiet admiration.
Sometimes, his fingers brushed the clothes you left behind.
A shirt. A jacket.
He never held onto them for long.
Just enough to remind himself they were real.
That you were real.
Only weeks later, when the world hadn’t even settled from losing you, everything changed again.
When Lee was shot, it didn’t feel like fear.
It felt like recognition.
Like something familiar stepping out of the shadows.
He didn’t fight it the way he might have once.
Didn’t cling.
Because somewhere deep down, there was only one thought left in him.
Maybe I’ll see her.
When they buried him beside you, it felt right.
Later, when he had to be cremated, they made sure of it.
His ashes returned to the same place.
Side by side.
Like you had always been.
Like you had always promised.
There was a memory, one that lived quietly between the years.
A summer afternoon, long before any of this.
You and Lee lay in the grass, side by side, watching the clouds drift across the Montana sky.
“What do you think happens after?” you asked, your voice light.
Lee shrugged, one arm tucked behind his head. “Don’t know.”
“You ever think about it?”
“Not much.”
You turned your head to look at him, smiling. “I think I’d come back here.”
He glanced at you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe not as people. Maybe as something else.”
“Like what?”
You thought about it, your eyes drifting back to the sky.
“Maybe wild horses,” you said softly. “Running through the fields. Or the breeze. Something free.”
Lee huffed a quiet laugh.
“That so?”
You nudged him lightly. “What about you?”
He looked at you for a long moment.
“I’m a cowboy,” he said simply. “Through and through.”
You smiled.
“But…” he added, his voice quieter now. “Don’t really matter.”
“No?”
He shook his head slightly.
“As long as I end up with you again.”
The wind moved through the grass, soft and endless.
HEIR
the Great War
Night fell restless and sharp.
The wind had not stilled. It rushed low over the ground, worrying at canvas and flame alike as Torrhen and I rode toward the darker edge of the field where Stannis’s camp stood.
His banners were fewer than Renly’s, his fires lower, his men quieter. No music drifted here. No laughter. Only the murmur of sentries and the crackle of torches burning against the black.
Torrhen rode close at my side, Stark grey blending into the night.
“Torrhen, are you truly on Robb’s side? He considers you like a brother, yet your father…I do not know if I trust him completely,” you ask him as you make your way through camp.
“I have no love for my father, your grace. He whelped me on some poor serving girl, who died giving birth to me. He raised me among his household, but he hardly treated me like his true born son. He only started paying attention to me after Domeric died,” he tells you, face hard as he stares forward.
“You think he means to name you his heir?” You question.
“I don’t know, your grace. Mayhaps he will find a new wife and sire a son that way,” he shrugs.
“Domeric was my best friend, when he was sent to ward with his aunt, he took me with him. For a while I was sent to Winterfell, and fell in with Robb and the older boys. Robb never treated me like a bastard, he always invited me to eat at his table, took his lessons with me and Jon, and we played together as equals. I am with Robb, he is the King I chose, I would give my life for his if need be,” Torrhen swears.
“Do you think we can trust your father then?” You ask him.
“You can trust him as long as he thinks he’ll gain something at the end of this. I have told Robb the same,” he tells you.
You nod, silently digesting his words. You don’t speak again until you come across Stannis’s tent.
“You are certain he will listen?” Torrhen asks.
“I must be.”
He nodded once. “I will wait outside his tent.”
We were admitted without trouble this time. Word had gone ahead. Men stepped aside. Some stared at me openly. Others looked away.
The red woman stood near the largest tent, her scarlet robes bright even in darkness. Her eyes followed me with unsettling intensity, but she did not speak.
Inside, Stannis stood over a rough table scattered with maps. Candlelight carved harsh shadows into his face. Beside him stood a lean, weathered knight with honest eyes and a simple surcoat.
Ser Davos Seaworth inclined his head to me. Balerion flies in and sits on the table in front of you. You felt braver when he was near, stronger.
“Helen,” Stannis said.
“Uncle.”
Torrhen remained at the entrance. I stepped fully inside.
Stannis dismissed the other lords with a look. Only Davos stayed.
“You asked for terms,” Stannis said. “Speak them.”
I clasped my hands together to still their trembling.
“Renly and the Reach lords have agreed to bend the knee,” I said. “To me.”
Silence.
Stannis did not move.
“You would be queen,” he said at last.
“I am my father’s only trueborn child,” I answered quietly. “There is no clearer claim.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but he did not interrupt.
“I will…dissolve my marriage to Robb.”
The words scraped my throat raw.
Stannis’s eyes sharpened. “You would cast aside the Stark boy?”
“I love him,” I said, and my voice wavered despite myself. “He is handsome and gallant. He loves me too, has never even risen his voice at me despite what my family has done to his. He held me as I wept, when father died, when the babe I carried passed-when I nearly passed with him.”
Davos shifted faintly, but remained silent.
“He is all I ever dreamt of, uncle. But I was born a princess of the realm before I was ever a wife,” I continued, tears brim your eyes but do not fall. “From Dorne to the Wall, every man, woman, and child is my responsibility. I cannot choose my own happiness over their safety.”
Stannis studied me in long silence.
“You are Queen in the North now,” he said.
“I am,” I admitted. “But I was raised to think beyond it. The realm is bleeding.”
I stepped closer to the table, to him.
“You would be my heir,” I said. “Publicly. Clearly. There would be no confusion.”
His brow shifted, just slightly.
“I would name you Hand of the Queen,” I went on. “You would rule at my side. Storm’s End would be granted to you as its rightful lord. It was unjustly kept from you. As Queen, I would correct that.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“I once advised my father to name you his hand, after Jon Arryn died,” I said softly. “I told him I trusted you. That you were the one of the only men who would never let the realm fall to ruin.”
Something flickered in his eyes then. Old hurt. Old memory.
The candles hissed in the wind that slipped beneath the tent flaps.
“I would keep Shireen close,” I added gently. “She would grow as a princess of the realm. Safe. Loved. Free to marry for love one day.”
At that, something truly softened in him.
“Renly and Margaery Tyrell have wed,” I continued. “They will have children. A Baratheon son to follow after me. The line will remain secure. Clear. Undisputed.”
“And you?” he asked.
“I will have no children.”
The words felt final. Like a door closing.
His gaze pierced me. “Why surrender so much?”
“Because war is not to be trifled with,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “I have seen men die in the mud, Uncle. I have ridden through towns that were nothing but ash and silence. I do not care for crowns. I do not care which god sits in judgment. I only want the people I love to be safe.”
You reach forward for his hand and take it in yours.
“I want you to be safe, uncle. I want you alive and well, I want you close so that you might help me. You are still the same man who held Storms End during the rebellion, the same man who played with me at Dragonstone.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the tent entrance, where the red glow of torches hinted at the priestess outside. He sighs deeply.
“You do not speak against my god,” he observed.
“I do not speak for or against him. I care not for whatever gods people follow, or their religion,” I answered. “I speak only for the living.”
He was quiet a long while.
“Why truly give up your marriage?” he asked again, more softly. “Do you dislike the Stark boy?”
I smiled faintly despite the ache in my chest. “I love him with all my heart.”
“Yet you would set him aside.”
“I would set aside myself,” I corrected. “Not him. I am doing this for the realm, for our people. My happiness cannot come before their lives, it never will. He will not like it, Robb will try to fight me on this, but I am resolute on this, I will not bend.”
“Uncle, please, you must see sense. If you and Renly battle, one of you will surely die. Renly has more men than you. I know you do not seek the crown, you seek only what is right by law. Follow me, let the boys outside live. I love you, Stannis, I know you are righteous, I would keep you close. There is no one else I could trust enough to sit beside me. I would name you protector of the realm. Please, put aside your pride and see reason,” you plead with him.
“My Lannister uncles are lost to me, they have betrayed me and tried to kill me. I am begging you, my Baratheon family is all I have left. Stand with me, stay with me, we are strongest together,” you say sincerely.
Davos cleared his throat gently. You remember Ser Davos, he had spent much time in your uncles service. You had come across him during your visits and you remember his exploits, of how he snuck food and onions into Storms End during the siege. You didnt speak much to him, besides that one time where you had thanked him for his aid, for saving the lives of your beloved uncles.
“If I may, Your Grace,” he said to Stannis.
Stannis did not look at him. “Speak.”
The smuggler’s voice was calm, steady. “Your niece speaks wisely. United, the realm would rally. Divided, we bleed.”
I seized that opening.
