Livvy

The first time you'd been called the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, you had been twelve years old, and some Dornish lordling had said it to your father at a feast while you pretended not to listen.

By sixteen, you had grown into the title well enough. You'd learned exactly how to tilt your head so the candles caught the light in your hair, exactly how to smile so that men forgot their own names in the middle of introductions. It had happened a few times now, completely blank stares followed by furious blushing and stammered apologies. You'd perfected the art of pretending not to notice that either.

The problem, as Valarr Targaryen never tired of pointing out, was what happened when you opened your mouth.

"The Lion of the Rock ran away before the third course," he announced cheerfully, sliding onto the bench across from you in the gardens of King's Landing. His tunic was still clinging to his chest, dark with sweat from the training yard, and the silver-gold streak in his brown hair caught the morning sunlight like a slash of moonlight. One blue eye and one brown eye crinkled with unmistakable amusement. "I heard he packed his things and rode for Casterly Rock before dawn. Didn't even say goodbye. Didn't even leave a note. Just gone. Poof. Like smoke."

You turned the page of your book with deliberate calm, not looking up. "Perhaps he missed his mother."

"His mother isn't at Casterly Rock." Valarr reached across the table and stole a grape from the bowl beside your elbow, popping it into his mouth with infuriating nonchalance. "She's at Crakehall for her sister's wedding. Some business about a disputed inheritance and a very ugly horse, or so my mother tells it."

"Valarr." You finally looked up, fixing him with your best withering stare. You'd practiced it in the mirror for hours when you were fourteen, the slight raise of one eyebrow, the cool disdain in the eyes, the way your mouth could flatten into something that promised ice. It had made lesser men stammer. It had made small children cry. One time it had made a particularly skittish handmaiden drop a whole pitcher of wine all over the floor.

Valarr just grinned wider, showing teeth.

"Y/N." He mimicked your tone perfectly, right down to the precise degree of frost. "That's the fifth one this year."

"Fourth," you corrected automatically, and then cursed yourself six ways from Sunday for taking the bait. You could feel the trap closing around you even as you spoke.

"Fourth," he allowed generously, stealing another grape. "But it's only the third moon. At this rate you'll run through every eligible lord in the realm by summer. The smallfolk will start writing songs about you. 'The Maiden Who Made Lions Run.' Catchy title. Needs work on the meter."

"And you'll have beaten every knight too old or too young to give you a proper fight by then." You marked your place in the book—a history of the Rhynar, full of fascinating water magic and cities made of river-smoothed stone, not that he'd notice or care—and gave him your full attention. It was the only way to survive these encounters. Treat him like a particularly persistent headache. "How was the old man yesterday? Did he put up a good struggle before you unhorsed him?"

"Lord Caron is forty-two. That's not old."

"He's older than your father."

Valarr paused mid-reach for another grape. "My father is forty-two."

You blinked. "Is he?"

"His nameday was last moon. You were there." He abandoned the grape campaign entirely, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulled his tunic tight across his shoulders, and you absolutely did not notice that. You were too busy being annoyed. "He danced with you because you were sulking in the corner while Lord Somebody fled the capital. The fourth one. The one with the unfortunate mustache."

"I wasn't sulking. I was contemplative."

"You were drinking wine from the wrong side of the cup so no one would see you making faces."

"I was—" You stopped. The words died in your throat as something occurred to you. Something unsettling. "How do you know what side of the cup I was drinking from? You were across the hall the entire night. I saw you. You were surrounded by Stormlands knights and that awful girl from House Swann who laughs like a horse."

"Her name is Brilaine. And she doesn't laugh like a horse. She laughs like—" He stopped, apparently unable to find a comparison. "Like someone who laughs a lot."

"Like a horse," you repeated firmly.

Valarr's expression flickered—there and gone so fast you might have imagined it—before settling back into its usual infuriating smugness. "I pay attention to my surroundings. It's why I'm still alive in the melee. You can't afford to miss details when someone's trying to separate your head from your shoulders."

"You fight green boys and old men in the melee. The only thing trying to separate your head from your shoulders is your own overconfidence."

