Moony

And yet, seated beside you at supper in the smaller hall reserved for the royal household, Valarr discovered that his attention had wandered once again.

The table glowed with the warm reflection of candlelight. Servants moved quietly between courses, setting down platters of roasted quail and bowls of stewed apples. Conversation flowed easily along the length of the table—his father discussing the day’s petitions, a cousin recounting some minor absurdity from the city below.

Valarr heard none of it.

He was thinking about the way your hand felt inside his.

Your fingers rested in his grasp beneath the tablecloth, warm and soft against his palm. He had taken your hand absentmindedly at the beginning of the meal, intending nothing more than idle affection, yet some quiet instinct had tightened his hold and refused to release it.

You shifted slightly beside him.

“Husband,” you murmured pleasantly, “as much as I enjoy the touch of your hand, I should also like to enjoy my dinner.”

Your fingers wiggled in a patient attempt to loosen his grip.

Valarr blinked, drawn abruptly back to the present.

“Ah—sorry,” he said at once.

The apology was sincere.

His hand did not move.

You glanced sideways at him, brows lifting in amused disbelief. “Your words and your actions appear to disagree.”

He cleared his throat, finally loosening his hold by perhaps half an inch. “I did not realize I was holding so tightly.”

“You have imprisoned my hand for the better part of a course.”

“I was distracted.”

“So I have gathered.” The corner of your mouth curved as you reached for your spoon with your free hand, attempting to resume your meal. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before Valarr, still watching you with quiet concentration, lifted his own spoon instead.

“Allow me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You said you wished to eat,” he replied, as though the matter were self-evident. “If your hand is otherwise occupied, it seems proper that I assist.”

His logic was delivered in perfect seriousness.

You looked from the spoon to Valarr’s utterly composed expression, clearly attempting to determine whether he was teasing.

He was not.

“Valarr,” you said carefully, “I am quite capable of feeding myself.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Valarr agreed.

“And also presently.”

“You are presently missing one hand,” he tuts.

“Because you refuse to release it!”

“Oh, but that does not negate the inconvenience.”

You stared at him for another moment before a soft laugh escaped you despite your efforts.

“You cannot be serious.”

He raised the spoon slightly closer to your mouth.

“You will grow hungry otherwise.”

A faint murmur of poorly concealed amusement rippled along the table. Valarr ignored it with princely indifference, his attention fixed entirely upon you as though this exchange were the most reasonable arrangement in the world.

Your eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.

“I do not like how much you are enjoying this.”

Your husband looks at you innocently, “I am merely solving a problem.”

“You created the problem.”

“And so I am addressing it efficiently.”

The spoon remained suspended patiently between you. 

For a moment you seemed inclined to refuse on principle. Then your gaze flicked toward the observing relatives who had suddenly developed a deep interest in their goblets.

Your shoulders lifted in a small, conceding sigh.

“Very well,” you said.

Valarr’s expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes as you leaned forward and accepted the offered bite.

“There,” he said calmly. “Problem solved.”

You chewed thoughtfully.

“Have you considered,” you said after swallowing, “that you might simply release my hand?”

He looked down at your fingers still resting securely within his.

“The thought has yet to cross my mind.”

The answer arrived without hesitation.

“And why not?”

Valarr regarded you with mild surprise, as though the reason were obvious.

“Because I prefer it where it is.”

The simplicity of the admission caught you off guard. A faint warmth crept into your expression, though you quickly disguised it by reaching for your goblet.

Across the table, Baelor finally gave up any pretense of ignoring the exchange.

“Valarr,” his father said dryly, “your wife does possess two perfectly functional hands.”

“Yes,” Valarr agreed.

He offered you another spoonful.

“She is choosing not to use one of them.”

You covered your face briefly with your free hand, laughter escaping despite your best efforts.

“Your Highness,” you said between breaths, “I fear I may have married a madman.”

Valarr tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If that were true,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that the others could not easily hear, “you would not look quite so pleased about it.”

You turned toward him again then, meeting his gaze directly, and for a brief moment the playful noise of the hall faded around you.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours beneath the table. Nothing else explained why something as simple as holding your hand across a supper table felt more satisfying than any victory he had ever claimed in the yard.

Valarr lifted the spoon once more.

“Another bite,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, amusement lingering in your eyes.

Then you leaned forward obediently.

The court that morning had assembled in the long audience chamber where tall windows admitted pale light, spreading across the polished stone floor in long bands of gold. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred faintly in the draft from the galleries above, and the chamber hummed with the low murmur of noble voices.

The formal petitions had concluded not long before, leaving the court in that softer hour where conversation replaced ceremony and the true work of politics continued.

Valarr stood among them with the patience expected of a prince who had been raised within such rooms all his life. His posture remained relaxed, his expression attentive, though he had long ago learned to hear the direction of a conversation before it first began.

The lord presently speaking to him possessed the unfortunate confidence of a man who believed himself very clever.

Lord Harwyn was not an important man, though he behaved as though he might become one if he spoke often enough in the right company. His beard had gone mostly silver, and he held his wine cup with the thoughtful air of someone preparing to deliver an observation of significance.

“Your Grace,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “It seems scarcely a moment since the realm celebrated your wedding. Time passes more quickly every year, does it not?”

Valarr acknowledged the remark with a polite inclination of his own.

“So I am told.”

“Two moons already, I believe?” the lord continued. “Perhaps three?”

“Two,” Valarr said.

“Ah.” Lord Harwyn nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A young marriage still, then. The realm, of course, watches such unions with great hope.”

Several courtiers within earshot grew subtly attentive.

Valarr recognized the turn of the conversation at once. It was not an unfamiliar path.

“Hope,” the lord repeated thoughtfully, “for the continuation of so distinguished a line. Naturally one understands these things take time. Still, one cannot help but wonder when the gods might see fit to bless the union with… news.”

The remark hovered politely in the air.

It was delivered as sympathy.

It carried the unmistakable shape of a provocation.

Valarr regarded Lord Harwyn for a moment with mild consideration, as though the man had asked an unexpectedly practical question about taxation.

“You are quite right,” he said calmly. “The realm is very interested in such matters.”

The lord smiled, satisfied that his point had landed.

Valarr lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of wine before continuing.

“I can assure you, however,” he said, “that there is no lack of enthusiasm in the royal apartments.”

The silence that followed arrived with impressive speed.