“The North and Riverlands would stand with me through Robb,” I said quickly. “The Reach already bends. The Stormlands would follow you. Dorne would not oppose me. Even in the Westerlands, some might turn. I carry Lannister blood as well. The Vale will not stand against me.”
“The Iron Islands?” Stannis asks.
“They will not,” I admitted. “Not while Theon Greyjoy lives. He is a dear friend to myself and Robb, he would never betray us. He proclaimed Robb King just as the other lords did.”
He nodded faintly.
“If you join me,” I said, stepping closer, my voice urgent now, “no one will stand against us. Together we would be unstoppable. We could end this war without a drop of blood.”
The wind pressed hard against the tent.
He looked older in the candlelight. Harder. And yet there was something searching in his gaze.
“You understand little of ambition,” he said, though not cruelly.
“I understand duty,” I answered. “As you do.”
Silence stretched between us.
At last he inclined his head once.
“I will send word in the morning.”
The words struck colder than I expected.
“That is all?” I asked quietly. I had hoped for more. For certainty. For relief.
“I will consider what you have said.”
My shoulders sagged despite my effort to remain composed.
I stepped forward and took his hand again.
“I love you,” I said. “I will not betray you. I am doing what I believe is best for all of us.”
His grip tightened around mine, firm and warm despite the calluses.
“You are Robert’s daughter,” he said. “Too much heart.”
“And too much stubbornness, for ours is the fury,” I replied faintly.
A ghost of something almost like approval crossed his face.
“Go,” he said gently. “Before I change my mind.”
I rose onto my toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He went still, but he did not pull away.
When I turned, I caught Ser Davos’s eyes.
He gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod.
I understood the promise in it. He would press your claim.
Outside, the air felt colder.
Torrhen straightened as I approached. “Well?”
“I told him everything,” I said.
“And?”
“He will decide in the morning.”
Torrhen frowned slightly as we mounted. “The man you describe would never stand against you.”
“The man I knew,” I said softly. “But there is a red priestess whispering in his ear now. She is the only thing that makes me doubt.”
He glanced toward the tent where the faintest red glow pulsed against canvas.
“He has good men beside him,” I added. “Ser Davos.”
Torrhen nodded once. “Good men are far and few between.”
We rode back toward Renly’s brighter camp.
“The northerners should prepare for retreat if he chooses battle,” Torrhen said quietly. “We cannot be caught between brothers.”
I bit my lip.
“I cannot leave Renly to fight alone either.”
He said nothing to that. Though he looked apologetic.
The wind swept across the field once more, cold and restless.
“I pray,” I whispered, more to the night than to Torrhen, “that it will not come to that.”

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REUNION
Bloodbound
“…did you hear what they said earlier? That the greatest thing a Targaryen could do is finish on his wife’s…breasts?” You giggle. Valarr scoffs as you laugh.
“I shall finish wherever I like,” he shakes his head.
“Well, my love, if we are to stop having children, you might have to do as the Fossoway said,” you tease, quietly whispering in his ear. The topic made the tips of your ears turn red.
“I thought that’s what moon tea was for,” he hums as he turns his head to you. You smile softly and press a kiss to his cheek.
“You will have to ask the maester for it then, I shall die of embarrassment if I have to,” you warn him.
“A small sacrifice,” he humours as he turns his head to catch your lips.
“I shall ask them to brew some-“
“Ser Duncan, help! He’s hurting her!”
The cry came from the entrance, shrill with panic. A small boy stood there, chest heaving, eyes wild.
Ser Duncan rose at once, his bench scraping hard against the ground. “Where?”
“Aerion,” the boy choked. “He’s hurting her!”
Duncan did not wait for more. He was already running, Raymun Fossoway close behind him.
Rhaella moved just as quickly, but this time she caught the boy before he could flee again. Her hands closed around his shoulders, firm but trembling.
“Aegon.”
He froze.
Up close, the change struck her harder. His silver hair was gone, shaved clean from his head, leaving him looking smaller, younger, as if he had tried to make himself disappear.
For a heartbeat she could only stare as she knelt down to his level. Then she pulled him into her, cradling his little head in her hands.
“You were gone,” she said, her voice breaking despite herself. “Do you know how we searched for you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aegon cried, clinging to her. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I didn’t-”
She held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head. “You did scare me,” she whispered. “I thought-“
She did not finish.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer now.
“Where is Daeron?” You ask after your eldest brother.
“I don’t know, we got…separated,” Aegon answers, half a lie considering he ran away from Daeron and his good sister.
Valarr stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the boy. “Where is Aerion?”
Aegon pulled back just enough to point, his breathing still uneven. “By the puppets.”
That was all they needed.
Rhaella took Aegon’s hand and did not let go as they ran.
They arrived too late to stop the first blows.
The clearing was already in ruin. The puppet stage lay overturned, its bright cloth trampled into the dirt. Painted dragons and knights were scattered everywhere, their strings tangled and broken.
Aerion was stood before it all, the destruction of his creation.
Blood streaked his face, his lip split, one cheek already swelling dark. Ser Duncan was no longer striking him, but only because half a dozen Targaryen knights had dragged him back and forced him down. He struggled against them still, fury blazing, as they pinned his arms.
Aerion, for his part, did not look cowed. Rhaella wanted to run to him, to cradle his face and care for his wounds like she did when the were young, but she felt like her feet were stuck to the ground beneath her. Her hand grips Aegon’s shoulder, keeping him behind her as if she could protect him…protect him from Aerion? He had never frightened her before tonight, before this. Aerion looked enraged.
Valarr stepped forward at once. “Enough.”
The command carried cleanly.
The knights obeyed without hesitation, easing their grip on Duncan, though they did not fully release him.
Rhaella barely saw it.
Her attention had already shifted.
A girl knelt in the dirt beside the wreckage of her puppets, sobbing. Her hands were held close to her chest, shaking violently.
Rhaella moved to her immediately.
“Let me see,” she said, already kneeling.
The girl hesitated, then slowly lowered her hands.
Rhaella inhaled sharply.
The fingers were crushed, bent wrong, some split open. Blood ran freely, staining the girl’s sleeves.
Without a word, Rhaella seized the fabric of her gown and tore it, the sound loud in the tense quiet. She worked quickly, wrapping the cloth tight around the worst of the wounds, fashioning a crude tourniquet to slow the bleeding.
“I’m sorry,” the girl kept saying through her tears. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t…”
Rhaella did not hush her, did not offer comfort she could not yet give.
“A maester will tend to you,” she said instead, her voice steady. “Hold still.”
Only then did she notice it.
Behind the girl, half-buried in the dirt, lay a painted dragon puppet, its head snapped clean from its body.
Slain.
Understanding came swiftly, cold and unwelcome.
Aerion’s pride had been wounded.
And this was the result. Rhaella, too, mourned the dragons and what could have been, but not like Aerion. Aerion liked to say he was a dragon in human form, and tonight he had taken it too far.
Behind her, voices rose again.
“He struck me,” Aerion was saying, his tone sharp despite the blood, his finger was pointed angrily at Aegon. “Your knight laid hands on me.”
Rhaella rose, turning just in time to see Valarr close the distance between them.
Valarr did not argue.
He caught Aerion by the front of his tunic and hauled him upright with ease.
“You are fortunate,” Valarr said quietly, “that this is all he did.”
For a moment, the two princes stared at one another.
Then Valarr shoved him back.
Aerion stumbled but did not fall this time.
Aegon pressed closer to Rhaella, half-hidden behind her. She shifted instinctively, placing herself between him and the scene, one hand reaching back to keep him close.
More guards were arriving now, white cloaks among them.
The Kingsguard.
Valarr turned to them, his authority unquestioned.
“Send for my father,” he said. “Prince Baelor is to be told at once.”
The white cloaks inclined their heads.
Valarr’s gaze flicked past them, noting the growing number of men, the shifting tension.
Then something in his expression changed, sharpening.
“My father is not alone,” he said. “Prince Maekar has returned.”
The realization settled quickly.
“Send for him as well,” Valarr ordered. “Both are to hear this. Have them gather and wait for us.”
The Kingsguard moved without delay.
“And he,” Valarr added, gesturing toward Aerion, “will be brought before them.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Rhaella turned back to Aegon then.
He was watching everything with wide, frightened eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to leave. I just-“
She pulled him into her once more, more gently this time, her hand smoothing over his shorn hair.
“I missed you,” she said softly.
He clutched at her. “I missed you too.”
