Mine Alone

The first thing you felt as you tried to open your eyes was the pounding in your head. The second was someone knocking on your door.

You groaned and pulled the furs over your head, burying your face deeper into the pillow. One hand came up to press against your temple, as if that might somehow stop the throbbing.

"My lady, please open the door. It's-" Meera's voice drifted through the wood.

"Begone. I need sleep," you called back miserably, burying your face in the pillow as the knocking only intensified.

You let out a groan. But before you could muster another complaint, a familiar voice boomed through the door.

"If you do not open this door this instant, not only will you be grounded for a moon, but I shall forbid you from leaving this castle for a week."

You were out of bed before she finished speaking. The room spun slightly as your feet hit the floor. The ale had been a mistake, the throbbing in your head intensying with each passing moment.

You practically lunged for the door and yanked it open.

"Mother. Good morrow." You said attempting a smile. Though it felt more like a grimace.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Meera and Layla standing behind your mother. Both women looked as though they wished to be anywhere else.

Your mother pushed past you without a word, and the door shut firmly behind her.

You swallowed as her gaze settled on you. If looks could kill, Winterfell would be preparing your funeral.

"I was about to wake up, I swea-"

"Where were you last night?"

The question cut straight through your excuse, and you straightened slightly.

"I was here. In my chambers. Where else would I be?"

Your mother's eyebrow arched as she let out a huff of breath. "So you went to sleep in commoner's clothes and a ragged cloak?"

Your eyes widened as looked down, and found yourself still dressed in yesterday's clothes. Probably too tired and drunk to change out of them last night. You mentally cursed yourself.

"Mother, I can expla-"

"DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL?"

You physically winced. The volume alone nearly split your skull. And outside the door, the entire corridor could probably hear every word.

"Sneaking out in the middle of the night," your mother continued, "and to a tavern of all places!"

"I didn't go to a tav-"

"I can smell the ale from where I stand." She said as her glare sharpened, and you wished the floor would swallow you whole.

"Have you lost your mind?" she demanded. "Did you truly think I would not know?"

"Mother, please just listen-"

"No." The single word struck harder than any shout. Ever could. Her voice sharp, practically dripping anger. "Not today."

She stepped closer.

"A Stark lady sneaking out in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea what the consequences would have been if someone saw you? The damage it would bring not only to your honour, but to the honour of this family?"

You remained where you stood. Your jaw clenched and eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.

"The Old Gods help me." Your mother's hand dragged across her face. "Did you even stop to think what the royals would make of this?"

"I do not care for their opinions."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

"What?"

"I said I do not care for their opinions."

Your mother's laugh held no amusement as a bitter smile touched her lips.

"Of course you don't. You have never cared much for anyone's opinion apart from your own."

The words stung more than they should. Not because they were true, but because part of you feared they might be.

"But have you considered Berena?" your mother continued. "Or Alyssane?"

You opened your mouth, but immediately snapped it shut as your mother raised a hand in warning.

"You do not wish to marry. Fine,' her voice trembled slightly. "So be it."

You hated hearing that disappointment, hated it more because you knew she tried so hard to hide it.

"But do not ruin your sisters' chances because of your actions. The talks with the Targaryens are going well," your mother said. "And if the Old Gods are willing, Berena may soon be betrothed to the heir to the heir."

And then her eyes met yours.

"Do you understand what your actions could cost us? What they could cost Berena?"

You wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her that your actions does not matter, that Berena deserved better than being bartered away for politics.

But the words died before they reached your tongue. Because tears had begun gathering in your mother's eyes, and suddenly the argument no longer felt worth having.

"I have bent to your wishes your entire life," she said, her voice softening. "Not because I wished to. Because your father asked me to."

Your chest tightened at that, your hands formed a fist as you dig your nails in your palms.

"I am your mother." A shaky breath escaped her. "I could never wish harm upon you."

For the first time since entering the room, her anger seemed to crack.

"I know you wish for the freedoms William enjoys." Her words were a whisper now, as she looked away briefly, "But I cannot give them to you. Not because I do not wish to."

And when she looked back, there was nothing but fear in her eyes.

"But because I am afraid. You may be a warrior."

Her voice broke.

"But you are not immortal."

Your throat tightened, and then she spoke the words you dreaded most.

"I have already lost one child... I do not wish to lose another."

You closed your eyes, and for a moment, you were no longer standing in your chambers. You were staring at snow stained red and lifeless grey eyes of Donner.

"If I discover you sneaking out again," your mother said quietly, "it will not end as easily as it is ending today."

You could only nod. Your mother stood there for another moment, before her expression hardened once more.

"Get dressed." She said as she moved toward the door. "I expect you at breakfast."

She left, leaving you standing in the middle of the room. The headache still lingered and the smell of ale still clung to your clothes.

But neither felt nearly as unbearable as the ache now sitting in your chest. An emotion clawed its way up your throat that you could not name, as your hands started shaking beside you.

You sat at the breakfast table and rubbed your temple for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. After your mother had left your chambers, you had decided not to test her patience any further. You had dressed as quickly as possible, endured Meera's knowing looks, and made your way toward the Great Hall before your mother could send someone to drag you there herself.

The hall was already bustling with life. Servants moved between tables carrying platters piled high with bread and eggs.

Normally, you would have found comfort in the familiar chaos. Today it only made your head hurt worse.

You and William occupied the far end of the Stark table, tucked away from most of the guests. Your mother had suggested it after one look at your face.

So you would not make a fool of yourself before the royal family. You had accepted almost immediately.

Now you sat staring at your breakfast, the lemon cake on your plate remained untouched as you pushed it around with your fork.

"If you do not wish to eat it," William said beside you, "pass me your lemon cake."

You turned your head slowly toward him. Your brother was happily devouring his third helping of eggs as if he had not spent half the previous night drinking enough ale to drown a horse. You narrowed your eyes.

"You are insufferable."

"Yet handsome."

You sighed and shoved the plate toward him.

"Here. Take it."

William accepted the offering immediately and added it beside his own untouched slice, though you doubt it would remain untouched for long.

The headache lingering behind your eyes had thoroughly ruined your appetite.

"Is it because your prince is not here?" William asked casually.

Your brows furrowed, "What?"

"I said," William repeated, far too innocently, "is it because the handsome Prince Valarr is not here?"

Your eyes widened, and you immediately looked toward the royal table.

The prince's chair sat empty. Not that you had noticed.

William's grin widened. Gods curse him.

"Hold your tongue, brother."

"Well," William continued, completely ignoring you, "I was not the one who spent nearly the entire night talking to him."

You glared.

"And I am certainly not the one who glanced at his empty chair the moment i entered the Hall."

"I did not do that."

"You did."

"No."

"Yes."

"I never thought I would see that expression on your face."

The back of your neck began to burn. You did not know what expression he meant, nor did you particularly wish to.

"He was merely the only company available," you muttered, leaning closer so nobody else could hear.

To which William only hummed. The sort of hum that meant he believed absolutely none of what you had just said.

"Uh-huh."

You resisted the urge to throw your fork at him.

"Is that why you gave him your gloves?"

"What?"

William froze and then a slow grin spread across his face. The kind of grin that usually preceded disaster.

"Oh."

Your stomach dropped.

"Oh, this is wonderful."

"William."

"You do not remember."

A horrible realization settled in your chest. You remembered drinking, music and laughter. After that? You do not remember a thing.

"William."

His grin somehow widened further.

"When we were sneaking back into the castle," he said, barely containing his amusement, "you noticed his hands were freezing. And you practically shoved your gloves into the poor prince's chest and told him he would lose his fingers if he kept standing around like an idiot."

You stared at him as horror slowly crept across your face, burning the tups of ears red. And William burst into laughter.

The moment breakfast ended, you were out of your chair and moving through the castle.

Where?

You did not know. You simply needed to get away before William found another opportunity to torment you. The corridors of Winterfell blurred around you as you walked. Servants passed carrying baskets of laundry while guards exchanged greetings near the staircases. Usually, you would have paid attention to your surroundings.

Today your thoughts were elsewhere. You had given Prince Valarr your gloves while drunk. Though it might not be a big deal, but the way William had suggested it, you had practically forced the prince to take it.

You could only hope he had forgotten about it. Or better yet, that he had been too drunk himself to remember.

The Old Gods, however, seemed determined to mock you, because the moment you rounded the corner, your shoulder collided with something solid.

Strong hands immediately settled on your shoulders, steadying you before you could stumble backwards.

"I apologize. Are you-"

You recognized the voice before you even looked up, and your stomach dropped. Slowly, your gaze lifted, and Prince Valarr's mismatched eyes stared back at you.

One blue eye. One brown.

Both slightly widened as if he had not expected to run into you either.

Prince Valarr stood before you, looking far more put together than any man had the right to this early in the morning. His brown hair had been neatly combed back, the pale streak running through it shining beneath the sunlight, as some its unruly strands falling on his forehead. He was dressed in a dark doublet embroidered with silver, he looked every bit the prince Alyssane liked to sing about.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Then you both took a step back at the exact same time.

"Oh."

"Oh."

The words left your mouths together, and heat immediately crawled up your neck. Valarr cleared his throat first, his own ears were beginning to turn red.

"My lady," he greeted.

"My prince."

A painful silence followed right after as you tried to even your breathing. Hands cluchting the pommel of your sword out of habit.

Valarr looked away first, his gaze dropping toward something in his hands.

When you looked down to see for yourself, your stomach lurched, it was your gloves. The familiar leather pair rested neatly folded between his fingers.

"I wished to return these."

He held them out towards you as you stared at them. Then at him, and then back at the gloves. The embarrassment returned with twice the force and you accepted them immediately. Your fingers slightly brushed his, and you felt your breath hitching.

"Thank you."

Valarr nodded, the silence somehow became worse. And you swallowed a nervous lump in your throat before opening your mouth.

"My prince, about last night-"

"There is no need."

Valarr offered you a small smile, though you can clearly see it was a nervous one. he sort of smile that looked as though he had rehearsed it several times before finding the courage to use it.

"You were only trying to help me." His fingers tightened briefly around the fur lining of his cloak. "And i was rather cold."

A huff of laughter escaped you despite yourself, "I was talking about dragging you with me."

You looked at him, and Valarr looked away immediately afterwards, a faint flush creeping across his pale skin, "Oh, its alright. I did not mind. I think it was a nice distraction. I appreciated it."

Something in your chest loosened. The awkward knot that had been there all morning easing slightly.

"Then I suppose I shall not apologize."

"I suppose not."

The corner of his lips twitched upward. And before you could stop yourself, the question escaped your mouth.

"Why were you not at breakfast?"

The words hung between you, and you wished for the old gods to take your life right there.

Why had you asked that?

Heat flooded your face immediately, and Valarr looked just as surprised as you felt. His eyes blinking at a rapid pace.

Then a reluctant smile pulled at his lips.

"I had a hangover."

You stared at him. The young prince looked almost offended by his own confession. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it and Valarr laughed alongside you.

Valarr laughed alongside you.

It was a quiet sound, warm enough to chase away the chill lingering in the corridor. His mismatched eyes brightened, crinkling at the corners, and a small dimple appeared on his right cheek.

You had never noticed it before, and you found yourself staring before the realization struck.

Heat crawled up your neck and you quickly looked away, your gaze dropping to the stone floor before the prince could catch you looking.

"Makes sense," you said immediately.

The smile on his face widened slightly as he nodded in return. Then Valarr tilted his head slightly.

"And where were you rushing off to in such a hurry?"

Your brows furrowed when you answered.

"I was merely walking."

"Hmmm"

"What?"

You narrowed your eyes, when you see the prince trying not to laugh.

"My prince."

Valarr's lips twitched, "You are not planning to sneak out of the castle again in the middle of the day, are you?"

A startled laugh escaped you. The sound echoed softly through the corridor as you shook your head and scratched the back of your neck.

"Only on special occasions."

Valarr let out a quiet laugh.

"A relief."

"Why?"

"Because if you were sneaking off again, I fear I might become an accomplice." Valarr's lips twitched upward. "And this time, I cannot even claim it was accidental."

That earned another laugh from you. And for the first time since you had collided with him, the tension between you finally began to disappear.

At least a little.