Lord Harwyn blinked.

“I—Your Grace?”

Valarr seemed faintly surprised by the confusion.

“You appeared concerned that the marriage lacked… progress,” he explained with perfect courtesy. “I wished to reassure you that my wife and I are very diligent.”

Several listeners abruptly found the far wall fascinating.

The lord attempted a laugh that emerged somewhat thinner than intended. “Oh, I would never presume—”

“Quite right,” Valarr agreed pleasantly.

He tilted his head slightly, as though recalling something important.

“Although,” he added, with the faintest suggestion of amusement touching the corner of his mouth, “I should mention that two moons is hardly an extended campaign. Even the most determined efforts require a reasonable span of time.”

Lord Harwyn’s goblet hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely.

“I see,” he said weakly.

Valarr regarded him with polite interest.

“Do you require further clarification, my lord?”

“No!” the man said quickly. “None whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Valarr inclined his head once more, entirely satisfied that the matter had been addressed.

Across the chamber, several courtiers exchanged looks that balanced precariously between admiration and disbelief.

Because the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, ordinarily the most composed man in any room, had just spoken of his marriage with scandalous candor.

The murmurs began almost immediately after he excused himself and crossed the chamber.

A lady from the Stormlands leaned toward her companion with quiet amusement.

“Well,” she whispered, “one cannot accuse the prince of neglecting his duties.”

Her companion’s smile was thoughtful.

“Indeed not.”

She glanced toward the far side of the hall, where you stood speaking with one of the ladies of the court, sunlight catching the pale silk at your shoulders.

“It seems,” she added softly, “that the princess has discovered how to coax a very disciplined man into honesty.”

Across the chamber, Valarr approached you with his usual composed stride.

You glanced up at him as he reached your side, your expression brightening immediately.

“My husband,” you said lightly, “why does Lord Harwyn looking at us as though he has swallowed a lemon?”

Valarr followed your gaze briefly before returning his attention to you.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that he asked a question and received a thorough answer.”

You studied him for a moment.

The faint, suspicious curve of your smile suggested you did not entirely believe that explanation.

Nevertheless, your hand slipped easily through his arm, and as you leaned closer to murmur something that drew a rare, quiet laugh from him, several observers arrived at the same conclusion at once.

Whatever enchantment lay upon the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdom was not subtle.

And he did not appear to mind it in the least.

The chamber reserved for your afternoon preparations overlooked one of the inner gardens of the Red Keep, where roses climbed the stone walls and the early light filtered softly through tall lattice windows. Within the room, however, the atmosphere remained pleasantly unhurried.

Your handmaiden stood behind you, drawing a brush through your hair while you examined your reflection in the tall mirror set beside the dressing table. A tray of pins and ribbons lay neatly arranged nearby, and the gown selected for the evening. It is something dark and elegant, appropriate for court—waiting across the room where it had been carefully laid out.

For the moment, however, you remained comfortably seated in a simple shift of soft linen, your hair half-brushed and loose about your shoulders.

“Your Grace,” your handmaiden said after a moment, her tone careful.

The brush slowed slightly as though she were debating whether to continue.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, watching your reflection through the mirror as though deciding whether the question might cost her position.

“I do not mean to overstep my post,” she said finally, “but I have wondered something for some time.”

You lifted one brow with polite curiosity, tilting your head just enough that a loose strand of hair slid across your shoulder.

“Oh?”

“I was wondering,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what charms you used on Prince Valarr.”

You blinked, the surprise entirely genuine.

“What?”

“He is just so…” She searched for a word. “…enamored.”

Your smile appeared almost immediately, slow and amused.

“Is he?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with the earnest of someone who had spent weeks observing the evidence. “Everyone sees it.”

You leaned back slightly in the chair, the linen of your shift rustling softly as you shifted.

“Everyone?”

The brush paused briefly in your hair.

“You always know how to parry with him,” she continued. “In words, I mean. And he looks at you as though he has just remembered something important.”

You laughed softly, the sound light in the quiet room.

“That sounds awfully dramatic.”

“It is true,” the girl insisted. “You could wear a sack and he would still want to jump your—”

The door opened.

Your handmaiden stopped speaking so abruptly the brush nearly slipped from her hand.

Valarr entered mid-stride, clearly intending to finish whatever thought had occupied him before crossing the threshold.

“I wanted to speak with you about the arrangements for the evening audience because I believe the steward has misunderstood my—”

He stopped.

Entirely.

The remainder of the sentence dissolved somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

You turned slightly in your chair, the movement causing the loose fabric of your shift to shift along your shoulder.

“Good afternoon, husband.”

Valarr did not answer at once.

His gaze had fixed upon you with the kind of stunned look that suggested whatever he had come to say had completely abandoned him the moment he saw you.

Your shift, light and unadorned, slipped loosely over your shoulders, the linen catching the afternoon sun where it gathered at your collarbone. Your hair, only half-brushed, fell freely down your back in waves that had not yet been arranged into the composed elegance usually seen at court.

It was, by all reasonable standards, a perfectly innocent sight. However, your husband looked as though he had been struck by something invisible.

Your handmaiden, sensing with sudden clarity that she had wandered into dangerous territory, lowered her eyes and very quietly pretended to rearrange the ribbons on the dressing table.

Valarr cleared his throat.

“You cannot wear that.”

You stared at him through the mirror.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely in your direction as though the concept required no further elaboration.

You looked down at the shift, pinching the linen lightly between your fingers.

Then back at him.

“It is a linen shift,” you said patiently.

“Yes.”

“You are aware that it is worn beneath clothing.”

“I am very aware,” Valarr said stiffly.

“And I am presently getting dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” you asked sweetly, “is my undergarment suddenly a matter of royal concern?”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it, gaze flickering briefly toward your handmaiden before returning to you with visible restraint.

“Because,” he said carefully, “the door was open.”

“And?”

“And anyone could walk in.”

Your handmaiden coughed softly, still facing the table, her shoulders rising slightly as she tried to remain invisible.

You tilted your head, studying him with growing amusement.

“Anyone did walk in.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly.

“That is precisely the issue.”

You studied him for a moment before your smile widened with unmistakable mischief.

“Husband,” you said, “are you jealous of my shift?”

“I am not jealous of a piece of garment.”

“Then what has got you so worked up?”

Valarr did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door, the latch settling firmly into place.