She closed her eyes briefly, holding him there, grounding herself in the simple fact that he was safe.
Around them, the clearing was slowly coming back to order, but the damage remained. The broken puppets. The blood in the dirt. The girl still weeping quietly as she held her bandaged hands.
Rhaella opened her eyes and looked once more at Aerion.
She had never seen him like this.
And she did not think she would forget it.
Valarr returned to her side, his expression composed once more, though the tension lingered beneath it.
“We should go,” he said.
Rhaella nodded.
She kept hold of Aegon’s hand as they turned away, following Valarr back toward the castle, leaving the wreckage and the consequences behind them.
i looveee your got fics!
also, do you intend to write more the last of us stuff as well?
Thank you!
Probably not, but never say never! If a really good request comes along or I come up with something, then I will definitely write it!
The 3 times you almost caught Egg
Bloodbound
1.
The moon hung bright over the lists. The fires burning all around turned polished helms to mirrors and banners into living flame. The crowd roared as another lance shattered, splinters scattering like rain across the tilt.
Egg stood at the front beside Ser Duncan the Tall, close enough to smell the churned earth and horse sweat. He should have been thrilled. This was everything he had dreamed of when he first slipped away-knights, glory, the songs made real.
But today felt different.
“Who is that?” Duncan asks his squire, as a Targaryen prince arrives and demands his shield.
“Prince Valarr…Baelor’s son. He is second in line to the throne and Rhaella will be his Queen.”
Aegon winces slightly, at the fact he referred to his sister so casually. He wonders if Duncan will have noticed, but he does not.
Valarr Targaryen rode out beneath a banner of black and red, the three-headed dragon rippling in the wind. He sat his horse as if born to the saddle, calm and certain, his armor gleaming like pale fire.
And above, on the raised chaise draped in silks, sat his family. Egg did not look, too entranced with the knights and squires before him. He takes care to note the squires, for he will serve Ser Duncan soon enough.
Another thunder of hooves. Valarr lowered his lance and struck true, his opponent toppling hard into the dust. The crowd erupted. Valarr had won, and Aegon cheered loudly for him-his favourite cousin.
Egg’s eyes finally drift up once Valarr is done and accomplished. He sees his family.
His father, stern and still as carved stone. His brother Aerion, sharp-eyed and smiling in that way that never meant kindness.
And you. His dear sister, Rhaella.
Egg’s breath caught.
You sat beside them, sunlight caught in your pale hair, your expression composed but softer than the men around you. Watching. Always watching. He knew that look, you were searching the lists, the crowd, the edges of the world.
Searching for him.
Egg’s hand moved without thinking, pulling his hood up. He lowered his eyes, shrinking into himself.
“Dunk,” he said quietly.
But Dunk was still watching the field. “The Prince rides well. See the way he-“
“Dunk,” Egg said again, sharper now.
The big knight glanced down. “What is it?”
Egg hesitated. For days he had felt nothing but excitement, freedom tasted too sweet for regret. He had left behind the Red Keep, the lessons, the expectations, his annoying brothers… all of it.
But now-
Now he saw you.
And suddenly he understood. He had not thought of you before, he reasoned that you would be too busy with your own children, but it was a weak excuse at best. Something he could not admit until now.
Your hair is like your father’s, contrasting with uncle Baelor. Egg touches his head, at his shaven head. He had shaved his head to shed away the Targaryen name, and only now did it occur to him he shaved you away too. You, who shared the same look as him. It was the hair he shared with Aemon and his father and little Dyanna.
“She’ll be worried sick,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“Who?” Dunk asked.
Egg swallowed. “No one.”
Egg didn’t look up.
“Can we go?” he asked.
Dunk blinked. “Go? The night has just begun.”
“Please,” Egg said, and there was something in his voice, small, tight, that made Dunk study him more closely.
After a moment, the knight sighed. “Aye. If you’ve had your fill.”
Egg nodded quickly, already turning away.
But before they left, he risked one last glance upward.
You were still watching the lists.
Still searching.
And Egg, hidden beneath his hood, felt something new settle heavy in his chest.
Guilt.
2.
The noise of the tourney faded into distant echoes as Dunk and Egg climbed the grassy hill overlooking the grounds. The wind was softer here, the world quieter.
Dunk stretched out on the grass with a grunt. “Strange squire I’ve got. Begs to leave a tourney early.”
Egg sat beside him, knees drawn up. “It’s too loud.”
Dunk snorted.
Egg didn’t answer.
For a while, they sat in silence. Then they heard voices.
From the other side of the hill.
Dunk shifted. “We should go.”
“Wait,” Egg whispered urgently, grabbing his sleeve.
He knew that voice.
Yours.
Soft, steady…unmistakable.
Egg froze, hardly daring to breathe.
“…I saw the maester before we left,” you were saying.
Valarr answered, his tone warm in a way Egg had never heard from a prince before. “My love, I am quite happy as we are…”
If Dunk and Egg wanted to leave now, it was too late. They couldn’t leave without getting caught and they had stayed too long now to be considered polite.
“We spent many years thinking and trying for children. It’s time for us to direct our attentions elsewhere. My father says he will want me to start taking on more duties as his heir. Let us focus now on being heirs to the throne, on raising the children, on being good and strong rulers,” Egg can hear Valarr say earnestly.
A pause. Grass rustled softly.
“I need for nothing that another child would fulfil for me,” Valarr said. “That has not changed.”
Egg leaned closer to the ground, as if it might carry your words more clearly.
Egg blinked.
He did not understand all of it, not fully, but he understood enough to know this was not how such things were usually spoken of. Not between princes and princesses. He always liked being with you and Valarr, it was always so easy and calm, and Valarr was kind.
“…have I told you the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?”
Egg remembers the story, you had told it to him and your sisters the last time they visited Dragonstone. He thought the story was too girly, he much preferred the stories of knights and dragons and glory. But he listened to it anyway. He appreciates it more now. He closes his eyes as he listens, and he can almost pretend he’s in bed listening to you again.
A long silence followed. He can hear you and Valarr laugh and kiss. That is how he always imagines you both. Happy and kissing.
Then he hears footsteps, receding.
Egg stayed still until even the sound of your voices was gone.
Dunk let out a breath. “Well,” he said. “They sounded lovely.”
“What were they saying? Did you hear?” Egg asks Ser Duncan.
“I think they agreed not to have anymore children. The boy seemed nice about it, said that he would rather his wife than another child. Sounds right to me,” Duncan shrugs. Egg thinks for a moment. No more children. He remembers how Aemon feared the last time you were with child, you did not say anything nor did Aemon ever admit it to you-but Aemon told him he was afraid quietly one night. Mayhaps it was best, than his sister would surely be well and Aemon wouldnt have to worry anymore.
“Did she agree?” Egg asks, his voice higher than it usually was.
“Aye, she did. Sounded more like she wanted children and the man did not. Is that strange? I thought highborn men would want more heirs. Did they sound highborn to you?” Duncan asks as he wipes some grass off his chest.
Egg sat up quickly. “Do you know who that was?”
Dunk shrugged. “Some lord and lady?”
Egg shook his head, a strange urgency in him now. “That was Prince Valarr. And… and the princess.”
Dunk raised a brow. “Was it now?”
“They’re…” Egg stopped, searching for words. “They’re perfect.”
Dunk chuckled. “They sound so.”
“Yes,” Egg insisted. “They’ll be the greatest king and queen Westeros has ever had. You’ll see. Prince Valarr loves her more than honour and glory. He’s brave and just, and she-” He faltered, then continued more softly, “-she’s kind. And beautiful! And clever.”
Dunk studied him. “How do you know so much about them?”
Egg looked away quickly. “I don’t. I just… I’m interested in Targaryen history.”
Dunk snorted again. “History, is it?”
Egg said nothing.
But in his mind, he could still hear your voice on the wind.
And for the second time since he ran away, he wondered if leaving had been a mistake.
3.
The market bustled with life, bright fabrics, clattering pots, the scent of roasted meat and sweet cakes drifting through the air.
Dunk haggled loudly with a merchant over boots.
Egg barely listened.
Then-A laugh.
Light. Familiar.
His head snapped up.
You.
Egg’s heart leapt into his throat.
“Ser Duncan,” he hissed, tugging at his sleeve. “Hide.”
“What? Why?”
But Egg was already moving.
You and Valarr walked through the market, unguarded for the moment. Valarr paused to speak with Lord Ashford, leaving you to wander among the stalls.