"I fought Ser Ryam Redwyne last moon. He's won four tourneys."

"He's nineteen and you trounced him in three passes." You set down your book entirely now, because this was becoming almost entertaining. "My grandmother could have trounced him in three passes."

"Your grandmother is dead."

"Which proves my point. If a dead woman can beat him, your victory is nothing to boast about."

Valarr laughed, and it was the worst sound in the world because it was genuine, warm, and did something complicated to your stomach that you refused to acknowledge. It wasn't the polite court laugh, all teeth and no feeling. It wasn the sharp bark of derision you got from your rivals. It was a real laugh, full and rich and terrible, and it made his mismatched eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that was frankly unfair.

You hated that about him. You hated all of it.

"You're impossible," he said, shaking his head. The silver-gold streak caught the light again. Stupid hair. Stupid beautiful hair.

"I'm the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Who can't keep a suitor for more than a week."

"Who won't settle for a suitor for more than a week," you corrected, lifting your chin. "There's a difference. I have standards. Just because some lordling with a fancy sigil decides he wants to warm my bed and my coffers doesn't mean I have to open my arms and say 'welcome.'"

"Your standards apparently include 'must not run away at the first sign of a sharp tongue.'"

"My tongue isn't sharp."

"It could cut glass. It could cut through Valyrian steel. I'm surprised the Lannister boy made it through dinner without bleeding from the ears."

"Flattery won't work on me, cousin."

He leaned forward suddenly, forearms on the table between you. The movement brought him closer, too close, close enough that you could smell the sweat and steel of the training yard on him, close enough that the mismatched, stupid, beautiful, infuriating eyes were impossible to ignore. One blue as a summer sky, one brown as autumn earth. Looking at both at once made you feel slightly dizzy.

"When have I ever flattered you?" he asked, and his voice had dropped somehow, gone lower, gone quieter. It was just the two of you in this corner of the garden. Just you and him and the stupid complicated thing in your chest.

"Never. You're incapable of it."

"I'm capable." His mouth curved. "You're just not worth the effort."

You should have been offended. Any proper lady would have been offended. Any proper lady would have risen from her seat with icy dignity, summoned her handmaidens, and swept away to complain to someone important about the disrespect shown by the prince's insolent son.

Instead you felt your lips twitching toward a smile and had to physically force them flat. It took actual effort. You could feel the muscles in your face rebelling.

"And yet here you are," you said. "Talking to me. In the gardens. On a perfectly nice morning when you could be off beating up children somewhere."

"Green boys," he corrected. "And old men."

"Same thing, really. They both cry when they lose."

"You wound me." He pressed a hand to his chest, right over the enameled three-headed dragon pinned to his tunic. It rose and fell with his breath. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent knight. Someday I'll be as good as my father. Better, even. They'll write songs about me too. 'Valarr the Valiant.' 'The Prince Who Rose Like the Sun.' 'The Dragonknight Reborn.'"

"They'll write songs about how you talk too much and steal grapes from ladies without asking."

"Those grapes were going to go to waste. You weren't eating them. You were too busy contemplating your book about dead people."

"They're not dead, they're—" You stopped. Took a breath. "You know what? Never mind. You're not worth the explanation."

"Says the woman talking to me."

"Says the woman who can't get rid of you no matter how sharply her tongue cuts."

He grinned again, and you hated him, you really did. You hated him so much it made your chest tight.

"Someday you might even earn a victory without your father's help," you heard yourself say.

The words came out sharper than you'd intended. Much sharper. They hung in the air between you like physical things, like stones dropped into still water.

You saw the flicker in his mismatched eyes again, hurt, there and gone so fast you might have imagined it if you hadn't been watching for it, if you hadn't somehow known it would be there. His face didn't change. His smile didn't slip. But something behind his eyes shuttered, just for a moment.

And immediately you wanted to take it back. You wanted to grab the words out of the air and shove them back into your mouth and pretend you'd never said them.

But that would require admitting you'd been cruel. And admitting you'd been cruel would require admitting you cared whether you hurt him. And you absolutely, categorically did not.