Your handmaiden froze where she stood.

Valarr returned his attention to you.

“I am objecting,” he said calmly, “to the possibility that anyone else might see what I am presently seeing.”

Your brows lifted.

“Which is?”

He gestured again.

“You!”

You spread your hands lightly, the gesture causing the loose sleeves of the shift to fall farther along your arms.

“I should hope so.”

“In that,” he continued dryly, “there lies the problem.”

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room.

“Valarr, if you wish me to remain unseen by the world, you will find court life very inconvenient.”

“Believe me, I am already finding it inconvenient,” he mutters angrily.

Your handmaiden’s shoulders trembled slightly as she attempted to remain silent.

You caught the movement in the mirror and raised one brow.

“Am I amusing you?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said quickly.

Valarr folded his arms.

“You encourage this.”

“Encourage what?”

“The habit of speaking freely in your presence.”

“Would you prefer I frighten the servants?”

“That might simplify matters.”

You turned in your chair to face him fully now, your eyes bright with teasing.

“My prince,” you said, “I am really having a hard time imagining how you survived before marrying me.”

“I was calmer,” he said at once. “And lonelier.” He paused.

Your handmaiden watched the exchange with growing fascination.

Because what she had said earlier was true: you did parry with him, effortlessly, and the Crown Prince—who intimidated half the court into respectful silence—appeared strangely content to be challenged.

Valarr exhaled quietly.

“You should at least have closed the door.”

“Might I remind you that you were the one who opened it.”

“Well, you should have anticipated that.”

“You are suggesting I should predict your movements now?”

“Precisely.”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, one finger absently tracing the edge of the mirror frame.

“That seems like a great deal of responsibility.”

“It would spare me unnecessary distress.”

“Distress?” you echoed, delighted. “Over a shift?”

“Yes,” your husband affirms, exasperated.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Husband,” you said softly, “if this distresses you, I dread to think what will happen when I put the gown on.”

Valarr looked genuinely uncertain.

Your handmaiden’s eyes widened slightly at the exact moment the formidable Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms realized he had walked into a battle he might not win.

“You do this deliberately,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Your smile softened just a fraction.

“Because you look very handsome when you lose your composure.”

He stared at you.

Your handmaiden stared at both of you.

And slowly Valarr’s expression shifted. “Well,” he said quietly, “that is an unfortunate habit.”

Valarr stopped beside your chair, looking down at you with an intensity that made your handmaiden suddenly very interested in the arrangement of hairpins again.

“Then,” he said softly, “you should take care.”

“Why?”

His mouth curved very slightly.

“Because I will return the favor.”

You studied him for a moment. Then your smile returned, brighter than before.

“I look forward to the attempt.”

Behind you, your handmaiden finally understood. It was not charms that bewitched the prince. It was the simple  truth that you spoke to the Crown Prince as though he were merely a man. And Valarr  seemed to adore you for it.

That midnight, the heavy curtains around the bed stirred faintly with the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the cool salt smell of Blackwater Bay.

You had been asleep. Very soundly, in fact.

Until you woke with the distinct and increasingly urgent realization that you were terribly thirsty.

For a moment, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking into the dimness as you gathered your senses, your mind slow with sleep. Your throat felt dry, and somewhere on the small table across the chamber sat the pitcher of water that suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

You sighed softly.

It would only take a moment.

Carefully you attempted to sit up.

You did not get far.

An arm tightened around your waist with immediate precision, dragging you firmly back against the warm solid weight behind you before you had even lifted your head from the pillow.

Valarr.

His bare chest was pressed along your back beneath the blankets, warm and solid, his skin still heated from sleep, and his face was buried somewhere near the curve of your neck, his breath slow and warm against your skin. One arm was wrapped so securely around your middle that it felt less like an embrace and more like a restraint devised by a particularly affectionate gaoler, his hand splayed across the soft fabric of your shift as though even in sleep he required the reassurance that you were still there.

You attempted again, gently shifting your weight.

The arm tightened further, his body instinctively following yours so that your back pressed even more firmly into him.

You sighed again, though this time it came out quieter, more resigned.

“Valarr,” you murmured softly.

No response.

You nudged his forearm where it lay across your stomach.

“Valarr.”

Still nothing.

He made a vague sound that might have been a hum or a protest and pulled you a fraction closer, if such a thing were even possible, his face pressing more firmly against the warm hollow beneath your ear.

You stared at the canopy above the bed.

This was going to be difficult.

You reached back, patting lightly at his arm.

“My prince,” you tried again, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

A long moment passed.

Then, at last, he stirred—only enough that his brow shifted against your shoulder and his grip tightened once more, subconsciously ensuring that something precious had not wandered off in the night. His fingers flexed faintly against your waist, brushing the fabric of your shift as though seeking skin beneath it.

“Mm.”

You waited for his reply, but nothing else followed.

“Valarr,” you said again, a little more insistently now, though still quiet enough not to shatter the fragile peace of the room.

He inhaled slowly, the breath warm against the back of your neck, and muttered something into your skin that was decidedly not a word.

“I need to get up.”

Another pause.

His hand slid lazily over your waist as though attempting to soothe you back into stillness, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded line along your side.

“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You blinked.

“Stay.”

You turned your head slightly, peering back at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, his hair a dark and thoroughly disordered halo against the pillow. For a prince who spent his waking hours composed and precise to the point of severity, he looked thoroughly rumpled now—bare-chested beneath the blankets, hair mussed, his arm stubbornly locked around you like a man who had no intention of surrendering his hold.

And entirely unmovable.

“Valarr,” you said patiently, “I cannot stay.”

A faint frown appeared between his brows, though his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

“Why.”

“I am thirsty.”

Another long pause followed as your husband processed this grievous piece of information.

Then his arm tightened again, pulling you back against the steady heat of him.

“There is water,” he said vaguely.

“Yes,” you replied, glancing toward the table across the room. “Over there.”

Silence.

Then, very slowly, his eyes opened.

He stared at the dark canopy above the bed for several seconds as if deeply reconsidering the existence of thirst itself, before his gaze drifted downward toward you, lingering with slow reluctance.

You waited.

He blinked once, heavily.

“Drink it in the morning.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I would if I could survive that long.”

Valarr made a soft, dissatisfied sound and buried his face back into the hollow of your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin there as though the argument might simply end if he held you closer.

“No.”

“Valarr.”

“No.”

