Darlings

Laughter and cheers fill the Great Hall. The gathered lords and ladies clap for the circus performers, their faces red from the overindulgence in the Dornish wine flowing from golden goblets. It would be unsurprising if the clamor of your wedding celebrations echoed far past the stone walls of Dragonstone.

Your Lord Husband spared no expenses. Jesters, jugglers, fire-eaters. An entire company of circus performers plucked from the Free Cities. A flock of white doves released from the highest tower at the end of the ceremony. A lavish banquet fit for a king…well, future king. Roasted swans, glazed wild boar, spiced deer pies, pears dipped in wine and so forth.

The spread alone makes your head spin.

Your gaze glides over to him. Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, your Lord Husband. At eight and thirty, twenty summers more than you, he remains an astounding warrior and sharp-witted hand to the king. Or so your father told you. You know not the man you wedded at evenfall.

No more than a handful of words were traded between you and him before the ceremony. The bargain struck with your father was swift, your consent immaterial, your obedience expected.

All decided before you even crossed the Narrow Seas.

Even as you both uttered your wedding vows, him swearing to protect you and you swearing to obey, he said no more than what custom demanded.

Your eyes trail the sharp angle of his bearded jaw, his noble profile, his steely stare.

Targaryen majesty radiates from his being, lighting the very air around him ablaze.

As a keen mismatched gaze finds yours, your stomach clenches.

You nervously pick up your wine goblet and swallow another sip. A sip of courage. Tonight is your wedding night. The septa who prepared you beforehand had but scant knowledge to share. She said your lord husband will know what to do and your only task is to obey. It did little to soothe your unease.

Wives are vessels for heirs, instruments to further bloodlines. That is what you are now. A vessel. Your fears, your hopes, your dreams…they’re now as inconsequential and forgotten as yesterday’s rainfall. A proper lady must be soft, quiet. Seen but not heard. It is what mother used to say.

Prince Baelor’s eyes tumble to your uneaten plate.

“You have not had a bite,” he says, concern clouding his unflinching gaze.

You swallow the lump in your throat, nudging a gentle smile on your lips.

“I fear my travels have soured my appetite, your grace.”

Your husband studies you a long while, his pointed scrutiny needling your skin. Your eyes widen as he rises, offering his hand.

“Mayhaps that is enough revelry for the evening,” he states. You understand the unspoken command and slip your fingers in his open palm. His hold on you is firm, steady. That hand around yours is the only thing keeping your quaking legs from collapsing on the ground. You are thankful that the wine has gone to your head, begun to haze your senses. Perhaps it will make the entire ordeal more bearable.

As Prince Baelor escorts you away, the back of your neck tingles. You turn to glance behind you. Discomfort stirs your insides as a fiery mismatched gaze that eerily resembles your husband’s collides with yours.

Prince Valarr.

From the moment you got off the ship bringing you to Dragonstone, the princeling has made his disfavor of you a plain fact to all. He has not spoken a word to you. In fact, he has stormed off every single time you have tried to greet him. Unlike the young Prince Matarys who instantly clung to your skirts after the wedding and called you his new mother, Prince Valarr displayed no such warmth. You fail to understand what you have done to offend the princeling. You have endeavored to be kind, sweet, pleasant…everything your mother bid you to be. Yet the princeling appears to find your mere presence a curse upon House Targaryen.

The frightful ballad of your heart swells in your ears as you walk through the dim hallways of Dragonstone besides your new husband.

You reach Prince Baelor’s bedchambers. He shuts the door. Sweat blooms on your palms, your insides knotting with dread.

The soft glow of the candles paints the walls, the moon’s silver hues seeping through the curtains. Fear sings in your blood. You will it to not show.

As your lord husband turns, clasping your hands in his, his forehead creases.

“You’re trembling,” he notes.

Your stomach plummets. Have you already failed at your wifely duties?

“Apologies, your grace,” you mumble, guilt searing your chest.

Prince Baelor lifts your chin, assessing your expression. Your breath hangs still beneath his studious scrutiny.

“You are scared,” he says.

Panic clutches your heart. You give a frantic shake of your head.

“I am well, your grace. I am…delighted.” The lie wobbles off your tongue uneasily, its falsity scorching your throat.

His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, his expression solemn.

“You need never lie to me.” He pauses, his mismatched stare corralling yours. “I swore an oath to protect, cherish and honor you. I aim to honor that oath.”

He brings your hand to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on your skin. Heat floods your cheeks.

His deep voice is as gentle as a ripple over the sea, washing over your overwrought senses.

“I know how far from familiar shores you are, my lady. But I dare hope that, one day, you will call Dragonstone home.”

This draws a curtain of tears over your sight. Memories of your childhood home invade your mind, longing crushing your heart in its unforgiving fist.