So instead you looked back at your book and pretended the words on the page made sense. They didn't. They never did when he was around.

"Y/N."

You didn't look up.

"Y/N, look at me."

You looked up.

His face had gone serious. The usual mockery was gone, smoothed away into something almost gentle. Almost soft. It was deeply unsettling. You weren't used to Valarr without his armor of jokes and needling. It was like seeing a knight without his sword—wrong, somehow. Exposed.

"My father doesn't arrange my opponents." His voice was quiet. Careful. Each word measured out like it cost him something. "He introduces me to knights he thinks I can learn from. Some are young. Some are old. All of them have beaten men twice my size. I don't win because he makes it easy. I win because I'm good enough to keep up with them. Because I've worked for it. Because I've bled for it." He paused. "Because I'm not just his son. I'm my own man. Or I'm trying to be."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that Ser Ryam Redwyne had been found crying in his tent after their match, that everyone said he'd taken the loss hard, that everyone whispered Baelor Breakspear had chosen him specifically because he was young and overconfident and would make Valarr look good.

You wanted to say that everyone knew Baelor was grooming his son for greatness. Clearing the path. Making sure the golden boy stayed golden.

But you looked at Valarr's face—at the earnest set of his jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way one hand had curled into a fist on the table between you—and found you couldn't.

"Fine," you said instead. "You're adequate."

"High praise from the woman who can't keep a suitor."

"I can keep them. I just don't want them."

"You don't want any of them?"

The question hung in the air between you. There was something in his voice—something careful, something almost hopeful—that made your heart stutter in your chest like a horse refusing a jump.

You ignored it. You had to ignore it. There was no other option.

"I want to finish my book." You gestured with it, the leather binding warm in your hands. "Some of us have pursuits beyond hitting things with sticks and pretending it's chivalry."

"Hitting things with sticks is a noble pursuit. It's practically an art form. There's strategy involved. And skill. And—" He paused, searching for the right word. "And poetry. There's poetry in a well-executed strike."

"The only poetry in the training yard is the poetry of grown men grunting."

"You've clearly never seen me fight."

"I've seen you fight." The words came out before you could stop them. "You're not wrong about the poetry. It's just not the kind of poetry I'd want to read."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Something flickered in his mismatched eyes—surprise, maybe, or something warmer. "You've watched me fight?"

"I've been to tourneys. Everyone watches everyone. It's not—" You could feel heat creeping up your neck and willed it away with every ounce of self-control you possessed. "It's not like I sought you out specifically."

"Of course not."

"I have better things to do than watch you beat up old men."

"Of course you do."

"I'm just saying that when I happen to be present, I happen to notice things. Like anyone would."

"Of course." His voice was suspiciously bland. Suspiciously amused. "Like anyone would."

You threw your book at him.

He caught it, of course, because he was quick and irritating and had probably been expecting it. His hands closed around it a finger's breadth from his face, and he lowered it slowly, grinning that insufferable grin.

"A Rhoynar history?" He flipped through a few pages, eyebrows rising. "Really? You couldn't have picked something interesting? Something with dragons, or battles, or at least a few scandalous love affairs?"

"It is interesting."

"It's about a dead civilization."

"They're not dead, they're—" You stopped. Took a breath. Counted to five in your head. "You know what? Never mind. Give it back."

"Come and get it."

"Valarr."

"Y/N."

"I will—"

"You'll what? Call the guards? Tell them your favorite cousin stole your book?"

"You're not my favorite cousin."

"I'm your only cousin. Well. Your only cousin who's not married, not hideous, not younger then you, doesn't think himself a dragon trapped in a human body and not a constant drunk."

"You're changing the subject."

"I'm expanding the subject. There's a difference."

"The difference being that you're still holding my book."

He laughed again—that warm, terrible laugh—and tossed it back. You caught it one-handed, which was impressive and you knew it, and he raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

"Not bad."

"I have hidden talents."

"Like scaring off Lannisters?"

"That was one Lannister."

"Four suitors. Third moon."