Though the way Valarr's gaze lingered on your smile suggested he might have forgotten where he was for a moment.

And the sudden flush that returned to his face suggested he had realized it too. You smiled and took a small step backwards.

"I should take my leave now, my prince."

Valarr nodded almost immediately. "Of course."

You turned to leave but stopped in your tracks.

"Valarr." He said from behind you.

Your brows furrowed as you looked back over your shoulder. The prince looked almost surprised by his own interruption.

He stood there, one hand still resting awkwardly against the folds of his cloak.

"You can call me Valarr."

The words came out more hesitant than you expected. A faint flush crept across his face almost immediately.

"If you are comfortable with it, of course," he added quickly. "I only thought that...well..." He cleared his throat befkre continuing.

And you couldnt help but admire how adorable he looked.

"Since we have shared ale, we are friends. And friends generally do not address one another by titles...but of course, im not forcing you or anything, it was merely a suggestio-"

"Only if you call me by my name, my prince."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You did not know why you had said them. Perhaps it was because calling him Valarr felt unfair if he continued calling you "my lady."

Oe perhaps it was because something inside you wanted to hear your name on his lips. Whatever the reason, it was too late to take it back now.

A flicker of surprise crossed Valarr's face. Then he quickly recovered and gave a small nod.

"Very well."

The silence stretched between you two. Both of you waiting for the other to speak. But then he said your name. So softly as if he was murmuring a prayer.

As though testing it, turning it over carefully and seeing how it sounded.

Your name had never sounded particularly special before. Yet hearing it spoken in his voice made something strange twist in your chest.

Valarr seemed equally affected, and a faint smile pulled at the corner of his lips. As if he had decided he liked the sound of it.

You had been called by your name your entire life. So why did it suddenly feel different? You quickly looked away before he could notice the warmth spreading across your face.

"Well," you cleared your throat, "if you will excuse me..."

You offered him a small bow.

"Valarr."

The smile that appeared on his face then was small, entirely too pleased. And that only made the heat in your cheeks worsen.

You turned on your heel immediately and retreated down the corridor before he could notice the tips of your ears turning red.

Behind you, Valarr remained standing exactly where you had left him as watched you disappear around the corner.

And if he repeated your name quietly to himself once you were gone-

Well.

Nobody was there to hear it.

Chapter 7 [Week updates (every Saturday!!)]

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Your hand moves again sliding up towards his chest and he literally has to catch your wrist to stop it from moving any further. 

Fuck, he knows he shouldn’t feel like this. It’s only twenty minutes into the movie and he’s already hard underneath you and he really doesn’t want you to notice. What sick pervert you’d think he is. He’s trying to tell you in a hushed voice to be still as he tries to focus on the movie, anything to push the way he’s probably leaking precum through his joggers right now. 

Then you’re moving again, hips sliding over his and he literally has to grab your hips and force them to be still. It catches the attention of the others, most of them complaining about the noise coming from the pair of you. Only for you to roll your eyes, telling them all the movie is boring anyway and dragging Daeron out to watch a movie privately with you. 

He really thought he could have enjoyed that movie. 

He knows he can’t be alone with you right now, too scared of what he might do. So he makes up an excuse, saying he’s tired and just wants to crawl into bed. When really he’s going to have a long cold shower. It’s needed.

Oh but you’re not finished yet. Of course not. 

Knocking on his door, catching him sprawled out on his bed in only a pair of boxers. You’re wearing a sheer slip, his favourite, the pink one that hugs your figure, and he knows he’s doomed. The only thing he can be glad for is not being able to see through it in the dark room.  

He knows he can’t let you crawl under the covers with him, knows that he’ll lose any ounce of composure if you try and cuddle up with him right now but he doesn’t know what excuse to say. Not when you are already saying how annoyed you are that he lied about going straight to bed without watching a movie. 

He doesn’t understand why you want to be so close all of a sudden, doesn’t quite get the sudden need you to be literally on top of him. 

Daeron would literally have to order you to stay still, holding your hips in place with one hand while the other holds your face that sits in the crook of his neck. Not realising how him snapping at you like that went straight to your lower stomach. 

He’s desperately trying to watch the movie on the screen but he can’t ignore how incredibly hard he is against your inner thigh, how he knows he’s probably leaking out of his boxers and onto your skin. It wouldn’t hurt if he just slid your hips over slightly, placing you perfectly against his crotch. You don’t seem to mind, don’t bat an eye at how his hands grip your thighs a little, how they brush up underneath your slip to guide your hips against his a little. 

He needs more but then you’re lifting your head from his neck, resting it against his chest and running your hands along his chest. 

You’re literally purring in his lap, dripping over his boxers and he’s still too clueless to see it. He thinks the wetness is all him, that he’s pre-ejaculated or something. 

It’s not till you move again, this time purposely rubbing your wet crotch over his hard cock and practically slipping down his boxers in the process. He hisses involuntarily, going to grab your hips only to realise as his hands move up your bare legs, you’re not wearing anything at all down there. 

He’s fucked. You’re fucked. 

It might have taken him a torturously slow amount of time to realise how badly you wanted him but now he realises, there isn’t any stopping him. He's waited too long for this. 

You may be on top of him but he doesn’t let you have an inch of control. Nuh uh. He’s rutting up into you, slow and mean, torturous circles that have you whimpering into his mouth. 

He’s not any better, biting down on his own moans as he slides you over his bare cock. His breath is erratic, trying to control his last bit of composure, only for it to crack when he accidentally catches your clit with the tip of his cock. Then he’s humping you faster, making sure to drag your clit over the tip of him again, and again, and again until you’re both dizzy. 

Having you grind down on his dick feels so good, he’s practically mewling into your mouth, trying to wrap his lip around yours to keep himself quiet. It doesn’t work though, you're both a wrecked mess, moans falling into each other's mouths. 

Then you feel it as you orgasm, hot liquid spreading across your folds, sticky and making more of a mess of the pool you’ve already created. He’s honestly embarrassed by it, cheeks flushed at the sight, head falling back in a groan. Yet you couldn’t care less though, already kissing his lips again, slipping the top part of your slip down so he can see your breasts. 

Oh, he’s doomed and hungry for more, flipping you over onto your back, just in the perfect position to fuck you. 

dividers by @ chrisssiren

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You’ve been in this room for days, knees becoming one with the cold slabs of the floor as you rest your head at the foot of his bed. Yet after days you’re still crying, tears leaking from your eyes like a faucet, muttering the same word repeatedly. 

Please. 

Please. 

Please. 

The word seems to have lost meaning at this point and you still hold onto it like it’s your life line. 

Because it is. Because he is. 

You’ve been praying for a week straight, unable to sleep unless resting in the bed beside him and barely eating except from the soup and bread your mother forces down your throat. It’s gotten to the point where your father has threatened to intervene, demanding for you to bathe at times or drag you out of the room but you pay him no mind, knowing you’ll find your way back to him. 

To him. 

Your Daeron who lies unconscious in the bed you lay your head on. Your older brother who’s seemingly taken a turn for the worse with his fever, body restless as it throws itself around the bed. 

Please. 

Your hand reaches out to touch him, swallowing before your skin touches his damp skin. He’s cold to the bone and you can't help stop the sob that breaks through your body.

No one seems to be certain what’s wrong with him. Your father had sent for the finest doctors and each one had told him that Daeron probably would not make it another night. You couldn’t let that happen. 

Your head turns, twisting away from him as you try to calm your trembling body. You can’t wake your parents again. They seem to have lost all hope themselves, turning to God in their deep hours of need. As you had and yet God hasn’t been listening. 

But maybe something else would. 

Your hands clasp together one final time, pleas falling from your cracked lips as you reach out to something. Anything. You’re not sure what but in the darkness of the room and obsessive need that curdles in your stomach, you’re certain it can’t be good. 

But it listens. Oh it listens. 

Please, let him live. Please, please, please. 

…

Silk sheets stick to your skin, damp against your legs, wrapping around you and binding you to the bed. You’re feverish, mind barely settling all night so you’ve found yourself tossing and turning relentlessly for half of it, mind still crazed from the letters that he sent you. His voice was clear in your mind when you read them, ringing as you retraced the word with your fingers again, and again and again. 

You’d sought out your bed early last night desperate to find some peace. 

But it’s not peace that finds you. 

You don’t really sleep, you sit in that point between sleep and the waking world, unable to pry your eyes open, but still able to hear the winter wind howling against your window. You feel paralysed, a hand sliding against your sweat slicked skin, slow in its movements, almost like it's searching for something. Another hand— its counterpart, cups the side of your face, thumb resting against your bottom lip. You swear you hear a sigh as the thumb drags itself across your lip, deep guttural like the person behind it is holding back. 

Fingers loosen the ties at the front of your gown and you can’t help but tense, unable to stop familiar fingers running over your breast, your nipple hardening under the cool metal of a ring. 

You want your body to move, to fight against this, even for your mouth to open to let out a scream but all you can feel is a whimper clawing at the back of your throat. You’re completely at the will of another and you can only let it happen, let the familiar hands grope you, reminiscing over a body it hasn’t touched in years. 

Almost like reliving that night, the feel of his breath against your lips, one hand wrapped around the column of your throat like a heavy threat that keeps you down, while the other— 

You feel your hips buck up as his fingers graze over your clothed cunt, reacting in the way you know would make him chuckle and would leave you with a sour taste in the back of your throat. It’s damp down there, the cotton sticking to you and you know he’d like it, enjoy the way your body betrays you. Yet you don’t hear the sound of his laughter, or feel his smirk against your skin. 

Instead you hear the sea, waves crashing against each other, the wind picking up in the night, the winter chill finally hitting your skin. You feel yourself clawing out to wake rather than sink further into this dream, but he doesn’t let you. 

The hand around your throat tightens, a threat looming over your head and the other hand makes itself comfortable at the edge of your night gown, slowly hiking the material up your leg. It feels too real, his hands so heavy on your skin that you think when you wake, he might really be there looming over you. 

You clench around nothing when you feel his finger tips slip over your inner thigh, dancing all the way to the subtle skin of your lower stomach, as if he’s teasing you, letting you sit in anticipation of his next move. His breath picks up against your lips at this— or is that your own, you can’t tell. All you can do is wait, feeling him slowly slide his hand down further and further until— 

Your eyes open to a figure standing over you, shading you away from the morning sun. You blink harshly, adjusting to the brightness and sitting up in a rush. 

“You were thrashing around in your sleep again,” your husband’s voice says, a worried expression sitting on his face. He presses the back of his hand to the damp skin of your head. “Are you well?” 

You shake your head, pulling the covers from you as you simply say, “Night terrors.” 

Your throat swells as you think of it, the feel of such a distinctive touch against your skin. It felt too real. The very thought of it, a violation. 

“The letters,” your words catch, tears brimming in your eyelids as you turn back to your husband. The horror of it. You clutch your hand over your mouth, tears spilling out. 

Robert hadn’t even seen the worst of it, you couldn’t let him. The letters written in such an erratic way, words almost jumbling together and the ink— bile crawls up your throat as you think— the very colour of it. A dark red, thick and wet, sticking to your fingers after touching the parchment. 

You’d recognised the writing immediately, the swirl of certain letters. 

You’d thrown it in the fire before he’d even come home from work, not letting him or anyone lay their eyes upon it. 

“Rhaegar,” your voice comes out panicked, twisting around to Robert. “Where’s my son?” 

“Our son,” he replies, kneeling by the bed. He reaches out towards you, cold hand cupping the side of your face, the contrast against your clammy skin feels somewhat nice. “He’s in bed, my love.” 

You tense at the soft affection, it doesn’t reach your ears right, it never does. “I don’t know what came over me.” But you do, you still feel it there. “I-“ 

“Honestly you thrash about in that bed so much it almost looks like another lies in there with you,” Robert smiles, tone seemingly amused. But no smile reaches your lips and his own begins to falter. “You screamed it’s why I came.” 

“I haven’t had such vivid nightmares since-“ you dare not think of it but like a worm in your ear it slips in, eating at your rotten flesh. Since before your Rhaegar was born. 

The letters, the only explanation. Thoughts of home and the past driving you mad with grief. 

“My father, Robert.” You look up at him, placing your hand over his. “He’s not well. I have to see him. I have to see my siblings.” Your voice cracks under the weight of it all. “I have to know they’re okay.” 