“I harbor the same hope, your grace,” you croak.

Prince Baelor cradles your face, plucking your tears. Your chest heaves, unsightly sobs escaping the confines of your throat. Your armor shatters. To your astonishment, your lord husband collects the broken pieces, leading your quivering form to the bed’s edge.

He swaddles you in a thick blanket. For the first time since arriving at Dragonstone, a rush of warmth fills your chest.

Tremulous sobs swell in the room. Lord Baelor sits besides you. At first, his hand hovers, hesitant, searching. A silent inquiry. As your eyes swing to his, he seems to find the answer he sought. His firm hand settles on your back and you unleash a heavy breath.

You sag against him. He is unbothered by the flood of tears soaking his doublet, the steady press of his fingers your anchor amidst the rushing tide of emotions you throttled into silence. Now they refuse to be shackled.

When your tears subside, the weight of failure settles in your chest like lead. You were instructed to be meek, obedient, agreeable. Instead, you made a pathetic spectacle of yourself in front of your husband. Father would be furious. Mother would be disheartened.

Your gaze lingers on the floor, a blanket of defeat draping over your shoulders.

“Speak to me, wife,” Prince Baelor says.

Your heart leaps. Your husband speaks with the poised confidence of a man who has never needed to raise his voice to be heard, a mere whisper enough to inspire respect and compliance. Meanwhile you wager that you could scream until your throat bleeds and your words would still fall into unlistening ears. Such is the fate of a woman in this world.

His gentle yet firm command tears the words from your throat.

“I fear my melancholy ruined our wedding night, your grace,” you confess.

The shadow of a smile sways on his lips. His focus shifts to the window.

“Ruined? The moon and stars still hang in the sky.”

A bashful smile tugs your lips.

“They do,” you say.

When your eyes find Lord Baelor's this time, a heat is nestled there. Your stomach tightens. Your nerves flare again. Not from fear this time. Mayhaps a strange anticipation. One that sears your stomach and dampens your palms. Your attention falls to your lap, your fingers twiddling with the linen beneath you.

A firm hand slides under your chin, angles it up, keeping you from evading sizzling, mismatched orbs.

Your throat knots.

“My lord-”

The words are seized from your lips as Prince Baelor’s mouth slams into yours. Your cry of surprise shrivels on your tongue. Steady fingers cradle your face, your husband's mouth gliding over yours with purpose. The path of his tongue is languid, fevered as it explores your mouth. Your body grows feeble against his, your mind going hazy.

Your hands tighten on his doublet as you get lost in your first genuine kiss.

His passion knocks the breath from your lungs, a startling contrast to the composed, regal lord you had come to know.

His hand drifts to the back of your head, twisting in your hair. You gasp as Prince Baelor tilts your head back, giving him complete dominion over the expanse of your neck. He abandons your mouth, leaving it swollen, tingling. He scatters a trail of fiery pecks with his lips. His teeth dance on your skin and a broken whine slips from your throat. Your Lord Husband relishes every sound, embers of desire sizzling in his stern gaze.

His hands travel down your throat and your breath stills in your lungs. His callused palms sweep over you until they find your hips. His fingers clench on the embroidered silk. Your heart bounces in your chest.

Darkness clouds your husband’s gaze as it traces your face, the motion of your throat, your heaving chest. His throat bobs, his lids sagging.

When he peers at you, still clutching the fabric of your dress, a question hangs in the sweltering air of the room.

A dull trepidation remains but the rising heat in your blood silences it.

You give a tremulous nod.

Prince Baelor peels the dress off you and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. Your husband’s eyes darken as they sweep over your bare, goosebumped flesh. You sit on the bed, watching him remove his royal attire. A dragon shedding its scales, letting you see what lay beneath.

So this is what a man looks like. You soak in every line of corded muscle, every pale scar and… the blatant evidence of his desire for you. Heat settles in your cheeks.

Your heart sings a clamorous, chaotic ballad in your ears as he approaches.

He presses his thumb over your parted lips. Despite the hunger etched in his mismatched gaze, you feel his silent inquiry again. It lingers in the hesitant graze of his fingertips along your arm.

You give another nod. The fear, the apprehension…they have shifted into a heated curiosity for what comes next, what husbands and wives do on their wedding night.

He nudges you backwards until your back lies flat on the plush covers.

You wait, your stomach clenched so tight it seems it might soon burst.

He rubs his swollen tip against your entrance. Your breath stumbles. Heat gathers between your thighs. The friction is maddening. You clutch at the linen, a whine spilling from your mouth.

He clutches your hip, lining himself with your folds. He enters you, and the world turns red. Despite bracing yourself for the discomfort, tears spill down your cheeks.

“My Lord,” you mumble, your voice hardly more than a husky breath.

“My Lady,” he replies, cupping your face.