“Valarr,” you repeated, this time gently prying at his arm. “I truly must go.”

He groaned softly, the sound low and entirely put-upon, but after a moment his hold loosened just enough for you to slip free, though his hand lingered stubbornly at your waist as though reluctant to let you escape entirely.

You barely managed to sit up before a hand closed lazily around your wrist.

You turned.

Valarr was watching you now, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused with sleep, his expression the particular kind of weary irritation reserved for inconveniences occurring in the middle of the night.

“Where,” he asked slowly, “do you think you are going.”

You gestured toward the table.

“Water.”

His gaze followed your hand.

He squinted at the distant pitcher as though it had personally offended him.

Then he sighed—long and dramatic—and pushed himself up onto one elbow, the blankets sliding slightly down his torso.

“Wait.”

“I am already halfway there.”

“Wait.”

Before you could argue further, he dragged a hand through his already unruly hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still blinking like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep.

You blinked.

“Valarr, you do not need to—”

“I am coming with you.”

You stared at him.

“To fetch water?”

He gave you a look that suggested this was an extraordinarily foolish question.

“You are wandering across the chamber in the middle of the night,” he said hoarsely. “I am not letting you do it alone.”

You could not help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“It is merely three steps.”

“It is still across the room.”

“Goodness, you are being absurd.”

“And you are terribly demanding for someone who woke me,” he muttered, pushing himself fully to his feet and immediately reaching for you again.

You laughed quietly as he guided you toward the table with a hand resting at the small of your back, his palm warm even through the thin fabric of your shift, his movements slow with lingering sleep.

The floor was cool beneath your feet, the chamber peaceful in the dim glow of the dying fire.

He poured the water himself, blinking down into the cup like a man performing a complex diplomatic task.

Then he handed it to you.

You drank gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat.

Valarr watched you the entire time, his expression softening slightly as the last of your sleepiness faded, his gaze lingering with quiet attentiveness as though ensuring the crisis had truly passed.

When you finished, he took the cup from your hand and set it back beside the pitcher.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Well what?”

“Better?”

You nodded.

“Much.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer.

Without another word, he took your hand again and guided you back to the bed, pulling the blankets aside with sleepy determination.

The moment you settled beneath them, Valarr followed immediately, drawing you back against him with quiet urgency as though reclaiming something temporarily misplaced.

This time he pulled you closer still, one arm sliding firmly around your waist while the other slipped beneath the blanket to rest against the bare skin of your side, clearly dissatisfied with the barrier of fabric. His palm settled there, warm and possessive, his chest pressed along your back once more as he tucked you securely against him.

You smiled faintly into the pillow.

“You realize,” you murmured, “I could have fetched the water myself.”

Valarr’s voice came low and drowsy beside your ear.

“I am aware.” His grip tightened slightly, his fingers brushing slowly along your skin now that they had found it, the touch absentminded and deeply content.

“But,” he said after a moment, his voice softening with that rare warmth he saved only for you, “if you are awake, I would rather be awake with you.”

You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple before his face settled once more into the curve of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing again as sleep reclaimed him.

And though the pitcher now sat only a few steps away, you found that you no longer minded being held quite so tightly by the same man who, in the daylight, unhorsed knights before roaring crowds yet seemed entirely incapable of sleeping without his wife firmly within reach.

The tourney had transformed the fields beyond King’s Landing into a spectacle, where banners bearing the three-headed dragon snapped in the wind and the air carried the scents of grass, horseflesh, and roasting meat from the encampments beyond the lists. Pavilions in crimson and black lined the eastern rise as hedge knights polished helms beside highborn lords. 

The event had been declared in honor of visiting dignitaries from the Reach, yet no one failed to understand that it served another purpose as well, for a prince who stood so near the line of succession entered the lists so that men might measure him with their own eyes and carry word of what they saw back to their keeps.

Valarr understood that admiration, if it came, must be earned in plain view; for that reason, he approached the practice yard adjoining the main field with the same severity he brought to council chambers, intent upon sharpening his blade before the morrow’s melee and offering no one cause to whisper that dragon’s blood had thinned in him.

He just had not expected you to be there.

The rope that separated competitors from spectators had been laid, and the covered gallery beyond it offered shade for noble ladies who preferred distance from the violent clashing of steel. 

You ignored it entirely.

Instead, you stood at the very edge of the yard with your skirts gathered in one hand, speaking to Ser Donnel as though the ringing of blades were no more disruptive than a lively tune at supper. Morning light caught in your hair and along the pale silk at your shoulders, where a fastening of Targaryen red marked your betrothal. Several knights who ought to have been studying their footwork found their attention straying toward your smile.

Valarr told himself that your presence altered nothing. You stood well beyond the reach of stray strikes, guarded by men who would sooner bleed than allow harm near you.

Even so, when he lowered his helm and faced a Reach knight clad in green-enameled ivy, he felt the unwelcome pull of divided focus.

The first exchange rang clean, steel meeting steel in a manner Valarr had predicted, yet your unmistakable laughter drifted across the yard. 

For a fraction of a second his concentration faltered. 

The Reachman seized it, feinting left before turning sharply upward. The blow glanced off Valarr’s pauldron and scraped along his gorget, leaving a thin line of red.

It was not a serious wound. It was, however, witnessed.

You clapped at the spectacle.

The sound carried farther than it should have.

A few younger knights stiffened. Ser Donnel shifted uneasily. Valarr removed his helm with deliberate calm and handed it to his squire, whose hands betrayed what his prince would not. Then he crossed the churned earth toward you, mud dark against his boots, the faint line of blood vivid at his collar.

“I was not aware,” he said when he reached you, voice smooth but sharpened at the edges, “that today’s training required commentary.”

You tilted your head, as though considering the matter in earnest. “I would never presume to critique, Your Grace. I merely wished to discover whether my betrothed is as formidable as the realm insists.”

“The realm insists upon many things.”

“Yes,” you agreed lightly. “I have been told you are unrivaled with a blade, that no man living could best you unless fortune intervened. One hears it so often that it begins to sound less like admiration and more like a legend.”

His gaze sharpened, though his posture did not change. “A legend.”

“I only mean,” you continued, softening your tone as though sharing a private thought rather than issuing a challenge, “that men are sometimes inclined to polish a story when it concerns a prince who stands so near the throne. It would be awkward, after all, to admit that he is simply very good, rather than untouchable.”