"It was one Lannister and three others who happened to be from the Westerlands. That's not the same thing. The Crakehall boy left because his father got sick. The Marbrand boy left because his sister had a baby. The—the other one left because his mother demanded it."

"They all ran. You're building a reputation."

"I'm building a reputation as a woman who knows her own mind and won't be married off to the first lordling with a gold sigil and a vacuous smile."

"That's a very long reputation. Songs will have trouble fitting it in."

"They can call me Y/N the Unmarried. I'll wear it as a badge of honor."

Valarr was quiet for a moment, tracing patterns on the table with his finger. The grape bowl sat between you, half-empty now, and you noticed absently that he'd eaten most of them. Little thief.

When he spoke again, his voice had gone carefully neutral. Carefully empty. "I heard the Tyrell boy is coming to court."

Your stomach dropped. You could feel it, an actual physical sensation, like falling from a height. "Did you."

"Next moon. Your mother mentioned it to mine at breakfast. They were very conspiratorial about it. Lots of whispering and meaningful looks." He traced another pattern. "He's seventeen. Unmarried. Supposedly very handsome. Very poetic. Writes sonnets, apparently. To ladies he's never met. Just on principle."

"Supposedly."

"Your mother seems excited."

"My mother is excited by anyone with a pulse and a title. She'd be excited by a goat if it could prove its lineage went back to Garth Greenhand."

"That's harsh."

"It's accurate. You've met my mother. You've seen how she looks at unmarried lords. Like a cat looks at a very slow mouse."

Valarr's mouth twitched. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

"The accurate way."

He was quiet again, still tracing patterns. You watched his finger move—circles, squares, something that might have been a dragon if you squinted—and tried to ignore the tension building in your chest.

"What's wrong with the Tyrell boy?" he asked finally.

"I don't know. I haven't met him."

"Then maybe this one will stick."

"Maybe."

"You could try being nice to him."

"I am nice."

"You threw a book at me."

"You deserved it."

"I did," he agreed, and there was something soft in his mismatched eyes again. Something that made your breath catch in your throat. "But he won't. He won't deserve it. He'll just be some boy from Highgarden who's heard stories about the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. He'll come to court with his sonnets and his soft hands and his dreams of love, and he'll see you across a crowded room, and he'll think he's found something out of a song."

"And?"

"And you'll open your mouth." His voice was gentle now. Infuriatingly gentle. "And you'll be clever, and sharp, and impossible. And he won't understand. He won't realize that the sharpness is just—" He stopped. Started again. "He won't understand that it's armor. He'll just feel the cuts. And within a week, he'll be on his way back to Highgarden, and everyone will sigh and say 'poor Y/N, so lovely, so impossible.'"

"Is that what they say?"

"That's what I say."

"You think I'm lovely?"

"I think you're—" He stopped. His mismatched eyes met yours, and for a moment the garden disappeared. The fountain faded. The birds went silent. There was just him, and you, and the space between you that felt suddenly, terrifyingly small.

"I think you're—"

"Prince Valarr!" A servant appeared to announce that Prince Baelor required his son's presence in the training yard.

Valarr's eyes didn't leave yours for a long moment. Something passed between you, you couldn't name it, couldn't define it, but you felt it like a physical thing.

Then he blinked, and it was gone, and he was standing, brushing off his armor, settling his face back into its usual easy smile.

"Duty calls," he said. "I'm about to show them what a real knight looks like."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'm going to get myself celebrated. There's a difference." He paused, looking down at you. The sunlight caught his hair, his eyes, the slight smile on his lips. "Try not to scare away any more suitors before supper. I'd hate to run out of material."

"Material for what?"

"Material for our conversations. What else would I talk to you about if not your long trail of failed courtships?"

"My book. My fascinating, interesting book about a civilization that's not dead."

"That's not a conversation. That's a lecture." He took a step back, then another. "Goodbye, Y/N. Try not to miss me too much."

"I won't miss you at all."

"Liar."

And then he was gone, following the servant down the garden path, his stride easy and confident, his shoulders straight, his stupid beautiful hair catching the light with every step.

You sat there for a long moment, alone with your Rhoynar history and the grape bowl and the complicated thing in your chest that you absolutely, categorically refused to name.