He freezes, wiping your tears as he looms above you. His eyes never leave yours.

When he drags himself out and sinks into you at a sluggish pace, you tense.

“The pain will not last, sweet girl,” he whispers in your ear.

Your voice is distorted by your sobs.

“Do you swear it?”

He takes your hand and drops a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“A knight never breaks a vow to his lady,” he says softly, his fingers twining with yours.

He moves his hips and you cling to his shoulders, his tender words anchoring you amidst the painful tide. The symphony of flesh against flesh swells in the room.

Your husband speaks truth.

The pain is ephemeral. Soon, delightful tingles bloom over your flesh; fire consumes you.

You melt against him, stars flooding your vision.

In his arms, you forget how far from home you are. Every gentle whisper and careful touch makes you feel safe, desired, cared for.

In Prince Baelor’s arms, you are no longer adrift. You are found. Again and again.

As your husband shifts you, making you straddle him, it’s when it begins.

Cool tingles along your spine that do not relent. They start down your back and bloom outwards. Persistent shards of glass embedded into your skin. Your head turns, your eyes landing on the wall. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the tapestry and wardrobe.

Your husband grips your chin, swaying your focus back to him.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Your chest clenches. It is just you and your husband in this room. Dragonstone is brimming with dark corners and old statues that play tricks on the mind. You force a smile on your lips.

“Nothing. It is nothing, your grace.”

It is enough for Prince Baelor’s hip to start moving again, yanking a broken moan from your lips.

You dismiss the peculiar sensation along your back, yet it lingers even as you ride your lord husband with abandon.

Your days are filled with peace and joy. More fulfillment than you could have fathomed. You had worried your husband’s famed fondness of his first wife Lady Jane would be an unassailable opponent, that you would struggle to carve a place in a heart already claimed. But no such thing occurs. Prince Baelor seeks you out whenever his duties for the days are done. He takes you to bed almost every night, showing you countless paths to pleasure.

You even overhear the maids say that they haven’t seen their lord look so merry in years, which brings a smile to your face.

Little Matarys accepts your presence with ease, clinging to your skirts and allowing you to tell him stories from your home.

Soon, every fear you held close to your chest when you first set foot on Dragonstone dissipates. You settle into your life as Prince Baelor's wife and Lady of Dragonstone.

Still, the shadow of Prince Valarr’s hostility looms large over you.

Your stepson makes his distaste for you a truth known to all, skipping every dinner or feast when he’s made aware you will be in attendance. Every attempt at breaching the ice walls the prince erected around himself are met with crushing defeat. Your stepson won’t even look at you. And the rare times he does, your blood chills from the searing hatred burning in his mismatched gaze. The prince stares at you like he wished to tear you limb from limb or have your head mounted on a pike above the castle walls for all to see. Mayhaps both.

You cannot deny that this blatant rejection hurts, a fact you do not conceal from your lord husband.

“He is a child. He will grow to adore you as I do, sweet girl,” Prince Baelor mumbles, planting a tender kiss atop your head. Your chest warms with his words but the doubts nestled there remain.

You ache to argue that Prince Valarr is no more a child than you are, as only a few months set you apart from him. You have never been allowed such fickle whims. From a young age, you were taught a proper lady is to be ever pleasant, ever agreeable. But your stepson’s chilly glares and icy words leave a taste of failure on your tongue. As if every teaching and lesson was for naught. As if you will never be good enough, worthy enough. Everyday you try to engineer new ways to make the sullen prince despise you a little less. Everyday you find your attempts thwarted.

You lean back against your husband’s chest, your eyes falling shut. You soak in the smell of fresh cranberries and pine trees. It soothes your frazzled mind. Sitting in Aegon’s Garden always casts a blanket of serenity over your worries and fears, quiets your woes.

“It has been four moon turns, your grace,” you say, resigned.

“My son loved his mother dearly. So did I. Her kindness and sweetness knew no equal…until I met you,” he says with a smile, bringing your hand to his lips.

“I’m sorry he lost her so young.”

A shadow of grief flickers in Prince Baelor’s gaze.

“Me too.” He squeezes your hand. “Give him time. He is a good lad.”

“I know,” you reply, your heart sinking. It is the very reason that rejection aches so deeply. You’ve witnessed how gentle Valarr is, with his family, little Matarys, even the servants. You’ve seen him help an elderly servant to her feet when she apologized for spilling his food. He is kind to everyone. Everyone but you, his own stepmother.

Your husband plucks you from the depths of your forlorn thoughts by pressing you against a nearby pine tree, his hands firm on your hips.

“Enough about my son…especially when I have my lovely wife all to myself.”

You smile, your heart fluttering.

His lips tug upwards against the column of your neck, his fingers creeping below your dress. Your eyes swing to the nearby turret, the windows thankfully absent of any spectator.