No one nearby pretended deafness.

Valarr had endured flattery and envy since childhood, yet no one had suggested to his face that his reputation might rest upon rank rather than merit. What unsettled him most was the lack of cruelty in your voice. You were unabashedly measuring him.

“You suspect my skill is a courtesy,” he said evenly.

“I suspect I would prefer to see it proven,” you replied. “I would not wish to marry a legend and discover I had been promised a rumor.”

An unfamiliar heat swiftly rose beneath his composure. He had entered the yard intent on satisfying watching lords whose approval would lead into alliances.

Now he found himself wanting to satisfy you. 

He turned back toward the field. “Ser Alester,” he called.

The Reach knight hesitated. “Your Grace, we have already—”

“You will continue.”

The second bout began without flourish. Valarr advanced with measured precision, parrying with economical force, pressing his opponent back step by deliberate step. There was no wasted movement now. The ivy-etched blade wavered. With a clean twist of his wrist, Valarr disarmed him. 

A murmur rose. Valarr did not acknowledge it.

Another knight stepped forward, courage stirred. Valarr met him with the same relentless clarity. The exchange lasted longer, sweat gathering beneath his armour. When it ended, the second opponent knelt, weapon gone, dignity intact but defeat undeniable.

Applause rolled from the edges of the yard. Valarr removed his helm again and sought you immediately.

Mud streaked him. The shallow cut at his collar had deepened slightly. Yet he stood before you composed, gaze intent.

“Well?” he asked.

You stepped closer to the rope, studying him without mockery now. “It seems the realm is not entirely generous in its praise.”

“Not entirely?” One brow lifted.

“I reserve judgment pending further evidence,” you replied, though admiration softened your tone. “It would be careless to conclude after only two demonstrations.”

A faint smile touched his mouth before he could prevent it.

“You wished to see whether I was as skilled as they claim,” he said quietly. “Take care with your tests. I am not accustomed to failing them.”

“And if you do?” you asked, light but watchful.

He straightened, lineage settling over him like armor, yet his gaze remained fixed on yours.

“I do not fail,” he answered. “Not where it concerns what is mine to defend.”

And though his composure remained intact, it no longer belonged solely to him. It had been moved, subtly and irrevocably, by the simple fact that your opinion mattered more than the roar of the crowd.

You are a cruel woman, Valarr decides.

A cruel, beguiling woman sent to torment him.

The feast had been arranged in the great hall of the Red Keep splendor.

Valarr endured such evenings with the same restraint he brought to combat, for he understood that feasts were battlefields of another sort. He had long ago schooled his expression into courteous attentiveness, permitting neither boredom nor irritation to show, because princes who displayed too much feeling invited speculation.

He had not anticipated jealousy.

The lordling in question was scarcely worthy of notice, being a second son from a modest house sworn to a greater Reach lord, and he possessed the unfortunate combination of too much wine and too little discernment.

From across the hall, Valarr observed him lean toward you with an eagerness that would have been comical had it not unsettled something uncomfortably sharp beneath his ribs. You sat among the ladies of the court in a gown of pale blue that caught the firelight at every fold, listening with polite interest as the young man recounted some hunting exploit whose details grew more elaborate with each refill of his cup.

You were not behaving improperly, nor did your laughter carry any note of invitation beyond your natural warmth, yet when your fingers brushed the lordling’s sleeve in an absent gesture of emphasis, Valarr felt an unwelcome tightening in his chest that refused to be reasoned away.

He told himself that nothing in the exchange warranted intervention, that you were entitled to harmless conversation, and that his own reaction was disproportionate to the cause; nevertheless, the sight of the man leaning closer, encouraged by your easy attentiveness, stirred an agitation that bore little resemblance to the disciplined composure he prized.

Harmless, he informed himself.

The word did not settle.

What unsettled him most was not the lordling’s boldness, something that you remained unaware of the effect you produced. You met attention with brightness, and men, mistaking kindness for invitation, interpreted what was freely given as something meant for them alone. The prince was willing to admit he had fallen victim of this.

Valarr watched the way the lordling’s gaze lingered at your throat, the way he angled his body to claim more of your notice, and he discovered, with faint astonishment, that no amount of reason could offer relief against the tide of irritation rising within him.

This woman, he thought with exasperation that bordered upon incredulity, is a trial sent expressly to test my restraint.

He rose.

The scrape of his chair against stone carried farther than he intended, drawing the attention of those seated nearby, yet he did not soften the sound, for something in him had decided that quiet tolerance would only prolong his discomfort. He crossed the length of the hall with unhurried steps, acknowledging greetings with minimal inclination of the head, until he reached the place where you sat.

“My lord,” Valarr drawled, coming to stand behind the young man’s chair, one hand settling upon it with idle deliberation, “you seem to have mistaken your surroundings.”

The lordling blinked up at him, color draining from cheeks already flushed with wine. “Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Valarr said mildly. “You appear to be speaking to my betrothed as though she were a seasonal fair prize.”

The hall’s hum dimmed perceptibly.

You turned toward him, surprise flickering across your features. “Valarr—”

“She is not unclaimed,” he continued, tone smooth but eyes sharp. “Nor is she in want of your admiration. I assure you, she is sufficiently supplied.”

The lordling stammered apologies, nearly upsetting his cup in his haste to rise and retreat, and several nearby ladies exchanged glances that mingled amusement with curiosity. Valarr inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the apology, then remained where he stood until the young man had put a respectable distance between himself and your seat.

When the noise of the hall cautiously resumed, you faced him fully, sunshine incarnate despite the storm cloud looming over you.

“That was unnecessary,” you said in a tone pitched low enough to avoid further spectacle.

“Was it?” he replied, and although his voice retained its courtly moderation, his jaw remained set more firmly than custom demanded. “I thought I had discovered a stray hound circling the table in hopes of scraps.”

Your brows lifted. “A hound?”

“Yes. Eager. Underfed in discernment.” His gaze flicked pointedly toward the retreating figure. “Uncertain where it is permitted to sniff.”

You choked on a laugh. “You cannot possibly be comparing him to a dog.”

“I can,” Valarr said. “And I find the comparison charitable.”

“You are dreadful!"

“Am I wrong?” Valarr asked, lowering his voice as he met your gaze. “He was appraising.”

“And that somehow offends you?”

“It does when he acts like a fool at market deciding whether the mare before him might carry his colors."