Then you opened your book to the page you'd marked and stared at it without seeing a single word.

Somewhere nearby, the fountain burbled on. Birds sang. It was disgustingly peaceful.

You hated it. You hated all of it.

But mostly, you hated that he'd been right. You were going to miss him. You always did.

The Tyrell boy lasted six days.

You knew it was six because you'd been counting, the same way you counted everything now—days between suitors, minutes between Valarr's visits, heartbeats between one stupid comment and the next. Six days of golden hair and green eyes and sonnets about your smile. Six days of nodding politely while he explained the importance of roses in Reach heraldry. Six days of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You sat in the library the next morning, supposedly reading but actually staring at the same page for twenty minutes. A history of the Rhoynar. The same one Valarr always mocked you for. The pages blurred together into meaningless shapes.

"Six days."

You didn't look up. You didn't have to. You'd know that voice anywhere—the lazy drawl, the undercurrent of amusement, the way he stretched the words out like honey.

"Shut up."

"A new record." Footsteps. The creak of the chair across from you. "You should be proud."

"I told you to shut up."

"He didn't even make it to a full week." The sound of him settling in, getting comfortable. He'd be leaning back now, ankles crossed, that insufferable grin on his face. You could picture it perfectly. "That's impressive even by your standards. I thought for sure the Tyrell would last at least a fortnight. He seemed determined. All that poetry, you know. Very persistent."

You slammed your book shut. "What do you want, Valarr?"

He held up his hands in mock surrender you looked up just in time to see it, the familiar gesture, the easy smile. "I came to offer my condolences. Clearly you're devastated."

"I'm fine."

"You're hiding in the library."

"I like the library."

"You hate the library." He leaned forward, mismatched eyes gleaming. "You only come here when you want to be alone. When you're upset about something. When you've scared off another suitor and need to—what did you call it last time? Contemplate?"

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. He knew you too well. That was the problem with cousins who'd grown up in the same castle, who'd been thrown together at every feast and tourney and family gathering since you could walk. He knew your tells. He knew your moods. He knew that when you were upset, you read about dead civilizations and pretended the world didn't exist.

It was infuriating.

"I'm not hiding," you said finally. "I'm contemplating."

"Contemplating what? Whether to scare off the next one in four days instead of six?"

"Whether to push you out a window."

"There aren't any windows in here." He gestured around at the stone walls, the heavy curtains, the flickering candles. "Bad design, really. Who builds a library without windows? The maesters, apparently. They don't believe in fresh air."

"There's a balcony."

"You'd have to get past me first."

"I'd manage."

He grinned, and you hated him, you really did. Hated the way his mismatched eyes crinkled at the corners. Hated the silver-gold streak in his brown hair that caught the candlelight like a promise. Hated that he was the only person in the world who could make you feel like this.

"The Tyrell boy was boring anyway," he said, reaching for a book on the table between you. Some treatise on dragon breeding. Of course. "All he talked about was his horse."

"He had a very nice horse."

"His horse was average at best." He flipped a page, not really reading. "I saw it in the stables. Dappled gray. One white sock. Slightly bow-legged."

"You're just jealous because you lost to him in the melee last year."

"I didn't lose." He looked up sharply. "I was distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

He looked at you. Just looked, with those ridiculous mismatched eyes, and said nothing.

And suddenly the air in the library felt very thin.

"Valarr." Your voice came out strange. "What are you—"

"You know what I think?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Close. Too close. "I think you scare them off on purpose."

"I do not."

"I think you pick fights and say cruel things and make sure they leave before they get too close."

"Why would I do that?"

"So you don't have to let anyone in."

You laughed, but it sounded hollow even to your own ears. "That's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. You don't know anything."

"I know you." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "I've known you my whole life. I know when you're pretending."

"I'm not pretending."

"You are. Right now. You're pretending you don't care that he left. You're pretending you don't care that they all leave." He paused. "You're pretending you don't care about a lot of things."

"Like what?"

He didn't answer. Just kept looking at you with those eyes and you wanted to look away, you wanted to run, you wanted to throw something else at his stupid handsome face.