An airy giggle soars from your lips as he trails languid kisses along your throat, his hand traveling to your inner thigh.

“My lord…we are out in the open. Someone could see…” you scold him though there is no real heat laced in your words.

“See me attend to my wife as a true husband should?” he says, drawing a gasp from you as his beringed finger sinks between your folds. Your back arches against the pine tree, your lips parting around a lustful whimper. The heat in your lower belly grows as your husband’s steel ring drags along your slick walls.

You bite your lower lip, riding his finger, seeking more of the delightful friction.

As you tilt your head back, your focus lands on a figure at a distance. A disturbingly familiar figure standing at the tower’s window. You shove Baelor away, your heart leaping.

“Wait…your grace!”

Prince Baelor scowls, confused by the expression on your face.

“What is it?” he inquires, following your gaze.

You blink, your eyes rounding when you realize the window is now empty.

“I…Apologies. I thought I saw-”

Prince Valarr.

But you dare not speak the thought aloud. Because it sounds ludicrous, unfathomable.

Why would Prince Valarr stand at a window watching you and his father in the throes of…passion?

Your husband cradles your face, concern wrinkling his stern features.

“Saw what, sweet girl?”

You shake your head.

“Exhaustion must be wearing my senses,” you mumble, ignoring your thundering heart.

Prince Baelor takes your hand.

“You shall rest then.”

You ignore the itch to glance back as he leads you away, that peculiar chill settling over your spine once more. The very same sensation that has plagued every intimate moment you’ve shared with your husband for several moons. In your chambers, his chambers, the gardens, the great hall…everywhere. Like a shadow tracing your every step.

Ever watching.

For the next few days, you are in hell, your own mind becoming a cage assailing you with doubts and inquiries. Did you truly see him? Were your overwrought senses conjuring false apparitions? Perhaps you are so far away from home, so desperate to be liked, that you are growing slightly mad.

There is no reason he would be there, staring. After all he cannot stand the sight of you, a fact he has made astoundingly clear.

You should go pray, light a candle to clear your mind of the unthinkable. The Septa says proper ladies must offer a prayer to The Seven at least twice a day. You have faltered in your duties to the gods. Perhaps it is why your thoughts are so scattered, your mind so hazy. Your husband is a pious man after all. You should follow his example.

As you are lost in a spiral of daunting musings, your feet lead you near the throne room. The sound of incensed, familiar voices reaches you, causing you to halt your steps.

“I will not marry her, father. You cannot make me.”

Your heart skips a beat as you recognize Prince Valarr’s voice. He’s angry…no, he’s furious.

You cling to the wall, clutching your chest when your husband’s imperious inflection fills the throne room.

“It is your duty, son. Or have you forgotten what is at stake for House Targaryen? Our dragons made us gods amongst men. Without them, we must be wise in choosing every match. The girl from Tyrosh is-”

“You had the freedom to choose your own wife,” Valarr snaps, his words sharp as the strike of a whip. “Why can I not?”

You hear your husband’s heavy sigh.

“I have done my duty, son. Therein lies the difference.”

“Indeed,” Valarr sneers. “Now that you have heirs, you may bed any fresh, pretty cunt you desire. Is that not right, father?”

Your chest tightens. Prince Valarr may have been unwelcoming, but he has never tossed such crude terms to your face. Tears hover beneath your lashes. You suppress them, your lip wobbling.

“The boy I raised would not speak with such a wicked tongue,” your husband says, his voice bleeding with disappointment. “I will speak to you when you remember your duty to this house.”

The irate stomp of your husband’s boots rises and fades. Silence then falls in the hall.

You close your eyes, willing yourself not to weep right here.

You remind yourself that those words were not designed for your ears. Still, despair squeezes your heart in its unforgiving fist. What have you done for him to loathe you so? What grave offense would warrant-

“I should kill you where you stand. How dare you spy on my father and I?”

You gasp, your eyes snapping open as a blade is pressed against your throat. Prince Valarr’s dagger. Angry, mismatched irises pin you into place.

Your pulse quickens.

“Apologies,” you croak, your eyes watering. “I was just-” The words stumble in your throat as the blade is pushed against your skin. A lone tear slides down your cheek.

Valarr’s gaze narrows, suspicion laced in his tone.

“Is this what you are, a spy? Sent here by the Blackfyre traitors mayhaps…It would make quite a bit of sense.”

An anxious squeal escapes your lips.

“I’m not a spy, my lord."

You gulp in a large breath, gathering the nerve to ask the question that has sizzled your insides since you first met him.

“Why do you abhor me so much, my lord?” you blurt out.

Valarr freezes at that, his eyes widening.