…

Travel never set well with you, the stuffy carriage and the constant jolts from the wheels turning over the uneven surface of your path, it made your stomach knot. You lean against the window for most of the ride, hand clutching at your stomach desperate for some fresh air.

If only your husband would have let you ride horseback.

Unladylike, he said. And of course you’d never dream of shaming your husband. A husband who seems more interested with the papers in his hands than his dear wife that looks like she might hurl in her seat.

Your eyes fall from Robert as small hands cling to your side, stealing your attention away.

Your Rhaegar, only four years old with sandy blonde locks that frame his chubby face. You can’t help but force a smile as you look at him, brushing his hair behind his ears so you may look upon him properly.

“Travelling doesn’t sit well with mummy,” your voice is soft as you speak to him, finger brushing over his cheek. “But this will all soon be over and you can meet your Uncles and Aunts, you’ve never met them before have you.”

He shakes his head, head falling against your skirts.

“Tired, my love.” You play with his hair as you hum softly, both for his comfort and your own. You turn to your husband again. “We will have to stay on the West Wing of the castle and if the fever begins to show any signs of spreading we must find other boarding close by. I cannot risk little Rhae’s life.”

He lifts his eyes from above the paper, momentarily. “Of course, my love.”

You nod, wanting to say something more, to fill the silence with something but there’s simply nothing there.

Very well.

Your eyes flicker to the window, a fond smile gracing your face as you notice through the lines of trees, Summerhall.

Summerhall has always been beautiful to gaze on in the summer months, but here in the dreary winter it seems to have fallen into ruin. You swallow, eyes narrowing at the sight before you as you step out of the carriage. The bushes that surround the house are outgrown, long branches covered in thorns wind around the front of the house, caging it in. The grass of the gardens is dry and unkempt, a foot long with weeds spouting out all over the place.

“Your father has been sick a mere few weeks and the groundskeeper lets this place turn into a muck,” Robert says, stepping out from behind you, lips curled in disgust at the sight before him.

“He must have been sick well long before he realised,” you respond, trying to justify the state before you. But the state of it couldn’t have happened in weeks, this would have taken months to grow into a state like this.

“Your brother should have put the workers in their place,” Robert practically grunts in response.

“The sudden change can be challenging.” You’re quick to defend but don’t bother to turn to your husband for a response. You turn away from him, hand reaching out for Rhaegar to help him step out the carriage. “I’ll speak to him about the matters once we have settled.”

“Your family has come to greet us,” he huffs out, a sour look on his face as he eyes the door.

You meet his gaze, eyes following on four children, huddled together staring at the floor before them. Most were babes when you had left them and yet you feel you know them just by the sight, your mother’s and father’s faces in each of them.

“Why do they sulk by the door like that?” He waits for you to move forward, standing behind you cautiously. “It is unbecoming of them.”

“I don’t imagine they bite, Robert.” Your jaw tightens, stopping yourself from snapping at him. You lift Rhaegar into your arms before passing him to Robert. “Take Rhaegar while I greet my family.”

Robert pulls Rhaegar into his side and follows two feet behind you as you make your way to the door.

“Who goes there?” You question with a playful tone, standing before them. “Do my eyes deceive me or are these beautiful creatures before me my very own siblings?”

Aemon is the first to move, stepping back and then the others follow. They look at you wide eyed, cowering closer to the door frame, almost ready to run back inside in an instance. 

“Do you not remember me?” You ask, trying to offer them a small smile. 

Your eyes flicker over each of them before catching Aegon’s gaze which seems to slightly soften at the question. You bend down, offering your hand out to him but he recoils almost instantly, bearing his teeth and growling some feral beast before running back in. The others follow quickly behind, leaving you bewildered. 

You turn to your husband, his lips opening almost to say something only to be cut off. 

“I didn’t know when you’d get here.”

You feel your body freeze if only for a second and you can’t help but swallow as his voice registers in your mind. You can’t show the effect it has on you, turning back to the door frame slowly. 

He looks the same. His dirty blonde locks fall over his face, almost covering his pale grey skin and those wet eyes. Sweat clings to his skin, a droplet of it slipping down from his forehead and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s caught a sickness like your father but you know better. 

He’s drunk, you’re sure of it and if you were to get any closer, you sure to smell the liquor seeping from his pores. Yet you draw nearer, trying to muster a smile as you greet him, hoping he won’t read right through your forced expression. 

Your hands reach out for his, holding them between your own before looking up to meet his gaze. 

“Brother-”

“I wish you had come sooner,” he tells you, fingers tracing the skin of your palm. His eyes meet yours for a second before dropping to where your hands meet. He sniffs, tears falling down his cheeks and you can’t help but seek to comfort him, lifting one hand to cup his soaked cheek. His head lifts then and he laughs for a moment before crying again, shaking his head at you. 

“Its father,” you say, realisation dawning on you as your heart begins to clench. Your fingers begin to tremble against his skin, tears pooling at your eyes. You didn’t get here soon enough. 

“And-” he bites down on his bottom lip, eyes falling to your hands again. His words seem caught in his throat. 

You can’t help but cup his face with both hands, feeling the need to comfort him so badly as you ask him, “And?” 

Your eyes look dart around, thoughts racing in your mind. 

The overgrown weeds, your family home spoiled by it. The children. Daeron right here in front of you. 

“And?” You repeat only your voice isn’t as soft, fighting against the tears as your eyes grow wider. 

You're missing something. 

“Look at me,” you demand, only to regret it when he does. 

His cheeks are soaked with tears, snot dribbles out from his nose and his lips are trembling. You should feel sympathy for him, the saddened look in his eyes and the way he’s trying to swallow down the sobs. Yet your stomach twists and a wave of sick realisation falls over you, leaving you angry as you stare back at him. 

“Where is Aerion?” You question, hands falling down from his cheek to his chest. “Where is my brother? 

Daeron shakes his head, breathing ragged as his hands fall over yours. 

“Aerion,” the name catches in your throat like you’ve been completely winded by it and you struggle to breathe. “You said nothing-” You gasp, tears clawing at your throat, pain clawing at your very being. 

You pull away from Daeron, stumbling backwards before you begin to claw at your skin. You can’t breathe, you feel like you’re suffocating, every gasp has you choking on your own tears and you can’t help but scratch at your the skin of your for it to stop. 

“Please,” you plead with him, sinking in on yourself. Your body shakes, gasps turning into sobs that wretch from your chest. “Please.” You repeat over and over again, almost praying for it not to be true, for all of this to be some cruel lie. 

You cave in on yourself, falling to your knees on to the stoned path way. The word please falls from your mouth until it loses all meaning, until you become sick of it, until it's imprinted into the stones underneath you covered in your tears and snot. 

Until you feel his arms wrapping around yours, cradling your shaking frame and you're able to focus on his own breathing to settle you down, to give you some sort of comfort.

…

Two new headstones sit next to your mother’s one, wet flakes landing on them and melting into the stone. 

Your father and your brother both taken from this world. Aerion was six and ten when you left him, a boy still. You’d yet to see him as a man. 

You should be focused on the sight before you and while the weight of their deaths sit on you, you feel something heavier from behind. 

Daeron was always beside you growing up, and when he couldn’t be conjoined at your hip, he’d find him one step away, eyes intently watching you and waiting for the moment to close the distance. It’s funny how things don’t change. 

You shouldn’t twist your neck to look over your shoulder, shouldn’t peer into those glazed sad eyes, shouldn’t stare back with the same intensity he stares at you with. And yet you do. 

It’s like a pull you can’t deny, something drawing you back to him even when you try to resist it. 

You wonder what you look like right now. Is there a dark ring under your eyes like his? Is there a redness to your cheeks? Has loose strands fallen from the confines of your braids? 

You try to see in the deep hues of his eyes but all you can see is him. Your brother. Your Daeron. 

And you can’t help but think that you are glad that it isn’t him lying six feet in the ground next to your cold mother. 

His hand slowly rises, reaching out just inches from your face before slowly brushing a curl behind your ear. 

You step away from him, turning to look out into the distance instead. Your carriage sits at the entrance, one that will eventually take you back to your husband and your child. You need to remind yourself of that. 

“Will you stay?” 

You nod, not sure you can trust your voice just yet. Not when it’s just you two together, not when you’re completely alone. 

“Good.”

Your eyes widen, feeling his breath on your very neck as he whispers the word to you. When had he managed to get so close? And why can’t you will your body to step away from him? 

Daeron’s lips press against the shell of your ear, the heat of his body so nice against your cold skin as he stands behind you. You’re completely frozen to the core, eyes still staring out at the carriage, fingers barely able to wiggle from your sides. 

“It’ll be good to have you near,” his voice is barely a whisper, and yet you hear the slick drip in his tone, feel the words run through you just as he intends them to. His nose presses up against your hair, inhaling deeply and you should be disgusted by him, and yet you feel your thighs dampening, ruining your undergarments as he hums in delight. 

You feel a weight lift off of you as he steps from around you, finally able to move again. Only you wait for a few moments, letting him create some space between you both until you follow behind. 

…

Days seem to bleed into one another the longer you stay at the house, filled with putting the estate back into order. The staff return, the accounts are put into order and there is a warmness that returns to the house that had been missing in the long winter months.

But those days are still separated by colder nights, ones that have you locking each door between you and him. Ones that have you burning more wood then you knew was reasonable, not understanding how even with a fire burning through the night you could still feel a chill right down to your bones. 

You lay in your husband's bed some nights, hoping to feel the comfort and warmth of another body but finding nothing but an empty space that leaves you colder than before. 

There’s no real reason for it, no cracks in the walls, no wind slipping through cracks in the windows and yet you feel cold to the touch when the sun leaves the sky. 

Your complaints fall on deaf ears, your husband telling you that you feel warm to him and pushing you away to your own room when night falls again. 

But one person seems to believe you. 

You find Daeron in your father’s study, sitting behind his desk as he gulps down what you assume must be his third or fourth glass of wine. 

The room doesn’t suit him, neither does the chair as he slouches in it, hanging his legs off the arm rest. It’s dull and dark here, filled to the brim with books and paper, the accounts to estate and the other affairs your father kept track of. Daeron is a summer child, he thrives in the glow of the sun. It doesn’t matter though, first born Daeron was always made to inherit the contents of this room. 

“Trouble sleeping?” 

He doesn’t turn to look at you as he speaks, he doesn’t need to see you know you’re there. It’s always worked that way for both of you. 

You open your mouth to speak, to answer him and it’s only then you realise you don’t remember walking to this room, don’t remember placing yourself here. You turn back for a moment, looking down the dimly lit corridor and can’t deny the unsettling feeling that sits in your stomach. 

“Cold.” 

You turn back to him, gaze catching his own as you repeat the word for him. “Cold.” 

Wine dribbles down his chin and the sight of it snaps you from your strange daze. 

“There’s something wrong with my room,” you tell him, stepping into the room even though you know you shouldn’t. “Maybe the quarters itself I just feel so-” 

“Cold,” you say the word in unison, yet you only hear his voice as it drowns out your own. 

“I can help with that,” he tells you and you know you won’t like what he has to offer. 

Yet you prod him to explain anyway, “How?” 

He licks his lips, catching the pool of wine around the edges before his lips twist into a grin. “You’ve felt me before, haven’t you?” 

You furrow your brows, not fully understanding and go to shake your head—

“At night.” 

You swallow, eyes closing as you realise what he means. 

He steps out from behind the desk and walks around it, positioning himself in front of you. The back of his hand lifts to and rests over your chest, and it’s then you notice you’re only in your nightgown. He doesn’t touch you, there’s a small space between his hand and your bare skin but you feel the heat of it just the same. 

“You feel me here.” 

You shake your head, slowly… uncertain. 

He leans in then and you can smell him, the sweet wine on his lips, the woody scent of his perfume that lingers on his throat. But he doesn’t completely close the distance, nose almost brushing yours, eyes so close you count each of his lashes. 

Even with the heat of his body against yours, you feel your nipples pebble against the material of your gown begging to be touched. 

“There’s only so much I can do in the shadows of your rooms.” His voice seems so alluring, the sound of it filling your head. “Only so much I can feel—” You feel his hand, the palm against your nipple “—and I long to feel more.” 