Egg darted beneath a wooden table, pulling his cloak tight around him. The small knife Dunk had given him pressed cold against his side.
From here, he could see only feet and shadows.
But he knew where you were. He did not see a guard, and so he resolved to stand guard over you-or well, beneath you.
You were so close. Close enough he could come out and apologize for frightening you. But he did not. Instead, he stayed very quiet and watched your feet.
He stayed perfectly still, watching.
Listening.
A new voice joined yours-old, rasping.
The fortune teller.
The same one who had spoken to him earlier.
Egg strained to hear.
“…two roads…” the woman murmured.
Your voice, curious. “What do you mean?”
“…split path… choice yet to come…”
The words were muffled, broken by the wood above him and the noise of the market. Egg frowned, trying to piece them together.
Then, boots.
Familiar ones.
Valarr’s.
They stopped near you. He hears Valarr say something and the old lady finally leaves. Aegon decides then he does not like fortune tellers.
Egg’s grip on the knife loosened. Slowly, he let it fall back beneath his cloak.
Valarr was here and you were safe.
After a moment, your footsteps moved away together, fading into the crowd.
Egg waited.
Then crawled out from beneath the table, brushing dirt from his clothes.
He looked after you.
You and Valarr walked side by side, close but not touching, as if the space between you was something chosen, not forced. He saw you reach for Valarr’s hand, and you two continued on hand in hand.
Perfect, he thought again.
Truly perfect.
“Where’d you get to?” Dunk’s voice boomed behind him.
Egg jumped.
“Nowhere,” he said quickly.
Dunk eyed him suspiciously. “Nowhere, eh?”
Egg nodded, pulling his hood lower.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep that knife hidden? Do you want a clout in the ear, boy?”
3+1 times they cried wolf
Bloodbound
1.
The first time it happened, it was morning, and the light spilling through the high windows painted the table in pale gold. Rhaella sat between her younger siblings, breaking her fast with soft bread and honey, listening to their chatter rise and fall like birdsong.
Daella was speaking over Rhae, who was speaking over Aegon, and none of them seemed to notice.
Rhaella smiled faintly, one hand resting in her lap, the other lifting a piece of bread when suddenly-
A sharp, insistent kick.
She sucked in a breath.
Her hand flew to her belly, fingers splaying over the taut curve of it as she stilled.
The room froze with her.
Daella’s eyes went wide. “Rhaella?”
Another small shift beneath her palm, not pain, but strong enough to steal her breath for a moment.
Rhae shrieked first.
“She’s having the baby!”
Aegon scrambled from his seat so quickly his chair toppled backward with a crack against the stone. “I’m getting Father!”
“No, wait-“ Rhaella started, but it was too late.
They fled like startled deer, their voices echoing down the hall in rising panic.
Only Aemon remained.
He had dropped his bread. It lay forgotten beside his plate as he hurried to her, his young face pale with worry.
“Is it coming?” he asked, breathless. “Is the baby coming now?”
Rhaella exhaled slowly, forcing a calm she did not entirely feel, though not for the reasons he feared. She reached for him, taking his small hand and placing it gently against her belly. Aemon seemed to fear for her the most of all her siblings. He was remembering their mother, surely, he was so young back then but remembers being afraid.
“No,” she said softly. “The babe is only kicking. Feel?”
Aemon held very still. You place a hand on his shoulder and gently squeeze it.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, there it was again.
A small, firm thump beneath his palm.
His eyes widened, not in fear this time, but wonder. “Oh.”
Rhaella smiled, softer now. “You see? Not so frightening.”
By the time his shoulders had relaxed and you assured him you were fine, footsteps thundered in the corridor.
Maekar burst into the room first, robes hastily thrown over his shoulders, Valarr close behind him, both of them wearing identical expressions of alarm.
“What is it?” their father demanded. “Is it time?”
Valarr’s gaze had already found her, sharp and searching. “Rhaella-”
She did not let them finish.
“No,” she said, far more firmly than before. “It is not.”
A pause.
A long one.
Then, slowly, the tension bled from the room.
Valarr exhaled under his breath. Their father pinched the bridge of his nose.
From the doorway, Daella whispered, “Oh.”
Rhaella leaned back in her chair, one hand still resting over the place where the babe had last moved.
“I fear,” she said dryly, “this child will arrive to no one believing it.”
2.
The second time of note, she was alone at first.
Or near enough.
The corridors were cool, the stone beneath her slippers smooth with age. Rhaella walked slowly, one hand braced at the small of her back, the other resting over her belly as she practiced the breathing the maester had taught her.
In. Out. Slow.
In. Out. Sl-
A wave of nausea struck without warning.
She stopped mid-step, her breath hitching as she turned and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. One hand pressed to the stone, the other tightening over her stomach.
“Princess!”
The cry came sharp and immediate.
Rhaella opened her eyes just in time to see a maid drop her basket, apples spilling across the floor as she rushed forward.
“Is it time? Shall I fetch the maester?”
“No,” Rhaella said, though her voice came thinner than she would have liked. She drew in another breath, steadying herself. “I only need a moment to catch my breath.”
But footsteps were already approaching.
Heavy. Purposeful.
Prince Baelor appeared at the end of the corridor, Valarr’s father drawn by the commotion. His gaze took in the scene at once-the maid, the scattered fruit, Rhaella pressed to the wall with her hand over her belly-and his expression sharpened.
“Rhaella,” he said, striding toward her. “Is the babe coming?” He took her hand in his own and placed a steadying arm in front of her
She nearly laughed.
Nearly.
“No,” she said instead, pushing herself upright before anyone could fuss over her further. “It is not.”
The maid hovered uncertainly. Baelor studied her face, as though weighing whether she spoke truth.
Rhaella lifted her chin, dignity threading through her exhaustion.
“I am quite certain I would know.”
Another pause.
Then Baelor inclined his head. “As you say.” He moves to let go of your hand, but guilt at your annoyance seeps in and you grab his hand back.
“Might you walk me to the gardens, uncle? I am in need of some fresh air,” you ask. Baelor smiles softly and nods.
“I am in some need as well, let us go together,” he aheees.
The maid began gathering her apples again, though she kept glancing up as if expecting Rhaella to collapse at any moment.
Rhaella resumed her walk, slower now.
In. Out.
She did not miss the way people watched her as she passed.
3.
The third time of note, it was unbearable.
Dinner stretched long beneath the vaulted ceilings, the entire family gathered, voices weaving together in a low hum of conversation. Candles flickered, casting gold over silver plates and dark wine.
Rhaella had barely touched her food. Valarr could sense your nerves, he placed a hand over yours and gave a gentle squeeze. He whispered quiet promises that this would all pass, and you’d be left alone together again soon.
The weight of the day pressed heavily on her, her back aching, her patience worn thin as thread.
She shifted slightly in her seat and winced.
It was small. Brief. Barely more than discomfort.
It might as well have been a scream.
Forks and knives clattered to the table.
“Maester!” someone called immediately. You think it was your grandmother, the queen.
“Clear space!”
“Bring water!”
Rhaella closed her eyes.
For one long, perilous moment, she considered simply letting them believe it.
Instead, she placed both hands flat upon the table and said, with remarkable control, “Stop.”
The word cut cleanly through the chaos.
Silence followed.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked around at them all, at their concern, their alarm, their readiness to leap into action at the slightest sign. She knew she should be grateful to have such an attentive family, but all she could feel now was her thinning patience.
“It is not time,” she said, each word deliberate.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
She pushed her chair back.
“I am merely uncomfortable,” she added, rising carefully to her feet. “Which, I assure you, is a constant state of which I am in.”
A faint ripple of embarrassed murmurs followed.
Rhaella did not wait for them.
“I will retire early,” she said, already turning away. Valarr stands with her, his dinner forgotten, as he takes your hand in his own. He rubs your back as you make your way to the door. “Pray do not summon the entire castle on my account again!”
+1.
The fourth time, it was quiet.
The gardens were soft with afternoon light, the air warm and gentle. Rhaella sat among her sisters, who wove small flowers into her hair with careful hands, their laughter light and untroubled.
For a while, she forgot the weight she carried.
Forgot the watching eyes.
Forgot the waiting.
Daella tucked a blossom just above her ear. “There,” she said proudly.
Rhae leaned back to admire their work. “You look like a storybook queen.”
Rhaella smiled.
And then-
She stilled.
This time, the sensation was different.
Not sharp. Not fleeting.
Deep.
A tightening that began low and spread, stealing her breath not with surprise, but with certainty.