“My lord, Valarr…” you stammer, acutely aware of your pulse singing under the tip of his blade. “I have tried so hard to be agreeable yet you seem to hate me for the mere fact that I draw breath.” Flames dance in his eyes as he gapes at you, silence stretching to the point of discomfort. You quell your fear and mumble, “Have I done anything to hurt or offend you?”

The prince’s gaze narrows.

“You do not get to interrogate me, or question me,” he hisses, his dagger traveling down your flesh, along your heaving chest.

“You are a plague upon my house. A curse.” His eyes follow the path of his blade, his breath growing more erratic. His voice deepens, hoarse and hateful. “Your very existence fills me with rage. A rage I cannot contain.” He removes his blade, instead wrapping his hand around your throat. His voice lowers to a gravelly whisper. “Every time I see you, I just…I do not feel as myself, and I hate it. I hate what the mere sight, the mere thought of you does to me.”

His heavy, chaotic breaths flow over your face, his fingers squeezing your neck. You whine at the pressure and he releases you, his eyes wide and panicked.

He slams his fist besides your head into the wall. You leap in fear. He narrowly missed your face.

“Begone, mother…before I do something I regret,” he snarls.

Not having to be told twice, you gather your dress and race back to your chambers.

After the events of the throne room, you are the one keeping your distance from Prince Valarr. Even if you were aware he wasn’t fond of you, you didn’t expect such venom spilling from his mouth. Every time you remember his cruel words, tears rush to your eyes. You did not think it possible for someone to harbor such deep-seated hatred for you.

At least, you find comfort in your husband’s arms.

While he notices your melancholy, Baelor doesn’t press you to confess what’s gnawing at you. Thankfully. You decide to keep Prince Valarr's words to yourself. It would break Baelor’s heart. And what purpose would that serve? There is enough misery in you already. You do not wish for that burden to be shared with your husband, not when so much already rests upon his shoulders.

“I have to leave Dragonstone for a few weeks,” he announces one night as you lie in bed together.

You sit up, tugging the sheet against your bare frame.

“What?”

Baelor cups your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheeks.

“There is a Blackfyre uprising in the south. We must crush it before it is too late.”

Your heart plummets. You know that men must sometimes head to war. Such is the way of things. But you don’t want yours on a battlefield, in harm’s way. So often men leave and never return.

Your brows thread into a worried frown.

“Cannot your brother Maekar settle it on his own?”

His expression softens as he strokes your hair.

“What kind of future king cower from a minor rebellion?”

Understanding fills you, though in that moment you hate Baelor for being so honorable, so dutiful. You wish he were more selfish, selfish enough to stay besides you. But you know if he were selfish, he wouldn’t be your Baelor. He wouldn't be the man who owns your heart, body and soul.

He lifts your chin, brushing a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Although duty calls my name, my heart calls yours always,” he utters softly.

Your heart swells and shrivels all at once.

“If I could stay, I would, sweet girl,” he says, studying your sombre expression.

Resignation laces your tone. “I know.”

“Valarr will protect you in my absence.”

You go still, a chill traveling down your spine.

“I know there have been…hurdles. But he is my son. He will do what honor demands. You are safe with him.”

You swallow your words. Your husband is about to go to war. His mind must be clear, free of worries or distractions. You cannot cost him his life with petty grievances.

You give a bright smile.

“Of course, my love. I will pray to the gods everyday for your safe return.”

Fondness glimmers in his mismatched gaze.

You pin him with a stern stare, lifting your finger.

“Do not make me a widow, Baelor…or I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you again myself.”

Baelor grabs you by the waist, pinning you under him as you both laugh.

The day Baelor leaves, you feel as if a piece of your heart tore from your chest and walked away. The day itself mirrors your gloom, angry clouds roaring above Dragonstone, rain pouring down in thick sheets over the castle. Your desperation hit such a nadir that you begged your husband to take you with him the night before, but he reminded you that a woman’s place isn’t on a battlefield. You argued that your place is wherever he is and he gave you a smile that shattered your heart.

You lie in bed the entire day. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You do nothing but stare at the cold, empty space in the bed where your husband used to be.

Of course, Baelor’s words echo in your head. A minor rebellion. But how often do men go away to settle a minor rebellion, a trivial skirmish or enter a meager tourney to lose their life when the gods flip a coin?

“You have not eaten today. Come.”

Prince Valarr’s sharp tone startles you. Your gaze lands on his form near the door.

You ignore him, burying yourself further in the bed.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you counter, injecting all the meager authority you can in your feeble voice.

A deep sigh ripples through the room.

“My father told me to keep you safe. I intend to keep that vow.”

A sad laugh bursts from your lips.

“Even if you despise me?” you mumble.

“Come down and eat.”

“I’ve no appetite.”

“I care not. You will eat.”