Instead you said, "You don't know everything."

"I know you're scared."

"I'm not scared of anything."

"You're scared of this." He gestured between you, vague and specific all at once. "Of whatever this is."

"There's nothing between us."

"No?"

"No."

"Then why do you seek me out at every feast?"

The words hit you like a splash of cold water. You straightened against the bookshelf behind you, the leather-bound spines digging into your shoulders through your gown. The library was empty—or it had been, until five minutes ago, when Valarr had appeared between the stacks like he'd materialized from thin air.

"I don't seek you out." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. Good. "I attend feasts. You attend feasts. Occasionally we occupy the same space. It's called coincidence."

"Coincidence." He said the word like it tasted wrong. "Every feast for the past three years. Every time I turn around, there you are. Across the hall. At the next table. Standing by the window with that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The look that says you're pretending not to watch me."

Your heart stuttered. "I don't watch you."

"You watched me at the tourney last moon. You told me you did. You said you'd seen me fight."

"That's different. Everyone watches the tourney."

"You watched me." He took a step closer. Then another. The library was suddenly very small, the shelves pressing in on all sides. "You watch me at feasts too. When you think I'm not looking. When you think no one's looking."

"I don't—"

"Why do you always read in the gardens in the morning along the path closest to the training yard?"

The question landed like a physical blow. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I don't—"

"You do." Another step. He was close enough now that you could see the individual lashes around his mismatched eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly. "Every morning. Rain or shine. You sit on that bench with your books about dead civilizations and you pretend you can't hear the swords clashing fifty yards away."

"Rhoynar," you whispered. "They're not—"

"Why do you get that look in your eyes when I walk into a room?"

"What look?"

"The one you have right now."

You didn't know what look you had. You didn't know anything. You only knew that he was very close, closer than he'd been before, and that your heart was doing something alarming in your chest, and that you should push him away, you should laugh it off, you should do anything except sit here frozen like a deer in front of a hunter.

He was so close. Too close. Close enough that you could smell him—clean sweat and leather and something underneath that was just him, that you'd somehow memorized without meaning to. His eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize it too, like he was afraid you might disappear.

"Y/N." His voice was soft. Barely a whisper. "Tell me to go."

You should. You should tell him to go, to leave, to stop looking at you like that. It would be the sensible thing. The safe thing. The thing that would protect you from whatever this was, whatever it had always been, whatever lived in the space between bickering and wanting.

"Go," you whispered.

He didn't move.

"Valarr. Go."

He leaned closer.

His breath was warm on your lips. Your hands were shaking. You could feel the heat of his body through the inches of air between you, could feel something building in your chest like a wave about to break.

"This is—" You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "This is a terrible idea."

"I know."

"We hate each other."

"I know." His voice was rough. "Gods, I know."

"And you're—and I'm—and everyone would—" You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. "They'd say—my mother would—your father would—"

"I know." His forehead touched yours, just barely, just the lightest pressure. "I know all of it. I've known all of it for years. Do you want me to stop?"

Yes. No. You didn't know. You'd never known anything less in your entire life.

His eyes were so close. One blue, one brown. Beautiful. Stupid. Yours, somehow, even though he'd never been yours, even though you'd spent years pretending you didn't want him to be.

"No," you heard yourself say. The word came from somewhere deep, somewhere you'd been hiding even from yourself. "I don't want you to stop."

The sound he made was still echoing in the space between you when his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn't gentle.

It was years of wanting and years of denial and years of pretending you hated someone when what you really hated was how much you couldn't stop thinking about them. His lips were hungry, demanding, like he was trying to make up for lost time. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, and the other gripped your waist and pulled you against him so hard you felt it everywhere.

You made a sound against his mouth—something between a gasp and a moan—and he swallowed it like he was starving.

His tongue traced your lower lip and you opened for him without thinking, without hesitation, and then he was inside your mouth and you were inside his and it was everything. Your hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer, closer, like you could merge into one person if you just held on tight enough.

"I still hate you," you gasped against his mouth.