Her hand moved to her belly.
“Rhaella?” Daella said, quieter now.
Rhaella did not answer at once.
She exhaled slowly, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her gown.
“Yes,” she said at last, and there was something new in her voice. Something steady.
“This time-“
She did not finish.
Her sisters had already leapt to their feet.
“She’s having the baby, for real this time!”
They ran, just as they had before-voices bright with urgency, echoing through the gardens.
But this time, Rhaella did not call them back.
Footsteps approached-but not in panic.
Valarr.
He had been nearby, close enough to see her stillness, to understand it for what it was. He reached her quickly, dropping to one knee beside her, his hand finding hers without hesitation.
“Rhaella,” he said, softer than she had ever heard him.
She looked at him and nodded.
Another wave came, stronger now.
He helped her to her feet at once, steady and sure, his arm firm around her as they began to move toward the doors.
“You’re certain?” he asked, though his voice carried hope more than doubt.
Rhaella let out a breath that trembled at the edges. “Very.”
They had only just reached the threshold when she felt it.
A sudden warmth.
A slow, unmistakable trickle.
She froze.
Valarr stopped with her. “What is it?”
Rhaella looked down, then back up at him, something like disbelief flickering across her face.
“My water,” she said faintly. “I think—”
Another small rush confirmed it. She stepped aside to look down at the little puddle at her feet.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Valarr laughed.
In pure, unguarded joy.
“It is time,” he said, and before she could protest or temper him, he leaned forward and kissed her, quick and bright and full of relief.
Rhaella let out something that was almost a laugh herself.
“Now,” she said, gripping his hand as another tightening began, stronger than all the rest, “you may fetch the maester and call the entire castle.”
“I’m sure Daella and Rhae are doing perfectly fine on their own,” he says as he keeps you moving. You continue your breathing, slow and steady as you lean your wait on him.
“Val, if anything happens during the birth, you must choose the babe-“
“Hush, my love, we mustn’t speak of this now,” he says gently as you enter the castle.
“Val, there is no other-“
“I will choose you, Rhaella. There is no other choice,” he says sternly. He stops and looks at you.
“No other choice. We will survive the loss of another babe. I will not survive yours. It is selfish, I am a selfish man, but so be it. I will be a selfish man with you,” he shakes his head.
You don’t know what to say, your eyebrows furrow in fear.
“All will be well, my love, I can feel it. You will be well and we shall have a child at the end of this. Have no fear, I will ensure it so,” he promises, leaning in to press a deep kiss to your lips.
“Ok,” you murmur as you press a hand to his cheek.
“Rhaella!” Your father and Baelor come running, without a care in the world for those they leave in the dust. If only they ran in the right direction or turned their heads. They push through the doors and end up outside. You wonder if they had ever run like this when they were boys.
“Here comes the cavalry,” Valarr whispers into your ear as you continue walking.
“A blinded cavalry,” you laugh.
The others finally catch up. Daella goes to the door and yells for father, screaming he’s gone the wrong way.
“Is it really time this time?” Aemon asks as he takes your other side.
“It is, sweet boy. Let’s have a baby, shall we?”
SWOLLEN
BLOODBOUND
Dragonstone had never felt so full.
Rhaella could hear it even here, behind a closed door. Footsteps in the corridors, voices rising and falling, laughter that did not belong to the quiet life she had made within these walls. The castle had always felt like a refuge to her, windswept and distant, a place where the world narrowed to sea and stone and sky.
Now it seemed the world had come to her instead.
They meant well. She knew they did. Family from King’s Landing, from Summerhall, retainers and ladies and knights, all gathering for the birth. For her. For the child.
Still, it was a relief to slip away. Though, she could never truly get away. Aemon was sat with her, quietly reading out loud the histories from Aegon’s conquest. His book was perched on your lap as he laid across the furs on his stomach, his mouth right by your belly so the baby could hear.
Rhaella herself sat near the fireplace in her solar, the fire bright and hot, an embroidery hoop resting against the swell of her belly. She sat on the floor. She had bent over to pick something up and, to her embarrassment, could not get up again. That was when Aemon found her, brought the embroidery from the table when she asked, and brought his own book as well. The gown she worked on was small, delicate, absurdly so compared to the vastness of her now. The child shifted beneath her skin, slow and heavy, and she paused, one hand bracing the underside of her stomach with a quiet breath.
“Does it hurt sister?” Aemon asks, pausing his reading as he sits up quickly, ready to run for his father or the maester. Maekar had told his younger children that the babe was due any minute, so now all 4 of her youngest siblings cried wolf whenever she touched her stomach.
“The baby is not coming, Aemon, worry not,” you assure him as the baby settles. You reach for Aemon’s hand and press it against the base of your belly, where he gasps when he feels tiny feet against his hand.
“The baby likes the sound of your voice,” you tell your little brother, his face young with wonder. “Continue reading, I quite like this story as well,” you tell him as you continue your embroidery.
The door opened softly behind her.
She smiled without turning. “I was wondering who would find us first.”
Maekar’s boots were quieter than most, but she would have known the weight of his presence anywhere.
“Aemon, my boy, why don’t you go find Aegon? Last I saw, the girls had trapped him into playing dolls with them. He might need some rescuing,” your father suggests. You nod so Aemon drops his book and runs out the door.
Your father looks down at you, a tender look on his face.
“And here I thought you had been misplaced,” he said.
Rhaella glanced over her shoulder, amusement in her violet eyes. “Not misplaced. Hiding.”
“Hiding?” he repeated.
“From everyone,” she said, setting the embroidery aside. “From the ladies who keep fussing, from the maester who tells me the same warnings each morning, and most of all from Grandfather-before he decides he must lay a hand on my belly again and declare what sort of child I carry.”
A faint flicker of something crossed his face, not quite a smile but close enough. “He does like to be certain.”
“He has been certain three times already,” she said. “I fear a fourth inspection may change nothing.”
Maekar stepped closer then, his gaze already drawn downward. He did not speak at first. He simply looked.
Rhaella shifted slightly under it, though not uncomfortably. “I know,” she said lightly. “I am enormous.”
“You are,” he agreed, though there was no sharpness in it. Only a kind of quiet wonder. “You look as though you might burst at the seams.”
She laughed softly. “That is how I feel.”
He came to kneel beside her, and after only a brief pause, he rested his hand against the curve of her belly. The gesture was careful, almost reverent, as though he half-expected the moment to slip away if he moved too quickly.
The child stirred beneath his palm.
Maekar exhaled under his breath. “Strong.”
“Very,” Rhaella said. “Valarr says it is a good sign, said it means the child is strong and healthy, and that they will survive the birth.”
There was warmth in her voice when she spoke her husband’s name, an ease that softened her whole expression.
Maekar glanced at her briefly. “And you?”
“I think it has nowhere else to go,” she said, smiling faintly.
That almost drew a real smile from him.
His hand lingered a moment longer before he withdrew it, slower than he might have otherwise. His gaze rose to her face, and something in it shifted, deepened.
“You look like her,” he said.
Rhaella’s expression gentled. “My mother?”
He nodded.
For a moment he said nothing more, only studied her as though committing something to memory. “More than you did before,” he added quietly. “It has been some time since I last saw you. I had forgotten how much.”
Rhaella tilted her head slightly. “Have you been thinking of her more since you arrived?”
The question was soft, but it did not startle him.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “This place, seeing you like this…it brings things back.”
His gaze drifted, not unfocused, but distant. “I remember you as a girl. I remember watching you dance with the fireflies behind Summerhall. I recall the times you went fishing with Aerion. I remember you always running ahead of Daeron, trying to prove you could keep pace.” A faint breath left him, almost a quiet huff of amusement. “You rarely could. But that never stopped you.”
Rhaella smiled at that, a hint of something younger in it. “Daeron cheated. His legs were longer.”
“That was his great advantage,” Maekar said.
His expression softened further, the lines of his face easing as memory settled in. “Your mother used to watch you both from the terrace. She would pretend not to worry when you climbed too high, ran too fast.” His voice lowered slightly. “But she never fooled me.”
Rhaella listened, her hand resting still against her belly.
“She was like that when she carried you too,” he went on. “Strong. Certain.” A pause. “Beautiful.”
Rhaella’s voice was quieter when she spoke again. “I wish I remembered her better.”
Maekar did not answer right away. His eyes returned to her, steady, searching. “You remember enough,” he said. “More than you think.”