“You are not well.” 

Your eyes catch something out the corner of your eyes, an open door and your son’s small frame. 

You look back at Daeron, and notice the room around you both is not the same. 

“You’re in my head,” you say, reality finally soaking in. 

The room around you is your own, you were never in your father’s study and you never sought Daeron out, it had just been him. 

“Always.” 

You shake your head with certainty you didn’t have before. “I have a husband to keep me warm,” you say, and as your eyes catch sight of your son’s blonde locks again, you add, “and a child.” 

“Yes.” Daeron inclines his head back, peering over his shoulder. “He looks so much like his father.” 

A chill runs through you at that and you have to bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from screaming at him. “Get out,” you whisper to him, closing your eyes desperately willing him away. “Please, leave me alone.” 

He’s still there, you feel him. “Let me comfort you, sister.” 

“Get out,” you cry out through gritted teeth, tears soaking your cheeks. 

“Just let me in, leave the door open and I’ll come to you.” 

“Get out,” you scream, only to find Daeron gone and your son running out of the room away from you. 

You chase him, wiping the tears off your cheeks before you call for him. 

“I did not mean you, my sweet child,” you call after him, catching him in the corner of his room. You hold him by his arms, slightly frantic as you softly tell him, “I did not mean you Rhaegar. Please forgive mummy, she did not mean to frighten you.” 

Rhaegar stares back at you and you can’t help but realise how much he does look like his father with his sandy blonde hair and wet blue eyes. 

…

You fall asleep in Rhaegar’s bed that night, only to wake a few hours into the night to a voice whispering your name. 

You stir at the sound of it and noticing your son behind you, you lift yourself to move. 

You smell him everywhere once you leave the comforts of your son's room, the rich scent filling your nose as you get closer to your own room. It gets stronger as you step closer and you fear you might actually find him there. 

You don’t though. Not in the closet, nor under the bed and you let out a deep sigh before turning to close the door again. Only it won’t close. 

You push it into the place, only for it to push right back out again. When you do it again, reaching for the key to lock it, you can’t find the key in its place. You slam it, push it shut again and again, fight with it but it always seems to push itself back out of place. 

Then you hear it again, your name being called out from down the hall and you know not to answer. 

You step back, fingers trembling as they fall from the handle. You shake your head, the sound of your name ringing once again but this time in your head. 

You’re quick to crawl under the covers, hiding yourself and praying for this nightmare to end as tears roll down your face. For you to fall back asleep and for a new day to begin again. 

Your name again and the door creeks open, slowly. You try to quieten your own breaths to listen out for something more and you hear it, his heavy footsteps against the wooden floor. You peer up and out of the covers, eyes daring to look at him but finding nothing in return. 

He’s not there but the edge of your covers by your feet move all the same before a figure slips underneath. It crawls towards you and you go to scream as you throw them off you but something covers your mouth, muffling the sound. 

Shhhhh. You hear him hush you, know the voice so well as it rings like silk in your mind. 

It doesn’t bring you comfort though and your body is still trembling on top of the bed. 

You feel a hand wrap around your ankle before a strong force yanks you down the bed. 

You know it's him, you feel the weight of him pinning you down the bed, feel the hardness of his cock pressing against your stomach. Yet you can’t see him on top of you and you wonder if he’s not fully there would it be so bad to give in. 

He doesn’t waste any time, lips messily connecting with yours, and you didn’t even realise he’d lifted his hand, that you might have had a moment to escape this. 

You gasp when you feel your nightgown being torn from your body, the chill of night against your skin quickly masked with the heat that seems to radiate from on top of you. He takes advantage of your open mouth, sinking his tongue inside. 

You squirm against him, your body fighting to be free from him, only to hear his cruel laughter against your lips, noticing the pathetic way the heels of your feet dig into your bed,  desperately trying to lift yourself from the bed but only permitting him to sink further between your hips. 

You felt it again then, his hardened member pressed up against you and to make sure you felt it, he pressed himself harder against you, angling himself right against your bare cunt, nothing separating you. 

“Feel how warm I am against you,” you hear him like he’s whispering into your ear, only his lips seem to be pressed against your chest, lapping at your skin. “Feel how good I can make you feel.” 

“Daeron,” you say, breathless and heaving to air to speak. 

“Yes, sister.” 

“You can’t do this,” you tell him and yet you whimper when his cock slides against your soaked folds, body betraying you in ways you can’t control. “Daeron, please.” 

He ignores your pleads, lips landing on yours once more again to drown out the noise as he sinks into your walls. 

Any words of yours become lost on his tongue as he fights to steal your very breath from your body. You know he can’t help himself, teeth nipping at your lips, going between biting at you to clashing your teeth with his. 

His kisses were hungry, full of years of longing and yearning for you. They were also full of anger that burned in his veins, one that came from the tortured soul you had moulded him into, the darkness you forced upon him to save his life all those years ago. 

It felt like Daeron didn’t need to breathe, kissing you senselessly and stealing every breath from your lips like it was feeding him. But you did and you can’t help but gasp for air as his lips finally descend down the column of your neck. 

“Daeron.” It seems like it's the only thing you are able to say.

“I like it when you say my name.”

You feel him growl into your skin, teeth nipping at the bare skin of your chest as he thrusts into you slowly. His hands bruise your skin as he grips onto your hips, like he’s trying to control himself from going further. 

“Mine.” 

His lips suck at the subtle skin of your breasts before finally he wraps his mouth around one of your hardening buds. 

“Mine.” 

You can’t help the sound that leaves your throat at that guttural deep moan breaking free as he sucks at your sensitive nipple. He continues the assault, fingers finding the other bud and pinching it. 

“I wish I could see you right now. Properly.” He confesses and something in you agrees as he pushes himself deep inside you. “But my body knows you, without sight it knows you very well.” 

You call out his name again at that, feeling the way your walls ooze wetness onto the sheets underneath you, how even with his thick cock in your walls, there’s too much for even him to contain. 

“I’m going to fuck you like this, have you wrything in this bed for the last few hours of night. Leave you so weakened that you’ll be unable to move from this bed, a puddle of your own making underneath you and once daylight comes, your husband will find you and this mess we’ve created will show him how he’ll never be able to pleasure you like I do.”

dividers by @ chrisssiren

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Neither of you were to type to fuss at whatever duty was being laid in your lap so the courtship was swift and your wedding had come and gone.

Now Maekar stood by the heart, watching the fire as he heard the sound of cloth being shifted about. The maester would be covering you back up now.

The old man took his leave without needing to be asked by Maekar. After all there was nothing to report to the prince. There were no signs of the you being with child.

It bothered him none.

“Do not trouble yourself regarding it.” He told you when the door shut. it was a kind thing to say but his tone did not have any gentleness to it. He somehow always sounded cross. You wondered if it was just due to habit or if his voice simply did not have the capability to rise up into a higher more kind sounding tone?

“There will be speculation.” You told him sitting up and moving from the bed towards where he stood before the fireplace in your chambers.

“And it will not be true.” He told you. “We have done and continue to fufill our duty.” He laid with you once a week, it was scheduled. He did not want you to be trouble by walking in the hall so he came to your personal rooms, bed you unenthusiastically under the heavy furs and shade of night and then left. He sent a maid in every time to draw you a bath and see to it that you were clean up and not uncomfortable.

It could be worse, you’d heard women who were stuck with men that were far less decent than Prince Maekar was. It lacked any passion but it also lacked cruelty. Neither of you had chosen this, he was well are of that.

“I’ve too many children as it is.” He huffed eyes not diverting from the flames despite you coming up to stand beside him. You attempted connection often despite his coldness, he was your husband after all and this was your life now. You had every intention to find contentment in it! Maekar was not a young man but he had survived war and was still healthy and alert, you doubted he would be struck down anytime soon so You’d likely not be widowed early on.

You fidgeted with your braid some, it was messy, from being laid back for the maesters examination, but it was in the Targaryen style nonetheless.

“Your girls did my hair last night after supper, I quite like it styled like this.”

“You were suppose to see them to sleep.” He responded dryly.

“I am suppose to see to your children husband, they were not sleepy yet.” You sighed. If his daughters wished to play with your hair you would gladly let them. They were children, they wanted to play, get attention and be praised when doing well at something. You could do those things. Gods know he didn’t.

“You need not mother them-“ he began, voice sharp and deep but the sudden thump against the door cut him off. You looked to it and then your eyes focused close to you and saw that Maekar had moved his hand to rest on the hilt of his sword before he moved to the door to investigate what caused the disruption.

“Worthless-fucking-gods damn boy!” That was all you could make out of Maekar hissed remarks. As soon as the door came open his eldest son’s upper body feel limply back against the wood floor.

“Should I call for the maester to return?” You asked, hand covering your mouth from the shock of how hard Prince Daeron’s head had rattled against the ground.

“It does not matter, He can’t feel the pain when he is this bloody drunk-“ he groaned slightly as he grabbed his son by the collar and dragged him up to his feet.

Seeing the appalling look all across your face made the father even more humiliated by his son’s behavior. It was an offense. One that was becoming worse with every passing week. Daeron did not see reason, he did not have concern for his safety and he never seemed impacted by whatever punishment that was delivered to him. It was infuriating…and utterly terrifying for Maekar.

“Perhaps I should.” You reiterate as Maekar lets go of him and Daeron wobbles about, this time laughing. Somehow even his chuckle was slurred.

“He should feel the consequences of his choices.”

“I feel plenty father-more than you know.” Daeron breathed out, hand gripping to the post of the bed eyes heavy as he looked up at his father’s rage filled face.

Maekar almost slapped his boys hand, he should not of wandered here to this room and now he was sauntering all around it.

“Sit.” You urged the troubled prince, without giving him much of an option to disobey.

Your hands gripped the back of a chair and waited for him to sulk over to it.

“There we go.” You hummed and touched his shoulders to pull him back against the backing so he wouldn’t slump completely forward.

“Don’t coddle him.” Maekar warned you, jaw set tighter than you’d yet witness since being his wife.

You breathed steadily looking down at the sad young man. You’d saw him rarely, he made his presence sparse. Now you wondered if it was not merely that he busied himself in places other than where you were around the hall or if it was more a matter of him all together not being present within its walls.

“He is unwell.” You swallowed and moved to get the prince some tea and a bread roll, something to hopefully calm the clammy pale appearance he had.

You turned back when both father and son laughed. They were chuckling at you concern-or at what you said.

“I’m drunk.” Daeron assured you.

“Yes…and unwell,” you turned back to gather the cup and food. “Clearly.” You muttered under your breath before turning back to where he sat and brining the cup up to his wine stained lips.

Maekar groaned a bit. His son was well beyond babying!

You raised your brow knelt before him as you held the cup up to his mouth when he did not pick it up himself. “Clearly you’ve no trouble drinking…now do so.” You pressed, nodded encouragingly when he finally parted his lips and began to sip down the black tea.

Maekar wouldn’t stand and watch this unnecessary production you were making for his mopey child!

So he didn’t, he left and sent maids to the room to take over the hopeless task from you.

Daeron wouldn’t cooperate with the other women though, he only ate for you, only let the maester examine the back of his head and the goose egg that formed there if you stayed and stood next to where he sat.

You pittied him, you must because otherwise you would not of wasted your entire day seeing to it that Daeron Targaryen made it safety to his own chambers and that he remained there. You sat by his bedside asking him where he had gone, telling him that it wasn’t safe for a prince to be in those settings, telling him that his future wife would not enjoy knowing he entertained whores in brothers and taverns.

That night at supper Daeron attended for the first time in a fortnight, he arrived just a pace behind you, Maekars face staying mostly stable but somebody who knew him better, somebody like a brother or a observant child would of seen the slight shock in how his forhead furrowed. He did not address Daeron though, actually you could tell he was actively ignoring his oldest.

You ate slowly, stopping occasionally to cut up the roast duck for Rhae.

“Pass the wine.” Daeron finally spoke looking at where it rested on the table infront of his brother. Aerion did not truly hand it over, he just nudged it slightly closer to his sad sap of a brother and sighed. Aerion was the only child Maekar had offered you any warning about. While you two had still been in kings landing, and courting, he had just confessed suddenly that his son could be violet. Pressing to you that he did not want you getting close with Aerion and finding out yourself that he could be cruel once he returned with you to Summerhall. Part of him worried that Aerion may resent him remarrying, resent having a women in their home in the spot his mother had once stood. You were relieved that thus far there had only been a few snide remarks leveled your way for Aerion. Egg stood up on his chair and grabbed the handle of the vase to actually pass it to his older brother.