"I hate you too," he breathed back, and kissed you again, deeper, harder, like he was trying to prove it.

You stumbled back against the bookshelves, knocking something over—a book, a candle, a whole stack of something that hit the floor with a crash you barely heard. His body pressed you into the shelves, and you could feel everything—the hard planes of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the evidence of exactly how much he wanted this. Wanted you.

He made a sound against your lips that you felt all the way down to your toes. It was raw. It was real. It was nothing like the easy smile he wore for the rest of the world.

"You're impossible," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, darkening the mismatched eyes to something almost uniform. His breath came in harsh pants. His lips were red and swollen.

"You're insufferable."

"You're beautiful." He said it like a confession. Like it hurt.

"You're tolerable." Your voice shook.

He laughed—that warm, terrible laugh—and you felt it everywhere. His forehead dropped to yours again, and you could feel him shaking, just slightly, just enough.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," you said.

"I can't believe you're letting me."

"I'm not letting you. I'm tolerating you. There's a difference."

"Of course there is." His thumb traced circles on your hip through the silk of your gown. It was maddening. It was wonderful.

"And when this is over, I'm going back to hating you."

"Naturally."

"And you'll go back to making fun of me for scaring off suitors."

"I would never."

"You absolutely would." You wanted to kiss him again. You wanted to climb inside his skin.

"I absolutely would," he agreed, and kissed you again.

This time it was slower. Deeper. He took his time, exploring your mouth like he had all the days in the world, like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. His hand slid from your hip to your waist to the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers threading through that stupid silver-gold streak, and he groaned into your mouth when you tugged.

"Y/N." Your name was a prayer on his lips. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."

"Valarr." You said it back, over and over, like you were making up for all the times you'd thought it without saying it.

Somehow you ended up on the floor. You didn't remember how. One moment you were against the shelves, the next you were surrounded by fallen books and the dust of old parchment, and he was above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

Your hair was a disaster. You could feel it spreading around you like a halo, pins scattered somewhere you'd never find them. His tunic was wrinkled beyond repair, half-untucked, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that made him look younger. Softer.

You'd never seen him like this. No one had ever seen him like this.

"I still hate you," you said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

"I know." He was smiling down at you, mismatched eyes soft and warm and full of something that made your chest ache. "I hate you too."

"Good. As long as we're clear."

"Completely clear."

"So this doesn't mean anything."

"Nothing at all."

"Just two people who hate each other."

"Exactly."

"Kissing."

"Against their better judgment."

"In a library."

"The most scandalous location possible."

You snorted—actually snorted, like a pig, in front of him—and for a moment you wanted to die. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You were the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and you'd just snorted like a farm animal in front of the man you'd been pretending not to love for half your life.

But he just grinned wider, like you'd done something wonderful, and pressed his forehead to yours.

"That," he said, "was the most adorable sound I've ever heard."

"It was not adorable. It was horrifying."

"It was perfect." He kissed the tip of your nose. "Everything about you is perfect."

"Now I know you're lying."

"I never lie." He kissed your forehead. "I exaggerate. I embellish. I occasionally bend the truth for comedic effect. But I don't lie." He kissed your cheek. "Especially not about this."

"About what?"

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. The playfulness faded from his face, replaced by something raw and open and terrifying.

"Y/N."

"What?"

"You're impossible and insufferable and the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"I know."

"And I think—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I think I've been in love with you since we were twelve."

You went very still.

He went very still.

The words hung in the air between you, fragile and terrifying and real in a way nothing had ever been real before.

You could hear your own heartbeat. You could hear his breathing, quick and uneven. You could hear the distant sounds of the castle going about its day, completely unaware that your entire world had just shifted on its axis.

"I didn't mean to say that," he said quietly. His voice was rough. Shaking.

"Yes you did."

A long pause. His eyes searched yours, looking for something—rejection, maybe, or mockery.

"...Yes I did."

You looked at him, at his mismatched eyes, his silver-gold streak, his stupid handsome face. You looked at the slight tremble in his jaw, the way his hands had fisted in your gown like he was afraid you'd push him away. You looked at all of him, everything he'd just given you, everything he'd just risked.