“I am not a mare.”

“No,” he agreed, gaze sliding over you in a way that was distinctly not courtly. “You are considerably more trouble.”

Your smile only widened. “You are jealous.”

“I am inconvenienced,” he said at once.

“By what?”

“By the persistence of lesser sons who mistake your brightness as an invitation.”

“I was simply being polite.”

“Yes,” he said darkly. “You are always polite. That is the problem.”

You stepped closer, unfazed by the tension coiled in him. “You dislike that I smiled at him.”

“I dislike that he believed he earned it.”

You tilted your head, sunlight to his shade. “And what should I do? Scowl at every man who speaks to me?”

“It would save me time,” he muttered.

You laughed outright at that.

“You,” he said, leaning slightly closer, voice lowering into something rougher at the edges, “are entirely too pleased with yourself.”

Your expression softened, not surrendering, never that, but warming. “I did wonder how long you would tolerate it.”

He huffed a quiet breath. “You test me.”

“And you glare so beautifully when provoked.”

“That is not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

He looked at you then, properly looked, and some of the sharpness dulled into reluctant affection. “You are insufferably cheerful about this.”

“I find it charming,” you replied sweetly, “that a prince who can face down seasoned knights is undone by a second son with too much wine.”

“I am not undone.”

“You compared him to a stray hound.”

A pause.

“He was sniffing,” Valarr muttered.

Your laughter rang bright enough to turn heads again, and this time he did not step away from it. Instead he moved to your side of his own accord, close enough that no one could mistake his position.

“If another hound approaches,” you whispered conspiratorially, “shall I fetch you at once?”

His jaw flexed, but there was no mistaking the heat beneath it now. “If another approaches,” he said, low and dry, “I shall assume you have taken to scattering crumbs.”

You gasped in mock offense.

He leaned nearer still, voice dropping just for you. “Do not look so delighted. I am serious.”

“I know,” you said, beaming up at him.

This woman, he thought again, not without a trace of reluctant admiration, unsettles me beyond reason.

Throughout the remainder of the evening, he did not stray far, and though he told himself that vigilance was prudent given the eyes upon you, he could not deny that he remained because he wished to, because the agitation you inspired was preferable to the calm he had was used to.

You are far more cunning than anyone gave you credit for.

Valarr had been told by his father that you were well-born and clever, but he had not anticipated a mind that could rival a king’s own.

A flicker of curiosity passed over him as he watched you—how easily you weighed each possibility, measured each risk. There was precision in your movements, a confidence that suggested this was more than a simple pastime. He realized then that the mind behind those calculating eyes was already several steps ahead, shaping the play before it began.

By the time you leaned back in your chair and studied the board with that dangerous gleam, the game had already drawn an audience. Amber light filtered through the latticework windows of the solar and caught along the carved cyvasse pieces.

Valarr’s posture remained composed, his expression unreadable. Yet he had begun to understand that the true threat was not on the board. You had pressed him for hours, each move placed lightly, almost playfully, while his defenses narrowed in ways that felt inevitable.

The maids lingered without shame now, pretending to tidy what had long since been set in order. Two young knights hovered near the doorway while watching their prince lose ground one square at a time.

Just as he adjusted his formation in an attempt to regain control, you rested your chin on your folded hands and suggested, with airy curiosity, that the match might benefit from stakes.

He looked up at once. “Stakes,” he repeated carefully.

“A modest wager,” you said. “If I win, you grant me a gift.”

“And if you lose?” he asked.

You examined the board with exaggerated seriousness. “Then I will declare before all present that Your Highness is indisputably superior in both strategy and intellect.”

A few of the maids failed to conceal their amusement.

He studied you instead of the pieces. Jewels would mean nothing to you. Lands would be redundant. He wondered what you believed he might give.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” he said.

“I am optimistic,” you replied, which told him nothing.

He accepted the wager. Refusal would look like doubt, and he would not give the room that satisfaction.

The game resumed, and Valarr advanced with bold intent, pressing hard. You brightened at the change, as though this was what you had wanted all along.

When the end came, it arrived shockingly. His king stood encircled. There was no honorable path left open.

You did not announce it at once. Instead you traced the line of his entrapment with one finger, guiding his eye through the careful design of his defeat before lifting your gaze to his.

“Shall I demonstrate,” you asked softly, “or does the prince concede?”

The room stilled.

Valarr inclined his head. “I concede.”

The maids exhaled in poorly disguised triumph. One of the knights muttered something in shock. You ignored them all and leaned forward instead, close enough that he caught the faint scent of citrus at your wrist.

“My gift,” you reminded him gently.

He folded his hands on the table to keep them steady. “Name it,” he said, confident that whatever you asked could be granted without lasting consequence.

You tilted your head and regarded him as though he were the puzzle now.

“What does a lady who has everything desire?” you mused.

“I would think she lacks nothing,” he answered.

Your smile shifted, softer but far more certain. “On the contrary. There is one thing I have not yet received.”

The air in the room thinned.

“And what is that?”

You did not hesitate. “A kiss.”

The word landed cleanly. The maids gasped outright.

Valarr went very still. He had negotiated disputes between proud lords without faltering. He had faced seasoned knights in the yard and foreign envoys across council tables. None of it had prepared him for this.

Heat rose unmistakably along his cheekbones. It betrayed him at once.

“You ask boldly,” he said, and the effort required to keep his voice steady surpassed any maneuver he had attempted that afternoon.

“And you agreed freely,” you replied, eyes bright. “Would you deny me what I won?”

He rose. He offered you his hand. When you stood before him, the board forgotten between you, he hesitated only briefly before bending.

The kiss he placed on your cheek was proper and it should have been enough.

You turned your face at the last instant, so that his lips brushed the corner of your mouth instead. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a visible tremor through him. The flush deepened.

You stepped back with perfect composure and a curtsy that concealed nothing in your eyes.

“My prince,” you said sweetly, “you honor your debts.”

He remained standing there a moment too long. The warmth lingered where your skin had met his. He was aware of every gaze in the room, and more aware of the fact that he did not regret it.

The solar dissolved into whispers. He dismissed them with a single look, until the chamber emptied. Still, your laughter echoed in his mind long after the door closed.

He stood beside the abandoned board, fingers resting where yours had been. The wood felt cool beneath his touch. His lips did not.