“I thought your lesson were suppose to teach you manners.” His father questioned.

You stood and grabbed the vase out of little Eggs hands and sat back down with it. You looked at Daeron and poured the rest into your own cup.

“Let’s not trouble the maids with filling another. I believe this is the last bit from the current open barrel” your voice left no room for argument and so Daeron did not make one.

When Maekar called for the table to be cleared you stood and reached for Rhae and Daella’s hands. You planned to have your braid redone and make sure they settled into bed alright. Maekars hand reached your shoulder before you parted from the room with them and you paused glancing up to him the questioning look obvious In your eyes.

“See them to their rooms and then come to mine.”

You paused.

His chambers? You’d already laid together this week and he had made it very clear that he did not really seek more children out of this marriage

“Of course my prince.” You nodded and did just as he said. Saw his daughters to their beds, tonight, to their dismay, you did not linger and read or have one of them brush and the other braid your hair in whatever style they wished.

You had understood he did not want for you to linger about. That had been clear.

You knocked at his door after hesitating for a moment. You’d not really been beyond his solar and it felt bold to just step inside his personal chambers even though he had told you to find him there.

You were surprised to see he was dressed down when he opened the door and stepped aside for you to enter. He was in simple breeches and a tunic. The jacket and vest he wore during the day already gone.

Stepping through the entryway you scanned the room for a moment before turning to face him again.

“If I overstepped today forgive me it is just that I-“

“How did you get him to come to supper?” He asked quickly.

Your frown lifted some. “That is why you’ve called me here?” Relief washing over you and it made you outright chuckled. “I told him it was best for him to join us all. That he would feel better if he ate something proper and at least heard conversation.”

“And he just…listened?”

You nodded a bit eyebrows raised. Had he never attempted that?

“Yes husband, it was a simple request.”

That’s what it was, a request.

Not a demand.

Not a disparaging remark.

“He’s in his chambers right now, made no attempts and slipping the guards that I placed there.” He informed you and smiled sweetly.

“I should hope he is already asleep in bed!” You exclaimed. “I’ve not seen anybody other than a freshly born babe need rest more than your son.”

Maekar stopped his pacing and leveled his eyes at that remark. That stern gaze made your feet shift within your slippers.

“I just mean, he was exhausted this morning, I think a full nights rest might do him well-and keeping away from the cities” you sighed. You had a tendency to fill the silence of a a room. Maekar had not spent enough time with you yet to know of that habit.

“there’s nothing to be done of his drinking and whoring.” Maekar settled going to the cup of wine he had at the desk in his room. You watched him take a steadying sip.

“He is still young your grace, I am sure it is something he will mature out of.”

Maekar shook his head a bit and you squinted because for a moment you were sure you saw an uptick of his lips. Almost like a smirk. He could not believe your kindness, the innocence that you still had. Daeron was beyond grown, these natures were embedded into who he was.

“Regardless,” Maekar put his cup down and stepped a bit closer to you. “Thank you for brining him to the table tonight.”

You blinked, chin turning up to look at him as he stepped closer to you.

“Of course My Prince.” You quickly say once you’ve processed that Maekar Targaryen had just earnestly thanked you.

“Perhaps we have been too formal.” You almost flinched when his hand rose up and touched the end of your braid. His daughters had clearly taken time on this the day prior, it was quite detailed and still rather intact despite sleep and a day of you wrangling Daeron. They had grown attached to you, Egg respected your word and Daeron seemed influence by your presence. Perhaps he had been too quick to close himself off to you.

“perhaps.” You chirped softly eyes not leaving his as he felt up the plats of your hair and touched swallowed stiffly and his hand reached your cheek.

“Can I remain here tonight?” You requested quietly seeing how his eyes traced over your lips and soft jaw how he had clearly caught on to your quickened pulse. You imagined he might be too proud of a man to suggest it himself. He’d been the one who was much to formal, the one who kept you at a distance, who came to fufill his duties like you were a task for him to mark off of his list. He’d even arranged duties to your schedules that had to do with nothing of importance, flowers need not be decided on for the garden by you-the king had wanted you here to help with the children and so you had made yourself present to them on your own, not waiting for Maekars help!

“you truly wish for that wife?” He asked stepping against you some. Enough that his chest was pressing to yours and your feet slipped from your slippers as you stepped back a bit to remain balanced.

“Do you?” You pressed but his hand that was not cupping your cheek had looped behind your back and press you forward towards him. That was his answer.

The kiss was harsh. So different from what you’d received before those gathered for your marriage. He did not kiss you during the weekly visits to your chambers for his duty. You supposed a kiss did not produce a child and so he found it unnecessary.

Your lips stumbling against his not sure what pace he sought after in this moment because it felt more like he was consuming you than meeting your plush slightly open mouthed pecks. It took you a moment to realize that he did not wish to find some calming matched rhythm with you, he was conquering you.

Finally you had to push at his chest some because you felt faint from all the breath he stole from your lungs.

“None of that-you are my girl.” He warned you grabing your thin wrist easily. It was so small in his hand you panted while he seemed to expediently squeeze at it. Getting a feel for how fragile you might be.

You did not whinge at the pressure, actually your eyes nodded and sucked in your now absurd bottom lip. Rubbing the tip of your tongue over the marks Maekars teeth had left there.

“Yes m’lord.” You response finally and let your arm go limp in his hold to show you had not want to fuss again. You considered it monetary originally because feeling him snatch up your arm had sent a rush of adrenaline through you and you found it warmed the spot between your thighs. The spot where normally Maekar cupped oils to before pushing himself into you and completing his duty quickly.

“Good,” he hummed lowering down to your ear and kissing behind it. “Gods know I do not need another problem in my life.”

You nod softly pushing into him wanting more contact, craving it. His words have given your goose flesh and now you were in need of the warmth he radiated. “I’ll not be a problem i swear it. I wish to help you as a wife should.”

You barely finished your assurance to him before the air was pushed from your lungs. He had suddenly pushed you back into the bed you’d both been stood lingering in front of. You wasted no time and began to eagerly start to unlace your gown. You did not want to take to long and see him lose interest. It was not as if you’d been with any men other than him, you did not know that once a man held favor for you that they rarely lost it…especially one their cock was hard. He was very hard-you could tell by the tall tent at his crotch.

“did you beg my father for my hand?” He asked you suddenly as he stood at the end of the bed and slowly unbuttoned his tunic. He was in no rush. Quite enjoying to it frenzied stripping.

Tits half out of your chemise when you paused because of his words. “No my prince, he made the match himself.” You weren’t going to lie. His ego needed no stroking you could tell he did not care for that aspect of being a prince much. The constant attempts at flattery people made. You’d not waste your breath.

“I assumed you did…given this preformance.” He grabed the hem of your slip and tugged a bit. “So eager to lay bare for me, unashamed by the bright light,” the fire was high and none of the candles had been blown out. Nothing would be shadowed like it normally was when he visited your rooms. “I just assumed you had sought this arrangement out based on how your little cunny milks at me each time I spend within you.”

He’d noticed. Gods, now you weren’t flushed.

“is it not my duty to please you?” You attempted as Maekar grabed the bottom of your shift again and kept pulling this time until you were dragged down the bed a bit and slid from the fabric entirely. The only thing relaxing was the darkened cloth of your small clothes.

“and you did…without the desperate clenching…that bit was for your own enjoyment?” He tisked. The first time he felt it he’d pulled out of your instantly, there was on reason to indulge. With each following encounter though he stayed within you a tad longer, soaking in the familiar now but long deprived sensation of being physical desired. It had reminded him of his love, his wife, and so he had not allowed himself to indulge it. Thought that restraint had crumbled, clearly.

“I wished to know what it felt like.” You were being honest. You could tell he would appreciate that. “What a climax felt like.” You clarified still looking up at him not diverting your eyes at all.

Your husband pulled at the last strap on his shirt and he was able to tug it up over his head, briefly russling his hair before it settled naturally back down in the neat blunt cut. You not seen him this undressed. Perhaps that said all that was needed about how your couplings had gone in the past? They were purely duty. Your ladies would put you into pretty silk robes and help you settle into bed and then Maekar would come in after the fire died down and he would blow every candle out. You’d not know he was at the bed until his weight dipped the mattress and his knees nudged yours open. You knew he still wore his pants because you could feel the rough fabric against the inside of your delicate thighs and he wore a tunic, vest and jacket on top. The first few times you’d grabbed to his shoulder as he pushed in. Even with the oils it was a strange and somewhat invasive feeling so gripping his arm eased you.

You made an effort to pull your eyes from his chest and stomach to his face once again. He had quite a few scars. You should have expected that, he had some on his face, and he had fought in a war. He’d fought quite well in that war from what you’d been told by your own father. It made sense that he would have markings from that time in his life. He was very pale, and the scars seemed to have faded into a pink shade so they stood out prominently against his skin and the white hair that spread up towards the middle of his belly. He had little chest hair-or perhaps it was just so white it appeared translucent, but there seemed to be a great deal of hair leading down towards his breeches.

“did you not trust I’d ensure you experienced a moment of pleasure when you had earned it girl?”

You swallowed and squeezed your legs together. Honestly you had not thought he had one thought to your comfort let alone your actual enjoyment.

“Have I earned it?” You settled on saying. Your perky breasts lay against your chest nipples budding giving away how thrilling this all was for you. That made him quite pleased. He’d hoped you’d enjoy being treated in this manner.

Maekar ran a hand over his mustache and beard settling it all down straight and then he used the same hand to waved you down to the foot of the bed while his other unlaced his trousers. He fell right out of his breeches, heavy and throbbing.

You rushed to make your way down to the edge of the large plush bed, crawling there on your hands and knees pushing your small clothes down as you did. Not enjoying how the fabric stuck to you damp folds.

“Lick it now with your tongue. wet it all before you take the tip within your mouth. You’ll do well to avoid grazing your teeth there”. He warned as his hand found your hair when you arrived just infront of him level with his hips. He clenched the soft locks between his fingers and tugged you down so your lips pressed to his bobbing manhood. You whimpered when he pulled at your hair brining you right to his pelvis, your eyes closed so the hairs there did not irritate your eyes. Your hands had gripped at the end of the bed as you tried to process his instructions.

Lick at him. Suck upon the tip. Don’t bite.

“is this to complicated for you wife?” He questioned brow raised. Half of why he had felt drawn to you so suddenly was because of your competency. Because of your sureness in your movements and actions within this home, with his family.

“No!” You quickly defended yourself and followed up with a small timid kitten lick. You’d not don’t anything but lay on your back and close your eyes for moons! This switch had your mind spinning as you attempted to catch up. “I don’t want to do it wrong…I’m thinking.” You admitted finally looking up at him because his hold on your hair had lightened softly.

“you need not think about these things.” Maekar explained, tone briefly softer and he let go of you entirely walking around the bed and sitting by the headboard where all his plush red pillows were. “Come here.”

You nodded and moved there quickly, knelt against his blankets beside him eyes drifting from where his cock stood tall against his stomach to his face. His light eyes were a bit soft and his hand settled on your hip, his large hand caressing the curve of you there and rubbing comfortingly. “You’ve taken me within a much smaller place.” He eased your mind glancing down at the apex of your thighs and the dark curled hair there that kept you a bit hidden from him. “I’ve no wish to lead you wrong sweet thing.” His hand climbed from your hip following the side of your figure all the way up to your jaw and cheek.

“lean over right here.” You did. One arm laid over his lap and the other touching his stomach as your knees supported most of your weight. “Good.” He could feel your shakey breath and Maekars large rough hand opted to pet your hair back so he could still see at least half of your face. “Now press a kiss just there.” He breathed chest puffing out with each breath he took. It was a great effort for him to not stop stroking our hair back and instead grab it again. You’d seemed eager-arouses by the sudden change in treatment but you were sorely lacking in the knowledge needed to enjoy that sort of demanding sex. He could be gentle-he could help you learn this one time.