His tone is icier. When you refuse to move, Prince Valarr does. Quick as lightning, he picks up your limp form from the bed and strides out of the room.

Your protests are ignored, Valarr’s expression determined as he stomps to the Great Hall, cradling you in his arms.

The prince all but drops you in a chair at the dining table before finding his own seat. Your eyes drift to Baelor’s empty seat at the head of the table. Your chest tightens.

Valarr’s mismatched gaze follows yours and his jaw ticks.

“He will return,” he states as a servant places a steaming plate of stew in front of you. “There is no warrior more fierce and capable than my father. Now eat.”

Impatience twists his boyish features.

“In my father’s absence, I am the lord of this castle. I command you to eat, lest I find less…pleasant ways to make sure you do.”

You shudder. Fingers wobbling, you collect the spoon but your stomach lurches at the sight of food.

“Please eat, my lady,” a familiar voice erupts besides you.

You blink, dazed. Little Matarys. The young prince’s expression is etched with concern. You didn’t realize he was here. Your mind lingers in a fog you can’t find your way out of.

Valarr rises from his seat, makes his way to you. He looms over you, his scent coating your senses.

His heated whisper tickles your earshell.

“What will my father say when he comes home and finds a skeleton waiting for him instead of his wife?”

His blunt words stab at your bleeding heart. Hand shaking, you take a slow sip of the stew. With every bite, you think of Baelor. He would hate to see you like this. You are a dragon’s wife. You must be strong, resilient. Your grip tightens on the spoon.

Beneath Prince Valarr’s watchful eye, you finish your plate.

The days fly by, each harder than the last, your husband’s absence carving a deeper hole inside you. The days erode into weeks. During these desolate times, Prince Valarr cares for you the way he promised he would. To your surprise, your stepson is the one reminding you to sustain yourself each day, displaying a care you did not think was in him. You learn to stand tall in your agonizing wait. Little Matarys’ gentleness helps. The long walks on the beach and games of cyvasse by the fire you play with the little boy help ease his father’s absence. While Prince Valarr’s gaze never sways from you, he makes no attempts at warmth or kindness, always keeping a careful distance. You’ve grown so used to the prince’s hostility that it leaves you numb. You just long for your husband’s swift return.

Every day you light a candle for him in the Sept, begging the gods to return him to you whole.

Most days, you hold on. You cry yourself to sleep no longer.

But tonight is different. A storm breaks out near the shore, dusky thunderclouds raging over Dragonstone.

You sit against the wall near the wooden wardrobe, your huddled form shivering.

You’ve been terrified of storms since you were a little girl. Baelor knows that. Whenever the heavens raged, he would cradle you against him, his deep, tranquil voice lulling into a sense of calm. He would stroke your hair and kiss your forehead, and never let go until slumber found you. With Baelor’s soft touch, the storm fell away, becoming a distant rumble.

In his absence you cannot stop shaking. The sky seems as if it might split open and the roof appears on the brink of collapse. You rock yourself back and forth on the floor, hands covering your ears to muffle the noise.

“My Lady?”

You lift your head, startled when a mismatched gaze fills your vision.

Hope flares inside your chest, tears filling your eyes.

“Baelor…” you mumble, overwhelmed with emotion.

“I’m not him.”

Your eyes round as you are yanked back to reality, realizing you are looking into Valarr’s eyes. You forgot how eerily similar they are to your husband’s.

The prince's jaw clenches as he studies you, kneeling before you, a flickering candlelight in his hand. You note that he dons a simple loose shirt and breeches, a sharp contrast to the armor you are so used to seeing him in. The candlelight casts shifting shadows over his face.

“Why are you…what are you doing here, Valarr?” you ask, shuddering as a bolt of lightning appears behind the window, heavy rain slamming against the glass.

“You are scared of storms,” Valarr says, like it's obvious. “I wanted to ensure your well-being.”

Your brows knit.

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m scared of storms.”

Silence lingers, the prince’s gaze drifting away from yours.

“My father told me.”

He clears his throat and offers his free hand, helping you to your feet.

He leads you to the bed and you sit on the edge, your fingers trembling in his, your attention glued to the window.

“It is alright. I’m with you,” Valarr assures, placing the candle on the night table.

He hesitates a few seconds before wrapping his arms around you, tugging you into his embrace.

At first you are stunned. You freeze, completely still in Valarr’s arms. But it’s been so long since you’ve been held like this, felt safe like this. You surrender, sagging in Prince Valarr’s arms.

Fingers sweep over your hair, a soft voice pouring into your ear.

“You need never be scared when I’m with you.”

For a moment, you forget you are in Valarr’s arms. You imagine yourself in Baelor’s. In your mind, your husband is home. He is whole and he holds you through the storm the way he always does. Your arms wrap around Valarr’s neck. His hand settles on your back, traveling up and down in a soothing motion.