When he finally stepped into the corridor, he lifted his hand to his mouth without thinking. The heat returned instantly. He exhaled, half exasperated, half astonished.

He had lost a game.

And he had never been more certain that he wished to lose to you again.

Like a seasoned duelist, Valarr knew precisely when to bide his time—and when to strike. He found his moment on one fateful night. Chivalry be damned; his patience had frayed, and he could no longer endure being outmaneuvered. He was, quite simply, a sore loser.

The rain had begun before dusk and had shown no intention of relenting, descending in silver veils that blurred the city below the Red Keep and turned the torchlit courtyards into wavering pools of reflected flame. Within the great hall, however, the storm only heightened the intimacy of the evening’s gathering, for the windows rattled softly against the wind while braziers burned hotter than usual.

Lords who might otherwise have dispersed to private amusements remained clustered beneath vaulted arches, and the ladies of the court displayed their accomplishments with renewed enthusiasm, as though artistry could rival thunder.

You moved easily among them, radiant in a gown the color of summer wheat, pausing to admire a length of Myrish lace or to inquire after a melody newly learned upon the harp. Your presence altered the atmosphere of any circle you joined, and Valarr, who had stationed himself near one of the tall windows overlooking the rain-swept yard, found his gaze returning to you with a frequency that bordered upon mania.

He had grown accustomed to your teasing, to the bright tilt of your head and the deliberate boldness with which you tested his restraint, and though he would not have admitted it aloud, he had begun to anticipate those exchanges with something perilously close to eagerness.

It occurred to him, as lightning flashed faintly beyond the glass, that he had never once unsettled you in return.

The opportunity presented itself when Lady Mertha of the Westerlands, a young woman possessed of remarkable skill with a needle, approached the prince to present a length of embroidery she had recently completed for the sept. The piece depicted the Mother in soft gold thread, her expression rendered with delicate precision, and several courtiers gathered close to admire the workmanship.

“It is exquisite, my lady,” Valarr said, allowing genuine appreciation to color his tone as he traced the air just above the stitched pattern without touching it. “The balance of color suggests both discipline and imagination, which rarely coexist so harmoniously.”

Lady Mertha flushed with pleased surprise, and those nearby murmured agreement.

You had drawn near at some point during his remarks, and although your posture remained perfectly composed, your hand stilled where it rested upon the back of a chair. The faintest tightening appeared at the corner of your mouth, subtle enough that none but someone studying you intently would have marked it, yet Valarr saw it with startling clarity.

He continued, aware of the experiment unfolding even as he conducted it. “The realm is fortunate to foster such talents," he added, inclining his head toward Lady Mertha.

The words were courteous, appropriate, even deserved; nevertheless, he felt the precise moment your composure shifted, as though a current had altered direction beneath calm water. You stepped forward then, offering your own compliment to the lady with gracious warmth, yet there was an undercurrent in your voice that had not been present earlier.

Valarr experienced, to his quiet astonishment, a flicker of satisfaction.

The remainder of the evening unfolded without overt incident, yet he did not fail to notice that you did not once glance toward him.

When at last the gathering began to disperse, he excused himself from a lingering conversation and followed the corridor that led toward the smaller gallery overlooking the inner gardens.

He found you there, standing beneath a covered archway where vines clung to stone darkened by moisture, watching the rain bead upon the leaves below. The torches set in iron brackets cast a warm glow across your profile, illuminating the thoughtful set of your expression.

“You abandoned the hall early,” he observed, coming to stand beside you without intruding upon your space.

“I feared I might distract from Lady Mertha's triumph,” you replied, your tone pleasantly neutral. “Her embroidery appeared to command your full attention.”

He allowed a moment to pass before answering, studying the way you kept your gaze fixed upon the garden rather than on him. “It would seem,” he said at last, “that the lark possesses claws after all.”

You turned then, eyes narrowing slightly as comprehension dawned. “You were provoking me.”

The faint curve of his mouth did not quite soften the deliberateness of his reply. “I was only observing.”

“Observing what?”

“How it feels,” he said, meeting your gaze with unflinching steadiness, “to watch another command what one considers one’s own.”

The honesty of the admission drew a subtle shift in your posture, surprise mingling with reluctant understanding. “You compared embroidery to me?”

“I compared admiration to admiration,” he corrected. “You have long delighted in testing my composure before others. I found myself curious whether yours was equally resilient.”

“And was it?” you asked, lifting your chin in familiar challenge.

He considered you carefully before responding. “Not entirely.”

A silence settled between you. The rain traced soft patterns upon stone beyond the archway, and somewhere distant a servant’s footsteps echoed along the corridor.

“You could have simply asked,” you said after a moment. “I would have told you that I dislike being reminded you have choices.”

“I have always known I have choices,” he replied. “What I wished to know was whether you disliked that knowledge.”

You drew a slow breath, as though steadying yourself. “I do not enjoy imagining that another woman might capture your interest.”

“Oh, there was no capture,” he said, and though his voice remained composed, it carried an undercurrent of intensity. “There was only demonstration that you are not the only one capable of unsettling another.”

The candor of that statement sent a faint warmth across your cheeks, and he felt again that unexpected satisfaction, though it was tempered now with something gentler.

He had not intended cruelty, nor had he wished to wound you; he had only sought to understand the sensation you so frequently inspired in him, that sharp awareness of wanting and guarding and proving.

“You test me, and I endure it because I enjoy the trial. I wondered whether you would endure the same.”

“And if I had not?”

His gaze lingered upon you with deliberate care. “Then I would have ceased.”

The simplicity of that assurance unraveled the last of your defensiveness. You studied him in the torchlight, seeing perhaps for the first time the deliberate choice behind his composure, the way he wielded restraint not as shield but as instrument.

“You wished to know how it feels,” you said quietly.

“Yes.”

“And?”

He allowed himself the smallest concession of vulnerability. “It is inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient,” you repeated, a smile threatening despite your efforts.

“It disrupts thought,” he elaborated. “It renders measured judgment… less reliable.”

“You mean it makes you jealous.”

He inclined his head, neither denying nor embellishing the truth. “It appears so.”

A laugh escaped you then, lighter than before but tinged with something more intimate. “You could have spared Lady Mertha the experiment.”

“She benefited from honest praise,” he replied. “The embroidery was indeed accomplished.”

“And I?” you pressed.