“yes, good.” He leaned his head back as you kept peppering kissed against his mushroom tip. They slowly became more open mouthed and his hand eased down over the curve of your back when he felt your tongue dart out suddenly and lick up the length of him. Following the pulsing vein that led from his base to his tip.

You moaned some at how he tasted, earthy and salty. You savored it and the more his grunts slipped out the more eager and bold you got. His hand slopped down off your back and onto your bottom first groping at your arse and then pulling back before landing his hand right back down against it. You gasped and instinctively pushed yourself back against his rubbing hand as the buzz subsided.

“Open your mouth now.” He demanded and you looked up at him nodding as you did just what he told you and your eyes fluttered as his hand not on your bottom gripped the base of his length and positioned himself right between your lips and against your soft enticingly warm tongue.

Your lips sealed as soon as his hand delivered another spank. You’d not been paddled before-you had been far too good of a child for that but you found that you enjoyed how it felt-enjoyed that Maekar was giving you attention in this manner. Your ladies would be appalled, the septa would probably faint if she knew you were leaned here now suckling as his cock as Prince Maekar paddled you. But you enjoyed it. So much that you’d begun to clench around nothing. A action that your husband had noticed and was watching closely. His hand dipped a bit lower this time one of his fingers landing right over your dripping slit. The contact made you struggle a bit and ruined the rhythm of your gentle head bobbing. You’d taken almost his entire length in your throat but now your wet and raw lips were back to his cockhead licking at it and pressing tender kisses as you regained your breath.

Maekar leaned over just a bit and he grabed your ass with both of his hands spreading you open quote concerns for his view. “You wish to feel pleasure?” He asked you eyes burrowing into your pretty little cunt. You could not see him but he was very much enjoying what he saw, it was written all over his expression. Parted lips, fastened breath, intense eyes. Fingers flexing against the curve of you and he swallowed seeing your little pearl hard and reddened. Glistening because of how aroused he had made you.

“yes, please your grace.” It sounded much more pathetic in tone than you had intended but at least he would know how deeply you had longed for this.

Maekar shifted his arm so it came up under your leaned over for, forearm pressed up against your stomach and mound and his palm pressed against over your clit fingers circling your tight core. He grunted when you almost sucked him into to the first knuckle because of how eagerly you clenched.

“you shall cum for me wife, but only if you can draw my own release as well.” He had to swallow down the moan that suddenly appeared in his mouth because you had leaned your mouth back down around him before his little deal had even been fully spoken. “Easy girl.” He warmed feeling how eager you were. He was glad he was no green boy because your thirst felt delicious against him. But he had feel you might pout if he finished quickly and had not ensured your release already. He could make this last.

And he did. Slowly dipping into your with his middle finger, feeling the fluttering of your around him as he worked the single finger fully into you. Pulling out shortly after and circling that one around your hard pearl. He grinned earnestly at how your body shuttered. Sweet girl, he’d assumed you’d at least touched yourself. Clearly not.

“H-husband!” you gasped mouth pressed to his stone licking at them when he plunged two of his fingers into you. They curled in a manner that had your body squirming, and your belly knotting up. He could feel you tense against him.

“Shhh-you’ll not get anything if you waste my seed!” He directed you back up to his tip. He red at his tip, actually he was red almost all over, cheeks flushes chest warm and pink, the scars scattered all over him burning an almost purple shade the closer he got to finishing. You focused back at his cockhead hand grabbing his shaft and jerking up and down it as you suckled hardly at his tip. Eyes shutting when he twitched and you rather quickly after feel him rut up against your throat making you breath rapidly through your nose while he pulse a few times and painted the back of your throat with his cum. It was a unfamiliar sensation and taste to you but you had no time to really consider if you had any feelings about it because Maekar seemed to have been holding out on your in the few minutes before his own release. His fingers curled within you no longer pumping just coaxing at something within you that you were extraordinarily unfamiliar with, and the moaned his palm lifted the pressure over your pearl and instead began to circle it with his thumb you began to grip at his leg. Face pressing at the space between his softening cock and his stomach panting and collapsing against him your shaky knees only keeping your bottom up because of the strength of Maekars hold you you.

“oh-Oh!” You found your fingers grabing to his side, squeezing for support. He was grunting from the effort of his fingers and hand, focused deeply on brining you to your peak. It was an overwhelming sensation for you.

“Maekar!” You shuttered suddenly pushing your face fully against his stomach as your core made a vice around him and you started to curl up, but his hand did not stop, he spun his thumb harder against your sensitive clit and tormented the spongy spot within your cunt that was making your vision see blurry thoughts.

“You’re alright-easy now. Breathe for me sweet girl.” He saw your cheeks going red and your throat as well and he knew you were holding your breath, you needed to exhale to relax and let the feeling overtake you. He had you, there was no reason to grip to any control.

“Maekar, seven hells-I-I” you were stuttering, crying against him because the feeling felt so overwhelming. Abdoneing any bit of strangeness that was between you before because you needed him in this moment. You felt your husbands hand slide up your back and his large thumb stroke up and down the crown of your head holding you into his chest as he shifted you into his lap to finish you off. He kissed against your neck, your eee suddenly swearing and stuck to him as he rumbled encouragement into your ear as his one hand still worked at you until suddenly you were reaching out to grab his arm because the pleasurable feeling had consumed you entirely and you needed it to stop before it tore you in half.

He was much stronger than you and so the pushing at his bicep and elbow did nothing and he kept up his motion until your pupils grew wide and his the shade of your eyes entirely. You soaked his hand…his arm…you’d realize in a bit that even some of his blankets were covered in your climax. The coil snapped in your stomach and you let out quite the loud groan burying your face into his chest. He did have hair there, it was just so translucent it blended into his skin tone completely. Your body twitched as he slowly removed his fingers from you and gently rubbed at your sore lower belly. He held you like that for a while. Until your chest was not rising and falling every other second.

You felt outside of your body for a long while, unsure what to say-or even if you could recall how to say words that were desperate moans and groans. You were sure your legs did not work at all and so you were thankful when Maekar stood up taking you with him and he brought you to his bathing chambers and placed you on the dark stone counter. It was a shock against your swollen folds but it also did provide a bit of relief to you. You leaned back silently as the prince dipped a cloth into the basin of warm water and then gently spread your legs open so he could clean your mess from you. You blinded sleepily while watching him. He was still bare naked, completely unashamed.

“Husband…” you ventured to speak finally and he raised a new fresh rag to your face wiping your lips and chin. It was far more caring than you imagined he would be. Thought you would not complain-never-it was nice.

“You’ll sleep here tonight.” He cut you off voice back to its normal exhausted but deep tone and his brows were back to creating deep lines between them due to his scowl.

“Thank you, I’d like that.” You whispered and he scoops you up again brining you back to his bed and laying you down after he pulls some of the blankets and pillows off that had gotten damp during your gush of a climax.

He did not hold to you, or really seem like he wishes for you to cuddle into him once you both were laid under the fur but he did gently run his calloused finger down your back.

“Tomorrow you’ll see to Daeron.” You turned your head against the pillows to see him. Confusion spread on your face at the commented.

“I’ve promised Rhea I’d attend her maths lessons in the morning.” You explained and he nodded closing his eyes but keeping the motion of his hand going down over your spine.

“You’ll have time for that, I wish for you to see to him after the sun falls. He listened to you wife, if anybody can keep him settled in the hall it is you.”

Daeron Targaryen, was not yet awake when the maester knocked upon his chamber door. He was, in fact, deeply and contentedly asleep, his face half buried in a feather pillow, his silver gold hair more silver than gold now, he noted with quiet resignation every time he glanced into a looking glass spread across the linen in disarray.

Beside him, Myriah stirred. She had always been a lighter sleeper than he was, a trait she attributed to her Dornish upbringing, where the heat of the midday sun made afternoon siestas necessary and nighttime slumber shallower as a result. Or perhaps it was simply that she had spent thirty years sleeping beside a king, and kings, as a general rule, did not get to sleep peacefully through the night. Messengers arrived at all hours. Ravens came and went. The realm did not pause its endless demands simply because the hour was inconvenient.

"Someone's at the door," Myriah murmured, her voice still thick with sleep, her dark hair spilling across her pillow like a river of ink.

Daeron made a sound that was not quite a word and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. He was sixty three years old. His joints ached when it rained. His eyes tired easily after long hours bent over correspondence and petitions and the endless, grinding machinery of governance. He had been ruling for nearly three decades, and while he liked to think he had done a decent job of it, certainly better than his father, though the gods knew that was not a high bar to clear, there were moments, and this was one of them when he wished he could simply roll over and go back to sleep and let the realm manage itself for a few hours.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Three sharp raps, deliberate and apologetic at once, the kind of knock that said I am sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I would not be doing so if it were not important.

"Enter," Daeron called, his voice emerging as a croak. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the protest in his lower back, and ran a hand through his tangled hair.

The door opened to admit Maester Gerold, he carried a rolled parchment in one hand, sealed with the dark wax of Dragonstone, and his expression was difficult to read in the dim light of the chamber. "A raven from Dragonstone, Your Grace," the maester said, his voice carefully neutral. "From Prince Baelor. Marked as urgent."

Daeron's heart gave a single, uncomfortable lurch. Urgent. That word always carried weight, especially when it came from Dragonstone, especially when it concerned Baelor. His eldest son was not prone to exaggeration. If he said something was urgent, he meant it, and a dozen unpleasant possibilities flickered through Daeron's mind before he could stop them. An accident. An illness. An attack. Something had happened to Valarr, or to Matarys, or to Baelor himself, and here he was, an old man in his nightshirt, receiving the news in his bedchamber while the sun was still dragging itself over the horizon.

"Leave it on the table," Daeron said, gesturing toward the small writing desk near the window. "And have someone bring tea. Strong tea. And something to eat, if the kitchens are awake."

"Yes, Your Grace." Maester Gerold set the letter down with careful precision, his chain rattling softly, and withdrew with a bow.

Myriah pushed herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes following the maester's retreating form before shifting to the letter on the desk. Even half asleep, with her hair tangled and her face creased from the pillow, she was beautiful. She had been beautiful for years, and Daeron had never grown tired of looking at her. It was one of the few things in his life that had never grown complicated or disappointing or fraught with political consequence.

"Urgent from Baelor," she said, her voice still carrying the warm, rough edges of sleep. "That cannot be good."

"Perhaps it is good news," Daeron said, though he did not quite believe it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his bare feet cold against the stone floor, his nightshirt hanging loose around his thinning frame. "Perhaps Valarr has decided to come home at last."

"If that were the case, Baelor would not call it urgent." Myriah sat up fully, pulling the blankets around her shoulders. "He would call it a relief."

Daeron could not argue with that. He crossed to the desk, his movements slow and careful, the way an old man moved when his joints had not yet warmed to the day. The letter sat where Maester Gerold had left it and Daeron broke it with his thumb and unrolled the parchment.

The handwriting was unmistakably Baelor's. Neat, controlled, the letters formed with the careful precision of a man who had been taught to write by the finest tutors in the realm and had practiced until his penmanship was beyond reproach. But there was something else beneath the neatness, Daeron thought. A slight tremor, perhaps. An unevenness in the spacing that suggested the hand holding the quill had been less steady than usual. Baelor had written this letter in a state of some emotion. Excitement, or fear.

Daeron began to read. Myriah watched him from the bed, her expression shifting from drowsy curiosity to something more alert as she watched his face.

"Well?" she asked, when he had been silent for a long moment. "What does he say?"

Daeron did not answer immediately. He was still reading, his eyes moving down the parchment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Then, quite suddenly, he let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and he lowered the letter to his lap.

"It appears," he said, his voice flat with disbelief, "that there is a dragon on Dragonstone."

Myriah stared at him. "What?"

"A dragon. A living dragon. Pale as sea foam, apparently, with purple shades. Discovered in the eastern caves of the Dragonmont by a village girl." Daeron's voice remained studiously even, the voice he used when he was reading aloud from some particularly dubious petition. "The girl healed its injured wing. The dragon bonded with her. Valarr has fallen in love with her. Baelor has given his consent for them to marry. He wishes to break the betrothal to Kiera of Tyrosh and offer Matarys as a substitute. And he writes all of this in a letter marked urgent."