“I hate this,” you say.

“I know. I know,” he replies softly.

Remembering yourself, you retreat.

“Apologies, your highness.”

Valarr doesn’t pull away. He cradles your face, sweeping away your tears with his thumbs.

“You need not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.”

The prince's gaze roams over your face, landing on your lips. Clouds mirroring the ones in the angry sky darken the prince’s gaze. He drags his thumb down your cheek, presses it against your mouth.

You girdle your breath.

“Truly…nothing.”

The prince’s mouth slams into yours. Your eyes go wide as his lips devour yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You bite his lip, groaning in protest. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, Prince Valarr’s kiss turning hungrier, feral.

He pushes you onto the bed, his mouth tracing awful, fiery trails on your neck. You push his face, his chest, whatever you can grab at. His iron grip fastens around your wrists, pinning them above your head.

Disbelief makes your head spin. You struggle beneath Valarr, fighting him harder as he spreads your legs, his hand creeping under your night shift.

“No…” Tears blurs your sight as his mouth travels down your chest, his lips latching around your nipple. His tongue swirls until your peak hardens. Your body shakes with sobs, your whimpers swallowed by the rumbling thunder above Dragonstone.

The prince grunts as he cups your cunt, his thumb pressing into your tangle of nerves.

You shake your head, jolting as his thumb swirls around your sensitive nub. It grows swollen and slick under his hand. Your face heats.

“Highness…Valarr, you can’t…”

He buries two fingers between your folds. You gasp, your thighs closing around his hand. He thrusts inside you as you weep beneath him, the wet squelching melting with the sounds of the storm.

His breathy whisper flows over your face.

“I can’t stop…” He buries his fingers further inside you and you cry out, your back arching against the sheets. Valarr forces your thighs open with his knees, his hard tip nudging against your folds.

His long lashes flutter, an entranced expression on his face as he licks your essence off his fingers. You gape at him, horrified.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stop…”

He sinks into you to the hilt, drawing an ear-splitting scream from you. His hips collide with yours, the bed rattling with his frantic pace.

His chest brushes against yours, trapping you between his body and the bed.

Beads of sweat drip down his brow, landing on your face as he grunts above you.

He brings your wrist to his lips, dropping tender kisses there that twist your stomach in knots.

As you clench around him, your body betraying you, tears stream down your face.

Whenever your face turns, Valarr grips your chin, forcing your gaze to hold his as he ruts into you with abandon.

“Forgive me. Please, forgive me…” he repeats as he keeps slamming his hips into yours.

You lose track of time, going limp under him. You don’t remember when he leaves, when the storm ends. You only know one moment Prince Valarr was burying his cock inside you and the next, the sun is spilling through the velvet curtains.

You are alone in the bed. It is morning, you realize. For a few moments, you wonder if all of it was just a horrible nightmare conjured by the storm. You are wearing your shift, the sheets are clean. But the soreness in your limbs, the ache between your thighs…it’s all too real for all of it to be a dream. Your body tells the truth of what happened. You bring your fingers to your throat, your breaths growing erratic. You can still feel him, feel Valarr inside you. You rush to the nearest chamber pot and empty the meager contents of your stomach.

A maid barges into your room.

“He has returned, my lady!” she chimes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, staggering to your feet.

“What?”

“Prince Baelor! He has returned from his travels.”

The blood rushes from your head to the bottom of your feet, the room tilting sideways around you.

“My lady! My lady!” the maid yells, catching you as you topple to the floor. The room darkens around you, pins and needles scattering on your arms.

As you lose consciousness, you hear the maid’s muffled scream.

“Get the maester! Now!”

When you awake, you are lying on a soft surface, Baelor’s tender expression crowding your vision. He looms over you, a smile tugging his lips as he strokes your hair.

“Well, it is far from the sort of reunion I had hoped for, but I suppose it will have to do,” he says. His teasing lilt summons tears in your eyes.

“Husband,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck.

He chuckles, rubbing your back in that achingly familiar way. A quivering sob escapes your lips.

“Now, now, sweet girl…there is no need for tears. I am unharmed, am I not?” He lets you weep in his arms. You cannot stop the flow of tears. You cry for your husband’s safe return. You cry for what happened the night of the storm. You let yourself drown in a sea of emotions. The relief, the elation, the despair, the pain…and the sobering, aching realization you do not know how to tell Baelor the truth without ruining this fragile happiness.

He cradles your face, collecting your tears.

“We are both unharmed, both safe. Please, sweet girl, I loathe to see tears on that lovely face of yours.”

“Both unharmed, both safe...” you repeat, your stomach sinking.

“Valarr told me there was a chill with the storm yesterday.” The sound of your stepson’s name coming from his lips makes bile rise to your throat. Baelor's knuckles sweep over your cheek. “Mayhaps you have fallen ill.”