She shifted in her seat, adjusting her weight with a small, unconscious wince. Without comment, Maekar moved, lowering himself in front of her. He reached for her foot as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Rhaella blinked, surprised. “Father-“
“Oh hush, they are terribly swollen,” he said simply, already pressing his thumb into the arch.
She let out a soft breath despite herself, tension easing almost immediately. “You did not ask.”
“I did not need to.”
There was no edge to it. Only quiet certainty.
After a moment, he added, “Your mother liked this as well.”
Rhaella’s gaze softened as she watched him. “Did she?”
“She would complain I was too rough,” he said. “And then ask me not to stop.”
A small smile touched her lips. “I think I understand her.”
He worked in silence for a few moments, slow and steady.
“Are you in pain?” he asked at last.
“Not pain,” she said. “Only discomfort. And… everything feels heavy.” She rested her head briefly against the back of the chair. “I think I am more overwhelmed than anything.”
“With all of us here?”
“Yes.” She gave a faint, apologetic smile. “I know everyone means well. But it is a great many people to have in one’s home all at once after living quietly and alone for so long.”
“And Valarr?”
Her expression warmed again. “He tries to keep them from me when he can. He hovers rather terribly.”
Maekar’s mouth twitched. “As he should.”
“I do not mind it,” she said softly.
He nodded once, as though satisfied.
“You should not worry over the birth,” he said after a moment. You had not said if anyone, but he could see it on your face-you were most scared.
“I am a little nervous,” she admitted.
“That is natural.” His hands slowed slightly. “Your mother was as well, especially the first time. She did not say it, but I knew.”
Rhaella’s fingers curled lightly against the arm of her chair. “She was always fine.”
Maekar was quiet for a beat. “Yes,” he said. “She was.”
The shadow passed between them, unspoken but understood. She was always fine until she wasn’t.
Then, more firmly, “You’ll be ok, Rhaella, I am not worried about the birth so you should not be either.”
Rhaella studied him, then smiled faintly. “You sound very certain.”
“I am very certain. That babe will slip out, eager to greet their grandfathers and their King. What a dutiful child you have!” he jokes, forcing a smile from you.
The door opened not long after, and the quiet shifted as lighter footsteps entered.
Aegon came first, as he often did, bright-eyed and curious, with Daella, Aemon, and Rhae close behind.
“There you are,” Daella said. “We have been looking everywhere.”
Rhaella laughed softly. “I told you. I was hiding.”
Aegon’s attention dropped immediately to where their father sat. “What are you doing?”
“Helping,” Maekar said.
Aegon considered this, then promptly dropped beside him, taking Rhaella’s other foot into his hands with great seriousness. His small fingers pressed in all the wrong places.
Rhaella giggled. “That tickles.”
“I am doing it properly,” he insisted.
“So you believe,” Maekar said.
“Should we help too?” Rhae asked.
“You may take her hands,” Maekar said.
They did so at once, each carefully holding one of Rhaella’s hands, mimicking what they thought proper care must be. Aemon stands behind you and kneads at your shoulders.
Rhaella looked at them all, laughter still lingering in her voice. “I am very well attended.”
Daella smiled. “We must practice. For when the baby comes.”
At that, little Rhae tilted her head. “What will you name it?”
Rhaella’s gaze flicked briefly to their father before returning to her sisters.
“If it is a girl,” she said, “Dyanna.”
The name settled gently in the room.
“And if it is a boy,” she continued, “Maelor. The ‘M’ for Father…and the rest for uncle Baelor.”
Maekar’s hands stilled, just for a moment.
When he looked up, something in his expression had changed again, the hardness easing into something quieter, almost fragile. A small smile touched his mouth, faint but real.
“You should name the child after the King,” he says suddenly, cheeks turning red at the attention.
“Having three Daeron’s is too much. Valarr and I have agreed, we like Maelor. If we have a boy, he shall we named after two great Princes, the famed Hammer and the Anvil, who fought so he might rule one day. He shall be named for 2 great fathers, so he might grow to be one as well. Grandfather and grandmother like it as well, they were very proud when I told them,” you answer back, your foot poking his chest playfully.
“You honour me, Rhaella, more so than I deserve,” he says bashfully as he rises to embrace you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and you feel like a little girl again.
“I am glad you are here father, I would’ve been more afraid if you were not here,” you admit quietly. He gives you a squeeze and pulls back, holding your face in his hands.
“Fret not, my dear, I will not let anything happen to you,” he promises. Though it was out of his control, you believed him anyway.
The girls start giggling between each other at their stoic father’s random heartfelt expression. Maekar glances at them, at his three daughters before him, and can only smile as he ruffles both Daella and Rhae’s hair. All three of his girls carried so much of Dyanna, he used to worry that he might forget her face one day-but sees now he never could. He need only look at the girls she left behind. His sons…he only saw himself in them, but the girls…the girls were only his Dyanna.
“Sit back, relax, it does you no good to worry now,” he says as he sits back down, taking your foot back up in his hands.
Rhaella leaned back, surrounded by them all, the weight within her steady and sure, and for the first time since the castle had filled, she did not feel the need to hide.
As if on cue, her grandfather finds them. Valarr is with him, and picks Rhae up to set her on his lap, taking over her duties in massaging your hand. Your grandfather sits on your other side, taking Daella into his lap so he might have your other hand.
“Let me look at that belly again,” your grandfather smiles warmly looks down at the prominent bump. He places a hand on your stomach and you share an amused look with your father.
“A boy surely, you look so much like your grandmother did when she carried my boys,” your grandfather decides with a clap.
“He shall be a warrior, like Maekar; a leader, like Baelor; a booksman, like Aerys; and will be as fun as Rhaegal,” your grandfather says as he kneads at the base of your neck. Your hand in Valarr’s tenses lightly, at all the great proclamations for your unborn child.
“It could be a girl, grandpapa, and she shall be as pretty as me!” Rhae giggles, much to everyone’s amusement.
“It is still early yet, grandfather, to make such predictions. Best wait until the child is born first,” you speak softly, hesitant to raise all their expectations once more. They had spoken just like this during the last 3, before the children died before their first breath.
“All will be well,” Valarr says softly as he squeezes your hand back, he could sense the hesitancy in your voice. The two of you had spoken many times before. Valarr was of the opinion that the time for fear had passed now that you were so far along, but you still could not feel at peace.
Though, those words always did much to calm your soul. All will be well. The same words he had spoken to you the day you married, nothing more than nervous children who repeated oaths because they were told to. It was like an unspoken secret in your marriage, that whenever those words were said, all would be well. Whenever you were scared or anxious, had woken from a bad dream, or doubted, those words were enough to bring you back to sanity. Back to him.
“Grandfather and I were meant to call on you all for dinner. Grandmother had asked our cooks to roast a goat,” Valarr says as he sets Rhae onto her feet.
“My shoes,” you point.
“Oh, forget the shoes, I imagine you’ll feel much better without trying to shove your feet into those,” your father dismisses.
“I don’t want to wear my shoes either, father!” Daella yells as she kicks off her shoes. Rhae, Aegon, and Aemon follow suit before running for dinner. Gentle Aemon runs with Rhae’s hand in his own, so she would not fall so far behind or trip over her own feet. Your father, now suddenly surrounded by shoes, sighs. One of Rhae’s shoes were kicked too close to the fire, he has to retrieve it.
Valarr carefully helps you up.
“Why were you on the floor, my love, you should at least sit on a chair,” he says as you groan. He presses a kiss to your temple as you rub your thigh, the blood rushing back to your legs was a tad uncomfortable.
“I bent over to pick something up and could not get back up on my own,” you admit sheepishly, much to your grandfathers amusement. He barks out a laugh as he takes your hand in his, seemingly intent on walking with you to dinner.
“Your grandmother once sat in the bathtub for half a night because she could not get up. She was carrying your father that time. Have we told you that story?”

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FORTUNE
Bloodbound
The heat of the day had softened into something golden and forgiving by the time they left the tourney grounds behind. The roar of the crowd had dwindled into distant murmurs, replaced by the quieter hum of the town settling into evening. Merchants called lazily to passing folk, children darted between stalls, and somewhere nearby a fiddler played a tune that drifted like smoke through the air.
Rhaella walked beside Valarr, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm. The light caught in her silver hair, turning it pale gold, and her violet eyes were still bright with the memory of the day.
“It is a terrible shame,” Valarr said, his voice calm, measured, though there was a weight beneath it. “Ser Humphrey took the tilt cleanly until his horse was struck. I am told his leg may be broken.”