A long silence filled the royal bedchamber. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Outside the window, a gull cried, its voice carrying across the rooftops of King's Landing.

Then Myriah laughed. It was not a cruel laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who had just heard something so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that she could not help but find it funny. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her dark eyes bright with amusement, and shook her head slowly.

"Matarys," she said. "It has to be Matarys."

Matarys. Of course. His younger grandson, the six and ten year old with his mother's hair and his father's sharp eyes and a sense of humor that had caused no end of trouble over the years. Matarys, who had once convinced half the servants that the Red Keep was haunted by the ghost of a princess. Matarys, who had sent a letter to his uncle Maekar claiming that the King had decided to abdicate and become a septon. Matarys, who loved jokes and pranks and mischief with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a boy who had never quite grown out of being a child.

"That little wretch," Daeron said, but there was no real anger in his voice. In truth, he was almost relieved. A dragon. A village girl. A broken betrothal. If Baelor had genuinely written such a letter, it would have meant his eldest son had lost his mind entirely. But Matarys—Matarys writing an absurd letter in his father's hand, using his father's seal, sending it to King's Landing in the middle of the night—that made a great deal more sense. It was exactly the sort of thing Matarys would find hilarious.

"Read it to me," Myriah said, settling back against her pillows, her dark eyes still sparkling with amusement. "I want to hear every word."

Daeron read about the girl approaching Baelor at the petitions, about Baelor's disbelief, about the shame he claimed to feel. He read about the dragon's name—Moonfyre, a name that sounded suspiciously like something Matarys would invent, poetic and slightly overwrought—and about the bond between the girl and the creature. He read about Valarr falling in love, about Baelor offering the girl silver to disappear, about Valarr abdicating his claim to the throne.

"Abdicated," Myriah repeated, when he reached that part. "Valarr abdicated. For a village girl with goats."

"Apparently so."

"That is quite romantic."

"It is quite absurd."

Daeron read on. The letter grew more elaborate as it went, weaving in details about Tyrosh and Kiera, about Matarys being offered as a substitute husband, about the political implications of a dragon returning to House Targaryen after seventy years. The final paragraphs were almost poetic, speaking of hope and fire and the blood of Old Valyria, of children who would be trueborn Targaryens, of eggs that might hatch and dragons that might fill the skies once more.

When he finished, he set the letter down on the desk and looked at his wife. She was smiling, a small, knowing smile that he had seen a thousand times before and still could not entirely interpret.

"Well," she said. "That was quite the tale."

"It was quite something," Daeron agreed. "Though I am not certain Matarys wrote it."

"No?"

"The handwriting is too good. You know Matarys's penmanship—it looks like a spider fell in an inkpot and crawled across the page. This is Baelor's hand, or a very convincing forgery."

"Then perhaps Baelor wrote it as a joke."

Daeron considered this. Baelor was not known for his sense of humor. He was a serious man, a dutiful man, a man who had spent his entire life doing what was expected of him without complaint or deviation. But perhaps that was precisely what made the joke effective. Perhaps Baelor, exhausted by months on Dragonstone and desperate to return to King's Landing, had decided to write the most ridiculous letter he could conceive of as a way of expressing his frustration. A dragon. A village girl. A love story. A broken betrothal. It was all so patently absurd that it had to be intentional.

"Perhaps," Daeron said slowly, "this is Baelor's way of telling me he needs to come home. He has been on Dragonstone too long. The petitions could have been handled in a fortnight, but he has been there for months. He is bored. He is tired. He wants me to summon him back, and this is his way of asking."

"That is a very elaborate way of asking."

"Baelor has always been thorough."

Myriah laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the cup of water on her bedside table. "What are you going to tell him?"

Daeron looked at the letter again. "I am going to write him back," Daeron said, rising from the desk and crossing to the door to call for a servant. "I am going to tell him that I have read his letter, that I found it very amusing, and that he is to return to King's Landing at once."

"That is all?"

"That is all. If he wants to tell me more about this dragon and this village girl, he can do so in person. I am not going to conduct a serious diplomatic conversation about imaginary creatures through raven post."

Myriah smiled, settling back against her pillows. "You do not think you are being too dismissive?"

"I think I am being appropriately dismissive." Daeron returned to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his hand finding Myriah's beneath the blankets. "There is no dragon, Myriah. There is no village girl. There is only my son, who has been on a dreary island for too long and has lost his patience, and my grandson, who has fallen in with some local girl and convinced his father to let him out of his betrothal. The rest is embellishment."

"And if you are wrong?"

"I am not wrong."

"But if you are?"

Daeron looked at her. Her dark eyes were steady, her expression unreadable. She had always been the one to see possibilities he overlooked, to consider angles he dismissed, to remind him that the world was stranger and more complicated than his logical mind wanted it to be.

"If I am wrong," he said slowly, "then there is a dragon on Dragonstone, and my son has written me a letter that will be studied by maesters for centuries, and I have just dismissed it as a prank. In which case, I will owe him an apology. A very large apology."

"A very large apology indeed."

"But I am not wrong."

Myriah smiled and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. "Of course you are not, my love. You are the King. Kings are never wrong."

Daeron snorted. "Now you are mocking me."

"I have been mocking you for years. You have only just noticed?"

He laughed, a warm sound that filled the quiet chamber, he rose from the bed, crossed to the writing desk, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. The reply did not need to be long. A few lines, perhaps. Enough to acknowledge the letter without taking it seriously, to summon Baelor home without indulging the fantasy. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

To my son Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone,

Your letter reached me this morning. I read it with great interest and no small amount of amusement. The attention to detail is commendable, and I must congratulate whoever composed it—whether that was you, which would surprise me, or Matarys, which would not.

I am pleased to hear that Dragonstone has been treating you so well that you have found time to invent elaborate fictions. However, your presence is required in King's Landing. The small council has been managing without you, but there are matters that require your attention, and I am too old to handle all of them myself.

Bring Valarr with you. Bring Matarys as well, if he wishes to come. If the village girl exists—and I remain skeptical on that point—you may bring her too, though I cannot promise I will believe a word of this story until I see proof with my own eyes.

As for the betrothal, we will discuss it when you return. I am not inclined to break an alliance with Tyrosh on the basis of a letter that reads like a bard's tale, but I am willing to hear you out. If Valarr has genuinely fallen in love, there may be other ways to address the situation that do not involve inventing dragons.

Come home, Baelor. You have been on that island long enough.

With affection and considerable skepticism,

Your father,

Daeron

—

The morning light through the narrow windows of Dragonstone's eastern corridor turned the stone to smoke and honey, and you were still not entirely certain how Valarr had managed to get you here.

No—that was untrue. You knew exactly how he had managed it. He had woken you at dawn with a kiss pressed to the hinge of your jaw, and then another to the corner of your mouth, and then another to your forehead when you had tried to bury your face in the pillow and pretend you were still asleep. Marta had grumbled from her corner of the cottage that if the two of you did not stop whispering and giggling like children she would throw her medicine pot at your heads, and Valarr had muffled his laughter against your shoulder and held you tighter, his arm a warm weight across your stomach.

He had whispered that the tailor was waiting, that your grey wool dress had a tear in the sleeve that Marta had mended three times already, that if you were going to keep flying Moonfyre you needed proper clothes and not garments held together by hope and old thread. You had grumbled that you liked your grey dress. He had kissed you again, this time on the tip of your nose, and said he liked it too, but he would like it even more if it did not disintegrate the next time you climbed onto a dragon's back.

You had told him he was being ridiculous. He had agreed amiably and continued kissing you, your cheek, your temple, the corner of your jaw, until Marta had actually thrown a slipper at him and told him to get out of her house if he was going to behave like a lovesick boy instead of a prince. He had apologized with exaggerated formality, but his eyes had been laughing, and when he turned back to you he had whispered, "The tailor. Please. For my sanity," and you had finally agreed, if only to make him stop looking at you with those mismatched eyes that made you feel as though your bones were turning to warm milk.

So here you were, walking the corridors of the castle that had loomed over your village your entire life, your hand tucked into the crook of Valarr's elbow. The tailor had been efficient and terrifying an old man with pins in his mouth and spectacles perched on his nose, who had clucked over you like a hen with one chick and complained that you had the posture of someone who spent too much time hunched over goats. He had measured everything. Every span of your arms, every width of your shoulders, every length from hip to ankle and elbow to wrist. He had draped fabric over you in shades of deep purple and storm blue and a particular dark red that Valarr had picked out himself, holding it up to your cheek and nodding as though he had just solved some important political crisis.

Now the measuring was done, and Valarr was leading you through the castle instead of back toward the village gates.

"I received another letter from Matarys this morning," he said, his voice carrying that particular mixture of exasperation and fondness that only his younger brother seemed able to provoke. "The third one this week. He has taken to sending them by raven, which is absurd—he could simply walk send a servant, but he claims a raven carries more dramatic weight."

You smiled. "What does he want?"

"The same thing he has wanted since you came back. To meet you. To meet Moonfyre." Valarr sighed, his free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "He writes that he is perishing of neglected curiosity, and that if I do not introduce him within the fortnight he will be forced to take drastic measures. What those measures are, he does not specify, which I find deeply unsettling."

"He sounds very dramatic."

"He is insufferable," Valarr said, but his voice was warm. "Father has forbidden it, of course. He does not want you overwhelmed, and he knows Matarys has all the subtlety of a battering ram. When you meet him, and you will meet him eventually, he wants it to be on your terms, not because my brother has ambushed you in some corridor."

"I appreciate that," you said, and meant it. The thought of meeting more of Valarr's family made your stomach tighten, but the thought of meeting them when you were prepared, when you had warning and time to steady yourself, was easier to bear.

"He will adore you," Valarr said quietly and his hand tightened over yours where it rested in the crook of his arm.

They turned a corner, and the corridor changed. The stone here was older, rougher hewn, the torches fewer and farther between. You slowed, glancing up at Valarr in confusion, but he only tightened his arm against his side, pressing your hand more firmly into the crook of his elbow.

"There is something I want to show you," he said.

"More tailors?"

"Nothing so dire, I promise."

He led you down a narrow flight of stairs, then another, the air growing cooler and damper with each step. The walls dripped in places, dark with moisture, and the torches were spaced so far apart that you walked through pools of shadow between each one. The steps were worn smooth in the center, grooved by centuries of feet, and you found yourself wondering how many Targaryens had walked this same path, and what they had been going to see, and whether any of them had been village girls with no name and no family and a dragon who purred when scratched behind the eye ridge.

At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy door of iron-banded oak stood slightly ajar. Valarr pushed it open with his shoulder and ushered you through. The chamber beyond was not large, but it was full. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with objects draped in oilcloth and dust. The air smelled of old leather and metal and something sharper beneath—the faint, acrid tang of dragon, though you did not recognize it at first. It was only when Valarr crossed to the center of the room and pulled away a heavy canvas sheet that you understood.

They were saddles. Dragon saddles. They rested on great wooden stands, three of them arranged in a loose semicircle like ancient thrones awaiting occupants who would never return. The leather was cracked and dark with age, the metal fittings dulled by time, but the shapes were unmistakable. Not the light, simple saddles that horses wore, these were massive, built like siege weapons, all deep seats and high backs and heavy straps that looked more suited to anchoring a ship than securing a rider. The buckles were iron, some rusted, some wrapped in remnants of what might once have been decorative tooling. One saddle still bore faint traces of gilding along its pommel, the gold flaking away like autumn leaves.

"This one was Sunfyre's," Valarr said, touching the edge of a saddle that gleamed dully in the torchlight, its leather the color of old coins. "Or so the records claim. It is difficult to be certain—so much was lost during the Dance. Saddles burned with their riders, or were broken apart for leather and metal when the dragons died and no one thought to preserve anything." He moved to the next, and his voice softened. "This one belonged to Syrax."

You stepped closer before you meant to. Syrax's saddle was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Even beneath the dust and the cracks and the slow decay of years, you could see it, the intricate patterns worked into the leather, the fittings that looked almost like gold, the delicate filigree along the backrest that must have taken someone months to complete. It was opulent and feminine and utterly unlike the heavy, warlike saddles beside it. It looked like something a queen would ride.

"Rhaenyra's dragon," you said quietly.