“You,” he said, stepping a fraction closer, though still leaving space for retreat, “remain the only person whose composure I have any desire to disturb.”

You searched his expression as though weighing the sincerity of his intent, then allowed your hand to brush lightly against his sleeve.

“You have learned quickly,” you murmured.

“I have had an attentive instructor,” he returned.

Valarr had discovered that he could unsettle you, that beneath your brightness lay a possessiveness not unlike his own, and rather than diminishing his regard, the knowledge deepened it.

And though he told himself that such experiments should be conducted sparingly, he could not deny that the sight of you momentarily undone by his design lingered in his thoughts with a sweetness he had not expected, nor entirely resisted.

You envied your husband Valarr greatly.

You rested your hand on your stomach once again flipping over to find a sliver of relief. The scorching heat flowed through your room like fire on wood.

The heat mixed with the babe in your womb made your life miserable these past few days.

As much as you loved the nearing moment of motherhood, it wasn’t being so kind as of late.

Valarr snored beside you unaware of the world beyond his dreams. The heat was not affecting him in the slightest.

“It’s your fault.” You groaned sitting up.

“If it wasn’t for the wine we drank, that your family bought, we would not be in this situation.” You lit the candle beside your bed and held it close as you left the room.

Your guard Ser Blane stood firm. “Princess you should not be up at these late hours.”

“You try carrying extra weight on you and sleep in that hellfire, Ser Blane. Then you may tell me what to do.” You said closing the door.

“Only two moons time, princess. Then you shall do what you please. But under the orders of Prince Valarr, you are to stay resting.”

“Well he can shove it.” You muttered as you started to walk forward. “I’m taking a walk to get some air, do not follow me Ser.”

“But—”

“Do you want to anger me further? Stay guarding the Prince, I won’t be long.” You waved him off starting your stride along the Red Keep.

The sweat on your body glistened as the moon shined through the windows. The cool air gave comfort as you roamed.

Your eyes lit up at the familiar sight of the old wing you used to reside in before marriage. The rooms stayed vacant after, with yours being turned into a study room for yourself. A gift from King Daeron II in honor of your betrothal to his grandson.

Your hand moved along the shelves picking up the small wooden figures Valarr had commissioned years back. Your hand rested on the dragon before picking it up.

“Only a few more months my little dragon.” You ran a hand over your stomach before setting it back down. “Then we both can hopefully get some sleep.”

You moved the curtain letting the moonlight and breeze in. A sigh of relief left your mouth as you sat on the bed.

You moved the furs aside and covered your body. You weren’t sure when you drifted off to sleep. But Gods know you truly needed it.

Valarr stirred as the sunlight beamed through the curtain.

He turned to your side and put his hand out only to be met with emptiness. A once endearing gesture where he’d cradle your stomach and asked how you slept, turned into a living nightmare.

Valarr sat up straight examining your bedside. The candle was gone, the sheets were cool and you were obviously not there.

He put on his clothes not bothering to call on anyone to help him. He didn’t care to fix his hair or look the part of a prince. He was just a husband scared to death looking for his wife.

“Ser Blane, where is he?” He asked taking note of the guards switch.

“I am unsure, my prince. Most likely with the rest of the Kingsguard.” Ser Brack said.

“Get him.” Valarr said through gritted teeth.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” 

“My wife is gone. She wasn't in our chambers.” His voice raised in annoyance. 

Ser Brack nodded his head and sprinted off towards White Sword Tower. Valarr soothed his hair and went the other direction in search of his father or brother.

He caught sight of his father first. Well actually his father caught him.

“Valarr, why are you in a rush?” Baelor said as he held Valarr’s arm.

Baelor took note of the wild look on his son's face. His mismatched eyes looked everywhere but directly at him.

“She wasn’t in our room. My wife is gone.” He said, voice cracking.

“She couldn’t have gone far.” Baelor kept his voice calm so as not to scare his son.

When his late wife Jena was pregnant both times she’d often had restless nights and the heat at Kings Landing didn’t make those nights any easier.

“I’ll instruct the Kingsguard to search for her.” Baelor walked away alerting the nearest guard. Valarr’s mind blanked as he looked along the corridor.

Where in the Seven Hells could you be? 

It's not like you’d scale a wall and disappear. He looked out the open window looking at the farthest stoned wall. He shook his head, even prior to pregnancy you wouldn't scale something like that.

Within the hour of searching he grew restless looking through every room for you. 

White Sword Tower came up empty.

The kitchen came up empty.

He even enlisted the help of Matarys to search for you but every lead led nowhere. 

He picked at the skin of his fingers his breathing uneasy as he continued.

What if you were hurt and no one was there? 

What if you went for air and gave birth outside?

How could he be so stupid as to not notice his own wife leaving the room. It’s not as if he dreamt of anything with substance.

How could he be so careless with both you and his child’s life. What if it was someone wanting to harm or kill you.

Valarr's stomach turned as he began to think the worse. The noise around him faded as he continued on his search. He couldn’t bear to live with the thought of someone harming you.

His pace was sharp as he searched anywhere his legs would take him. He gave alerts and updates to the guards and received nothing in return.

He turned the corner and his mind flooded back to when you first arrived at King’s Landing. The familiar stone halls he used to sneak out to just to have a simple conversation.

This was the coolest side of the castle and your study was near.

“If she is not here then the Seven take me.” Valarr whispered as he began to open every door.

You yawned as you woke up, body feeling refreshed compared to last night. Looking out the window you can only assume it's noon.

“Let’s go find your father.” You rested a hand on your stomach before moving it.

As you stood from the bed the door opened. 

Your husband staring back at you disheveled. Eyes red, shirt loosened and hair a mess from the hundreds of times he ran his hands through them.

“Valarr are you alright?” You said making him sigh in relief.

He pulled you into a careful hug swaying you both side to side. His hands holding your head and back.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispered, placing a kiss on your head.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you weren’t in our bed. I woke up and you were gone.” He took a breath and sat down on the bed. His rush of adrenaline finally wears down.

“Valarr it was one night, and it was scorching in our chambers.” You gave a small laugh sitting beside him.

“One night too many.” He sighed once more letting out an airy laugh. “If you needed some place cooler you could have woken me and I would’ve gone with you or moved our things here.”

Your eyes watered as he spoke, making him lean over to give you an embrace.

“You would do that?”

“I’d rotate this whole castle if it meant my wife and child would be comfortable.”