Rhaella’s brows drew together, her expression softening with concern. Rhaella had been sitting with Baelor up in the stands when that terrible joust took place. Valarr had seen her cover her eyes before his father whispered something to her, she was not there when Valarr looked again. Rhaella had only seen Valarr run over to assist Ser Humphrey out from under that horse before she left. “That is a terrible thing. He rode so well. Everyone said he might take the final.”
“He was a favorite,” Valarr agreed. “It is a hard fate, to fall so near victory.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, more firmly, “It must have been an accident.”
Valarr glanced down at her, studying her face. There was no guile there, only loyalty. She did not mean to make excuses for Aerion, she truly believed it to be an accident. He had expected nothing else.
“Yes,” he said after a pause. “It must have been.”
She lifted her chin slightly, encouraged. “Aerion would not do such a thing on purpose. He is… he can be thoughtless, but not cruel in that way.”
Valarr did not answer immediately. His gaze shifted ahead, toward the line of stalls and the smallfolk moving between them. When he spoke again, his tone was gentle.
“I know you have faith in him, but you mustn’t be blind to his actions either. He has far too many accidents now to considered coincidence only.”
She stopped walking for half a heartbeat, just enough to turn her head toward him. “He is my brother.”
“And you love him,” Valarr said. There was no challenge in it, only quiet certainty.
“Yes,” she said, softer now. “And I always will.”
He inclined his head, accepting it without argument.
“It is right, though,” she continued after a moment, her voice regaining a touch of firmness. “That the horse was given to Ser Humphrey. Aerion should not begrudge it. He should simply move on, not carry this anger with him.”
A faint breath of amusement left Valarr, though it held no mockery. “You speak as if he were a reasonable man.”
“He could be,” she insisted, though her tone wavered just slightly at the edges. “If he chose to be.”
“I will speak to my father about Aerion, maybe once the tournament is over. He can be good, I believe he can, he was such a good boy when we were children. He can be again, he just must be better taught. It is not right for a Prince to act such a way, we would never allow our Maelor to act such a way,” you shake your head.
“Have no fear about Maelor, my love, our son shall grow to be a fine young man. Let this tournament pass, then we might speak as a family on how to best heed Aerion, hm?” Valarr agrees.
She wonders if she should ask Valarr about bringing him to Dragonstone, but decides against it for now. Valarr did not press her further. Instead, his hand shifted over hers, a small, reassuring pressure, as if to say that the matter could rest there.
Their conversation from that morning was still on their mind, still their priority, they would not wish for their joy to be washed away so soon.
They continued on, weaving through the town’s narrow lane until a familiar figure came into view ahead. Lord Ashford stood near a group of men, his voice carrying in bursts of laughter.
Valarr slowed. “I should speak with him,” he said. “It will not take long.”
Rhaella nodded, releasing his arm. “Go on. I will wait.”
He hesitated, just for a breath, as though weighing whether to leave her even for a moment. Then he brushed his fingers lightly against her wrist, a quiet promise, and turned toward Lord Ashford.
Rhaella watched him go, her expression softening as it always did when she looked at him. Then, left to herself, she turned her attention to the nearby stalls.
The trinkets were simple things, but charming. Polished stones strung into necklaces, little carved animals, bits of colored glass that caught the fading light. Her gaze lingered on a small hair ornament, delicate and bright.
Dyanna would like that, she thought. The blue was like the blue of her eye, the one she shared with her father. Whenever she got the chance, she loved to play with your purple hair ornaments, the ones you inherited from your mother. Even at her little age, she knew to be careful. The image of your daughter rose easily in her mind, all soft laughter and curious eyes.
She reached out, turning the piece gently between her fingers.
“A pretty choice.”
The voice came from beside her, low and worn with age. Rhaella turned to see an older woman standing there, wrapped in layers of faded cloth. Her eyes were sharp, far sharper than the rest of her seemed.
“I think so too, beautiful for a child,” Rhaella said politely.
The woman smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “A child you love dearly.”
Rhaella hesitated, then inclined her head. “She is my own little girl, of course I love her.”
The woman stepped closer, her gaze drifting over Rhaella’s face as though reading something written there. “You walk a narrow road, my lady. One that bends where it should not.”
Rhaella’s fingers tightened slightly around the trinket. “I do not understand.”
“Not yet,” the woman said. Her voice softened, almost soothing now, but there was something beneath it that made the air feel colder. “But you will. The path before you splits, though it is not your own feet that will choose the way.”
Rhaella frowned, unease stirring faintly in her chest. “Whose, then?”
“Theirs,” the woman murmured. “Those who stand nearest your heart. Their choices will weigh upon you more heavily than your own.”
A small silence fell between them, filled only by the distant sound of laughter and the clink of coin.
“And if they choose wrongly?” Rhaella asked, before she could stop herself.
The woman’s gaze held hers, unblinking.
“Then all will come to ruin,” she said quietly.
A chill slipped down Rhaella’s spine, sharp and sudden. She drew in a breath, trying to steady herself, to dismiss the words as nothing more than clever phrasing meant to unsettle.
The woman only watched her, as if waiting for something.
“Fortunes cost coin, my lady,” she added at last, almost lightly.
Before Rhaella could answer, a familiar presence came up beside her.
“That will be enough.”
Valarr’s voice was calm, but firm. He stepped between them just slightly, not enough to seem rude, but enough to place himself at Rhaella’s side again. He pressed a single coin into the old woman’s hand.
The woman’s expression did not change. She gave a small, knowing smile, then turned away, already seeking another passerby. Her smile was not cruel, but knowing. What did she know?
Valarr looked down at Rhaella, his gaze searching her face. She looked unnerved, afraid. “She is playing tricks for coin,” he said gently. “Do not give her words more weight than they deserve.”
Rhaella forced a small smile, though the unease had not fully left her. “Of course.”
His hand found hers again, warm and steady. He lifts your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Come,” he said. “Let us find something better to occupy the evening. They are serving cider nearby. The apple one from the Fossoways. You liked it, if I recall.”
Her smile became more genuine at that. “I did.”
“Then we shall have some.”
She nodded, letting him guide her back into the flow of the crowd. Yet as they walked, her fingers curled a little tighter around his, and somewhere deep within her, the woman’s words lingered like a shadow she could not quite shake.
They passed by a little play house.
“We might catch a show on our way back, do you think?” You ask as you glance down at their listed times. Valarr nods and smiles, falling into a story about the last play they had seen.
Once you find the Fossoway tent, you enter. You are about to announce yourself when Valarr pulls you back and places a finger over his lips, motioning for you to be quiet.
“…They're incestuous aliens, Duncan. Blood-magickers and tyrants who've burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs. Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last, gods know how. The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife's tits. So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse,” you hear someone spit.
You glance nervously at Valarr, suddenly you feel quite stupid for venturing this far without a member of the Kingsguard.
“I just find it hard to believe a prince would act like that. I have seen the Prince Valarr, he seems to be a very gallant prince. My squire says he and his Lady wife will make great rulers one day,” you hear another man answer back.
“Prince Valarr is not to be compared to his cousins. We are lucky Baelor was born before Maekar, or else we’d be saddled with a drunkard for a future King. His lady wife is Maekar’s eldest daughter, a wonder she turned out so well when you look at her 2 brothers. I hear the Prince and Princess are very much in love and are perfectly capable. A maid of ours was once in their service, she said there is not a soul in their household who does not adore her. ‘The Princess knows every name,’ the girl told me, every maid, every guard, every kitchen boy and girl, and she remembers them, asks after their kin, their aches, their small triumphs as though they were courtly matters of the highest importance.
As for the Prince, she said he is utterly devoted. He listens when she speaks, truly listens. He has never taken a mistress either, and the maid said they insisted on sharing a room when they arrived on Dragonstone. They have twins, a boy and girl, the maid said Rhaella fed the children at her own breast and that Valarr oft steal them away from their lessons to play.
They dine together more often than not, walk the gardens at dusk like any young couple, and there is laughter, real laughter, in their halls. Not the forced sort we’re all made to swallow at court.
If you ask me, those two are alright. If only the other Targaryen cousins could pull it together.”
There is a smile on your face by the time you look back up at Valarr. He looks a little less amused, but he could never stay angry around you.
He clears his throat as he steps into the tent, you’re only one step behind him.
“My Prince,” a boy bows deeply.
“Ser Duncan, how lovely to see you again,” you smile as you recognize the big man. He, too, stands awkwardly and bows.