And you felt something crack open in your chest. Something you'd been holding closed for years, something you'd told yourself was nothing, something you'd buried under sharp words and thrown books and the careful pretense of indifference.

"I think," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper, "I might have been in love with you since we were twelve too."

His eyes went wide. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Say it again."

"No."

"Y/N."

"That's all you get. I'm not a performing monkey."

"You just said—" He sat up slightly, looking down at you with an expression of dazed wonder. "You just said you love me."

"I said I might have been in love with you. Past tense. There's a difference."

"There is no difference and you know it."

"There's every difference and—"

He kissed you again, and it was different this time. Softer. Sweeter. Like he was trying to pour everything he felt into the shape of your mouth.

When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

"You have a funny way of showing it," he said.

"So do you."

"I made fun of you constantly."

"I threw books at you."

"We're very mature."

"Exceptionally mature." You reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know."

"That's not reassuring."

"I've never done this before." His eyes opened. "I've never—there's never been anyone else. Not like this."

You stared at him. "You're telling me the golden prince, the heir's heir, the most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms—"

"Stop."

"—has never—"

"Y/N, I'm warning you—"

"—been in love before?"

"I've been in love once." He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. "For four years. With a woman who throws books at me and calls me insufferable and reads about dead civilizations in the garden every morning."

"Rhoynar," you whispered. "They're not dead."

He laughed softly against your skin. "I don't care what they are. I care about you."

"What if this goes wrong?"

"Then it goes wrong."

"What if we ruin everything?"

"Then we ruin everything." He looked at you, steady and sure. "But what if it goes right? What if we're happy? What if this is the best thing that ever happens to us?"

"You're an optimist."

"I'm a realist. I've spent four years watching you from across rooms. Four years making excuses to talk to you. Four years pretending I didn't want to do exactly this." He gestured vaguely at your entangled position on the library floor. "I'm tired of pretending."

"So am I."

"Then let's stop."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." He kissed you again, brief and warm. "We'll figure it out. Together."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple. Complicated, but simple." He smiled that smile, the real one, the one that made your heart do flips. "We love each other. We've always loved each other. Everything else is just details."

"Details like your father."

"We'll tell him."

"My mother."

"She'll be thrilled. Every mother in the realm wants you for a daughter in law."

"Your mother thinks I'm too sharp."

"My mother thinks everyone's too sharp. She once called a kitten 'aggressive.'"

You laughed and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon.

"We're still going to fight," he said against your lips.

"Constantly."

"Good." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "I wouldn't want anything to change."

He kissed you again, and you kissed him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you knew there would be challenges ahead. Your mother. His father. The court. The endless gossips who would have opinions about the prince and the sharp-tongued beauty who'd scared off half the eligible lords in the realm.

But right now, in this moment, with his body warm against yours and his lips soft on your mouth and his heart beating against your chest—

Right now, everything was exactly as it should be.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, his smile was real, and there was a smudge of dust on his cheek from the library floor.

"You have something on your face," you said.

"Where?"

"Here." You reached up and wiped it away, letting your fingers linger on his skin. "Gone now."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I love you."

"I know."

"Say it back."

"No."

"Y/N."

"Ask me nicely."

He grinned, that insufferable beautiful grin. "Please, Y/N, the most beautiful, the smartest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, will you do me the honor of telling me you love me?"

You pretended to consider it. "I suppose I could be persuaded."

"And?"

"And I love you." The words felt strange on your tongue. Strange and wonderful and terrifyingly right. "I love you, you impossible, insufferable, wonderful man."

"I love you too." He kissed the tip of your nose. "My sharp-tongued beauty."

"My golden prince." He settled against you, his head on your shoulder, his arm across your waist. "Can we stay here forever?"

"Someone will find us."

"Let them."

"We'll be ruined."

"I've been ruined since I was twelve." He pressed a kiss to your collarbone. "I just didn't know it yet."

You lay there for a while longer, surrounded by fallen books and the dust of the library, his weight warm and solid against you. And you thought that maybe, just maybe, being the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms wasn't so bad after all.