When you remain silent, Baelor gets to his feet.

“I shall leave you to rest.”

Your fingers clutch his, your expression pleading. You cannot bear to see your heart walk away. Not again. Not right now. You need him here, where you can see him, hear him, feel him.

“No, I beg of you, your Grace, stay.”

Baelor’s brow wrinkles in concern. His thumb rubs the inside of your palm. He sits beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms. Unleashing a heavy breath, you curl against him.

“Of course, sweet girl. Of course. I will not leave your side,” he whispers, his chin settling atop your head. You close your eyes, soaking his scent, the press of his body on yours, the soothing motion of his fingers over your hair. Fresh tears flood your sight.

Your fist tightens on his doublet.

“Do not leave me ever again. Swear it.”

“Alright. I swear it, my love.”

His lips brush against your forehead. The familiar tickle of his beard makes your stomach flutter.

“I will not leave your side…ever again.”

As you stand before the funeral pyre, the only thought in your head is that your husband lied to you. Fury mingles with grief. Baelor was supposed to stay by your side, to never leave you again. Yet he did. For good this time. Without a warning. Without a goodbye. Without giving you one last chance to look into his eyes and tell him how much you loved him. Just one more time…you wish you could tell him.

The trip to Ashford was supposed to be a mere courtesy appearance. Your husband was not even supposed to enter the lists. He did not even bring his own armor. He wore Valarr’s. He died in Valarr’s. And a small, shameful part of you wishes it had been Valarr, not your beloved, who fell in the tourney.

Your gaze swings to him. It is impossible to guess what thoughts lurk in the prince's head. His eyes are dry, unlike yours, the flames of the pyre dancing in his mismatched eyes.

You drag yourself away from the pyre, needing to be away from the scent of smoke, away from the smell of your husband’s burning remains. Your entire future, your love, your dreams…all gone up in flames and smoke.

You find a secluded spot in the grass. You completely sag in your spot, your body too heavy to carry. The air itself feels heavy. The beautiful sunset is a mockery to your grief. The lush forests are an offense to your loss. How dare the world go round, the sun still rise and dip on the horizon, the moon and stars still hang in the sky…when Baelor is dead. How dare the birds not stop singing, the wind not stop whistling, the waves not stop crashing against the rocky shores?

How dare the whole world not hold its breath when yours drew its last?

“We shall journey back to Dragonstone on the morrow.”

You are torn from your thoughts when Valarr’s voice shatters your peace.

Your voice rises, shaky but firm.

“Journey back to Dragonstone? My husband lies dead.” You hold Valarr’s gaze. “Lord Maekar arranged for me to board a ship so I may return home to my family.”

The prince’s jaw flares.

“I am your family, and Dragonstone is your home,” he says, his tone icy, resolute. “You were my father's responsibility and now, you are mine.”

Dread settles in your gut. After that awful stormy night, you avoided him. You never spoke a word of it to Baelor in the weeks that followed, burying the secret deep within your heart, so it may never hurt your husband. You are glad Baelor died thinking his son good and honorable, thinking him fit to carry his name and legacy. Still, you have no desire to be anywhere near Valarr ever again.

“I do not wish to return to Dragonstone with you, my lord. I have done my duty. It is only right for House Targaryen to release me.”

His gaze narrows.

“I do not care for what is right. I care that you stay where you belong.”

You lift your chin and get to your feet.

“I belong back home with my mother and father,” you say, starting to walk away from him.

His hand latches around your wrist. Your pulse quickens.

“No, you belong with me.” There is an edge of desperation to his words now. His fingers tighten on your wrist. “I will not lose both you and my father on the same day.”

“Apologies, my lord. It is done.”

You tug on your wrist but Valarr yanks harder, drawing a pained yelp from you. He drags you down to the grass, looming over you. His glistening eyes are brimming with emotions. Emotions that strangely mirror yours. Hatred, grief…utter despair. There's also that wicked glint of lust that chills your blood.

“I’m the one who ought to apologize, for not making myself more clear.”

Valarr pulls down his breeches and panic seizes you. You crawl to your feet but he's faster, shoving you onto the grass once more. His body traps yours, forcing you onto your stomach. You sob as he bunches your dress around your waist.

“You were my father’s…and now you are mine,” he mumbles against your ear, sinking himself completely into your dry entrance. Your nails break as you rake your fingers across the dirt, whimpering as he slams his hips into yours roughly. “And soon, you will be my lady wife, and I your lord husband.”

Valarr drapes his hand over your mouth, silencing your screams as his pelvis snaps into yours from behind. Tears blur your sight, your muffled pleas swallowed by the grass.

Prince Valarr’s warm breath tickles the back of your neck.