“My lady-oh, Princess, sorry. The honour is mine,” he stutters.
“And you…must be a Fossoway?” You ask as you turn to the other boy.
“Raymun Fossoway, Princess,” he bows again, forcing a smile from you.
“There is no need, Raymun. My husband and I were hoping you had spare cider, we quite enjoyed it last time we had it. Didn’t we, my love?” You hum as you link your arm with his.
“We did,” Valarr answers curtly, still staring poor Raymun down for what he had said. Valarr was no great defender of your brother, but he would defend the Targaryen name.
Raymun is quick to hurry to his barrels, while you take Valarr to the other side of the large tent. You sit next to him on the wooden bench.
“Let us speak of other things, shall we? Our day started to well, we shall not let the day we ruined, hm?” You hum as Raymun comes with his cups. You thank the boy before he scurries off, returning to Duncan.
You take a sip of the cider and gently kick Valarr under the table, wordlessly telling him to drink as well.
“My father asked if we might be willing to return permanently to the Red Keep. He and grandfather would like us close,” Valarr says as he lifts the cup.
“You mean they want you close, you’re their heir,” you remind him, hesitant to leave Dragonstone.
“I said us, Rhaella. If I stand second to the throne, you stand with me. I have no claim without you,” he says as he reaches for your hand.
“You lie! You stand behind your father with or without me,” you laugh.
“Alright, I do not wish to have such claim if you are not by my side. You will be my Queen and rise by my side,” he hums as he lifts your hand to press a kiss to your knuckle.
“I do love Dragonstone,” you whine, though already giving in. Valarr smiles as you do.
“We can visit plenty,” he promises.
“Fine, it’ll be good for Maelor and Dyanna to be around the King and Queen. We will want Maelor to remember his great grandfather’s benevolence when he is King one day,” you relent. Your grandfather was also getting older, you would like to be closer with him as well.
“And our Dyanna will love the extra attention, all the balls and feasts,” he hums as he rests his cheek in your hand.
“In this life, we shall be King and Queen. In our next, we shall never have to leave our perfect home. No duties or responsibilities to pull us away,” he promises.
“Not that this life isn’t splendid either, I wake beside my husband every day, we have 2 perfect children waiting for us…” you murmur as he leans in.
“Yes, yes, kiss me.”
SONGS
BLOODBOUND
The halls of Dragonstone carried a different kind of quiet than the Red Keep. It was not the heavy silence of secrets and watchful eyes, but something older, steadier. The sea breathed against the cliffs below, a constant, patient rhythm that seemed to pulse through the stone itself.
Valarr followed that sound as he walked, unhurried, one hand trailing lightly along the carved wall. He knew these halls well already, though he had not lived here long. There was something about the place that settled into him easily.
He found her near one of the long corridors that opened toward the sea, where the wind slipped through narrow arches and curled along the stone like a living thing.
Rhaella stood there, moving slowly, her fingertips brushing along the wall as she walked. A soft hum drifted from her lips, light and wandering, as though it followed something only she could hear.
Valarr paused a few steps away, a smile already forming before he had fully taken her in.
Her silver hair caught the grey-blue light from the sea, shifting faintly with the breeze. When she turned her head slightly, he saw her eyes.
More purple than usual.
He leaned his shoulder lightly against the stone, watching her for a moment, content to simply be there. This was not new. It came and went, these dreamlike states, and he had long since learned there was no need for concern. Only patience.
“Have you found something interesting, my love?” he said at last, his voice warm, easy.
Rhaella’s hum softened, but she did not startle. She turned toward him with a small, peaceful smile, as though she had known he was there all along.
“The wind is louder today,” she said.
Valarr’s smile deepened as he pushed off the wall and walked toward her. “Is it?”
She nodded, her gaze drifting briefly toward the open arch where the sea stretched beyond. “It sings more clearly here.”
He came to stand in front of her, close enough to feel the faint coolness of her skin, the softness of her presence. “And what does it say?”
Her fingers brushed the wall again, tracing the grooves between the stones. “Every place sounds different.”
“I remember you telling me that,” he said gently.
Her eyes lifted to his, unfocused but warm. “The Red Keep is…crowded. Too many voices speaking at once.”
Valarr huffed a quiet breath of agreement. “That sounds right.”
She tilted her head slightly, as if listening again, then her expression softened in a way that made his chest ease.
“But this place,” she said, her voice lowering, “Dragonstone is different.”
He watched her closely, though there was no worry in him. Only quiet curiosity.
“How so?”
Rhaella closed her eyes briefly, her hum returning for a moment before fading again. “It is melodic. Slow. Like the sea.”
As if to prove her point, a distant wave crashed faintly against the rocks below, the sound echoing up through the stone.
Valarr glanced toward the arch, then back to her, amused. “It has good timing.”
She smiled faintly, though her eyes remained distant. “It has not been marred.”
He studied her, the words settling into him. “Not like King’s Landing.”
She shook her head. “No. It remembers dragons…but not losing them.”
Something in her tone made him still, just slightly.
“It remembers beginnings,” she continued. “Families. Small ones.” Her fingers curled faintly against the stone. “It mourns them, but gently.”
Valarr let out a quiet breath, his gaze softening as he looked at her. This place was their beginning, in a way. Not the start of their line, but of something quieter. Something that belonged only to them.
“Targaryen families of the past?” he asked.
Her eyes opened again, settling on him. “It sings of them. Loud some days. Quiet most.”
He nodded once, accepting that as simply as she offered it.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind threading between them, her presence light and calm.
Then she stepped closer.
It was a small movement, but deliberate. Her hand lifted, hovering between them in quiet invitation.
Valarr smiled, softer now, and took it without hesitation. His fingers closed around hers, warm and steady, grounding without restraining.
She guided him a step inward, away from the open arch, into the heart of the corridor. Her hum returned, soft and steady, and she began to sway gently.
Valarr followed easily.
He placed a hand at her waist, drawing her just a little closer, his movements unstructured, natural. There was no courtly form to it, no learned pattern. Just the rhythm she created and the one he matched.
He liked her like this.
He liked her always, but there was something about this softness, this quiet way she moved through the world, that drew the same out of him.
She rested lightly against him, her head near his shoulder as they swayed. The wind moved around them, carrying the scent of salt and sea.
“You look different sometimes,” she said after a while, her voice drifting into the space between them.
Valarr let out a quiet, amused breath. “Do I?”
She nodded faintly, her fingers tightening just slightly in his. “Some days.”
“How?” he asked, glancing down at her.
Her gaze lifted, studying his face as though she were comparing it to something unseen. “Your hair is not always like this.”
He smiled, a little crooked. “No?”
“Sometimes it is darker,” she murmured. “Curly. Brown, with red in it.” A small pause. “And you have a beard.”
Valarr chuckled softly, the sound low and easy. “I would like to see that.”
“You would,” she said, entirely serious. “It suits you.”
He dipped his head slightly, amused but not dismissive. “I will take your word for it.”
She shifted just enough to look at him more fully, her expression thoughtful. “Sometimes I change too.”
His hand at her waist tightened just a fraction, not from worry, but from attention. “How so?”
“My hair,” she said, touching a silver strand lightly. “It is dark. Not like this.”
Valarr nodded slowly. “And that does not trouble you?”
She shook her head, calm as ever. “No. It feels like remembering something that has not happened.”
He considered that, then smiled faintly. “Then perhaps it is only a different song.”
Her lips curved at that, pleased. “Yes. That is what it feels like.”
They swayed a little longer, her humming filling the quiet spaces between the distant waves. Valarr found himself watching her more than anything else, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the way the light caught in her violet eyes.
After a moment, he leaned down, slow enough that she could have pulled away if she wished.
She did not.
Their lips met softly, the kiss unhurried, as gentle as everything else about her in that moment. It was brief, but warm, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against hers.
“I like this place on you,” he murmured.
Her eyes fluttered slightly, her smile faint but certain. “It likes you too.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb lightly against her hand. “I am glad to hear it.”
They lingered there for another moment, close and steady, before he straightened slightly.
“Dinner has been made,” he said.
Rhaella blinked, as though the words took a moment to reach her. “Has it?”
“It has,” he replied, still smiling. “And you should eat before we retire for the night.”
She considered that, then nodded softly. “Yes. We should.”
He did not let go of her hand as they turned together, walking back through the stone corridors, the sound of the sea following them.
For now, there was no throne waiting. No crown pressing near.
Only this. Only them.