"Yes." Valarr's hand hovered over the pommel without touching it. "She rode Syrax when she took King's Landing. And later—well. You know the histories."

You did. You had read them in the book he gave you, sounding out the words while his shoulder pressed warm against yours. Syrax had died in the Dragonpit, torn apart by the smallfolk who rose against Rhaenyra. The saddle had outlived the dragon. That seemed wrong, somehow. That leather and metal could endure when fire and wings could not.

"There is more," Valarr said, turning to face you. The torchlight caught the silver streak in his hair, made his pale eye gleam like a coin. "That is not why I brought you here. I brought you here because—" He stopped, and for a moment he looked almost uncertain, which was such an unusual expression on his face that you felt your heart clench. "Because I want to commission a saddle for you. For Moonfyre."

You opened your mouth, but he was already speaking again, the words tumbling out faster now.

"I cannot watch you fly anymore without one. Every time you climb onto her back with nothing but your hands and your legs and your stubbornness, I feel as though my heart is going to stop. You hold on with strength alone, and you are strong—stronger than anyone I have ever met—but strength fails. A saddle would not. A saddle would keep you secure through dives and climbs and whatever else Moonfyre decides to do. A saddle would—"

"Valarr—"

"—mean that I could watch you fly without feeling as though I am going to be sick from terror. A saddle would mean that if something happened, if she banked too sharply or you lost your grip, you would not—"

"Valarr."

He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into loose fists, and his chest was rising and falling too quickly. He looked at you with those eyes and you could see the guilt there, the fear, the thing he still carried from the weeks when he had not believed you. It had not gone away. You were not certain it ever would.

"You are frightened for me," you said.

"Of course I am frightened for you." His voice was raw at the edges, scraped clean of princely composure. "I am frightened for you every moment you are in the air. I am frightened for you when you are on the ground and Moonfyre is not with you and I think about all the things that could happen, all the people who might want to hurt her or take her or use you to get to her. I am frightened for you when you are asleep and I am watching you breathe and I think about how close I came to losing you before I ever truly had you." He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through your new grey dress. "So yes. I am frightened for you. And I am asking you—asking, not commanding, I would never command you—to let me do this one thing that might make you a little safer. Please."

The word hung in the dusty air between you. A prince, begging. For you. You looked at the saddles again and tried to imagine yourself sitting in something like that, strapped into leather and steel, secured against the sky. Moonfyre was warm beneath you when you flew. Moonfyre was solid and alive and always, always careful with you, even when she dove or climbed or twisted through the air like a ribbon in the wind. The thought of putting something between you, something hard and unyielding, made your stomach clench.

"It might hurt her," you said quietly. "The straps. The weight. She has never carried anything but me. What if she hates it? What if it rubs her scales raw or catches on her spines or—"

"Moonfyre," Valarr said, and his voice was gentler now, some of the urgency draining out of it, "is a dragon. She carried you across the sea and back. She fought off infection and crooked bones and months of pain. A saddle will not hurt her. A properly fitted saddle, made by craftsmen who know what they are doing—she will barely feel it."

"You do not know that."

"I do not know that," he agreed. "But I know that the old riders saddled their dragons, and the dragons did not suffer for it. I know that Sunfyre carried Aegon through battle after battle with a saddle on his back, and it did not slow him down. I know that Syrax bore Rhaenyra for years, and the saddle was part of them, part of the bond, not a barrier between them."

You traced your fingers along the edge of Syrax's saddle. The leather was cold and brittle, flaking slightly beneath your touch. You thought of the craftsmen who had made it, the hours of careful work, the pride they must have felt when they saw it strapped to a dragon's back. You thought of Valarr, standing beside you in this dusty chamber, pleading with you to let him keep you safe.

"Moonfyre might like it," Valarr said softly. "If it means you can fly longer. Fly farther. Go places you have never been without your arms giving out halfway across the bay."

That was unfair. He knew it was unfair. You could see it in the slight quirk of his mouth, the way his pale eye caught the torchlight. He was appealing to the part of you that wanted to see the world from dragonback, that had tasted freedom on that unknown island and wanted more of it, that dreamed sometimes of flying west until you reached the edge of the map and saw what lay beyond.

"You are manipulating me," you said.

"I am reasoning with you."

"You are manipulating me with reasoning."

"Is it working?"

You wanted to stay cross with him. You wanted to hold onto your uncertainty, your fear for Moonfyre's comfort, your stubborn village-girl conviction that you did not need fine things or special treatment or princes who commissioned saddles for you. But he was looking at you with those eyes and you could feel your resolve crumbling like the gilding on Syrax's pommel.

"If Moonfyre hates it," you said slowly, "I will not make her wear it. Not even if it is the finest saddle ever made. Not even if you beg."

"Agreed."

"And if it hurts her—if there is even a single scale rubbed raw, a single moment where she seems uncomfortable—it comes off and I do not put it back on."

"Agreed."

"And you stop hovering every time I fly. You let me go without looking as though you are about to be sick."

He hesitated at that, his jaw tightening, and you knew you had found the limit of his willingness to negotiate. But after a moment he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head that was more concession than agreement.

"I will try," he said. "I cannot promise I will succeed."

"That is all I ask."

He reached for you then, his hands finding your waist and pulling you gently toward him. You went willingly, letting yourself be drawn into the circle of his arms, letting your forehead rest against his collarbone. He smelled of salt and leather and something else, something warm and clean that you had come to associate with him alone. His chin came to rest on the top of your head.

"Thank you," he said, and the words vibrated through his chest into your bones.

"You are very difficult to refuse," you mumbled into his tunic.

"I know. I have been practicing."

You laughed despite yourself, a small huff of air against the fabric of his shirt. His arms tightened around you.

"The leatherworker will want to meet Moonfyre," he said, already planning, already thinking ahead to measurements and fittings and all the practical details that would make this real. "To take her dimensions. I will send word to him today."

"He will have to approach her slowly. She does not like strangers."

"I will tell him."

"And he cannot stare at her. She thinks staring is a challenge."

"I will tell him that too."

"And he should bring her something to eat. A goat, or a sheep. She likes people better when they come bearing food."

Valarr stopped in the doorway and turned to look at you, and there was something in his expression wonder, perhaps, or gratitude, or simply the overwhelming relief of a man who had been forgiven for something he could not forgive himself.

"I love you," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

You did. You had known it for longer than you had believed it, had felt it in every kiss and every gentle word and every moment when he looked at you as though you were the only real thing in a world made of shadows. But hearing him say it still made your heart stutter in your chest, still made you feel as though you were standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful.

"I know," you said. "I love you too."

He kissed you once more, soft and brief and full of promise, and then he led you back up the stairs and into the light.

At the top of the stairs, instead of turning back toward the main corridor and the way you had come, he steered you left. Then right. Then through a narrow archway you had not noticed before, into a hallway lined with old tapestries whose threads had gone dull and grey with age.

"What is this?" you asked.

"The east gallery. It connects the residential wing to the great hall without going through the main courtyard. Useful when it rains."

"It is not raining."

"No," he agreed. "But you have never seen it, and I thought you might like to."

You walked a little further. He showed you the small sept tucked into an alcove off the gallery a quiet, shadowed space with carved dragons twining up the pillars and a septa's crystal catching the light from a single high window. He showed you the library, which was not grand like you imagined the one in King's Landing must be, but still held more books than you had ever seen in one place, their spines cracked and faded and smelling of dust and old paper. He showed you a narrow window that looked out over the eastern meadows where you and Moonfyre had first learned to fly, and he pointed to the distant smudge of the village and said, "Marta's roof needs new thatching. I noticed it yesterday. I'll send someone."

You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the window's light, his mismatched eyes fixed on the village below, and there was something deliberate in the way he spoke, something careful and measured that you could not quite name.

"Why are you being so thorough?" you asked.

He turned from the window. "Thorough?"

"All of this." You gestured at the corridor behind you, the library, the sept, the gallery with its faded tapestries. "You are showing me every corner of this castle as though you expect me to be tested on it later."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was a softer smile than before, less teasing and more tentative. "Perhaps I am."

"Valarr."

He exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry some weight you could not see, and reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before lowering them again.

"I am showing you your future home," he said. "Or one of them, at least. The Red Keep will be yours as well, when the time comes. I thought you ought to know your way around before—" He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your hand. "Before everything changes."

The word echoed in the quiet corridor. Home. You had a home. A small cottage with a sagging roof and a hearth that smoked when the wind blew from the east and a narrow pallet where Marta had tucked you in every night since you were small enough to be carried. That was home. That had always been home.

"Home," you repeated, and the word felt strange in your mouth, too large and too small at the same time.

"Yes. When you marry me, Dragonstone will be yours. Not just the caves and the village and the meadows, but all of it. The castle. The library. The sept and the gallery and every dusty corner you have not seen yet. And King's Landing, too, when—" He stopped, his jaw tightening briefly. "When the time comes."

Your heart was beating very fast. You could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the place where his thumb was still tracing circles over your skin.

"I do not recall accepting any proposal," you said.

It came out steadier than you felt. His eyes met yours, and there was no teasing in them now. Just him. Just Valarr, looking at you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

"You will," he said. "One day."

"That is very confident of you."

"Not confident. Hopeful." He lifted your hand again and pressed it flat against his chest, over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm, quick and strong and slightly uneven. "I told you I would spend the rest of my life making up for the weeks I did not believe you. That was not a promise I made lightly. I do not expect you to forgive me tomorrow, or next moon, or even next year. I will wait. I will keep showing you libraries and septs and the best windows for watching the sunrise, and I will wait, and one day—when you are ready, when you have forgiven me as much as you are able—I will ask you properly. And you will say yes, or you will say no, and either way I will still be here. Still waiting. Still yours."

You stared at him. His heart was still hammering beneath your palm, belying the calm of his voice, and the silver streak in his hair caught the light from the window, and his eyes were full of something so raw and tender that it made your chest ache.

"You are a fool," you whispered.

"Probably."

"A complete and utter fool."

"I have been told."

You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss, or a careful one. His words had been too earnest, too tender, too full of that quiet certainty that made your chest feel too small for everything inside it, and kissing him seemed the only way to make him stop before he said something else that made you want to weep in the middle of a dusty corridor. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he made a sound low in his throat and kissed you back.

The corridor was silent except for the soft sound of your mouths meeting and parting and meeting again, and for a long, suspended moment there was nothing in the world but his hand in your hair and his heart still hammering beneath your palm and the warmth of him pressed against you in the narrow space between the tapestries and the wall.

A throat cleared behind you. Not loudly. Politely, even. The kind of throat clearing that was meant to announce a presence without making a scene, the kind that belonged to someone who had walked in on something he ought not to have seen and was determined to pretend otherwise.

You pulled back from Valarr so quickly you nearly stumbled, your face flooding with heat. Valarr's hand fell from your jaw, but his other arm remained around your waist, steadying you, and when you looked up at him his expression was caught somewhere between mortification and the particular irritation of a man who had been interrupted at a crucial moment.

Prince Baelor stood at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his expression impeccably neutral but he carried himself with the easy authority of a man who did not need a crown to be recognized. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his jaw strong, and his eyes were fixed on a point just above your heads, as though the ceiling had suddenly become fascinating.

"Y/N," he said, and his voice was warm, warmer than you expected, as if he had not just witnessed his eldest son kissing a girl in a secluded corridor. "I did not expect to find you in the castle today. How fortunate."

Your face was still burning. You dropped into a curtsy—a little clumsily, your legs still unsteady from the kiss—and kept your eyes on the floor. "My prince. The fortune is mine."

Valarr's arm tightened around your waist, a small, reassuring pressure. "Father," he said, and his voice was even, though you could hear the strain beneath it. "I was just showing Y/N the castle. She has not seen much of it beyond the great hall and the tailor's chambers."

"So I observed," Baelor said, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, though his face remained carefully composed. He looked at you then, directly, and his expression softened. "Valarr tells me you agreed to riding clothes. I am glad. The dresses are charming, but I suspect they were not designed with dragonflight in mind."

You did not know what to say to that. Your hand found Valarr's sleeve and held on. "The tailor was very thorough, my prince."

"He is a tyrant in human form, but his work is excellent." Baelor smiled, and it transformed his face, made him look less like a prince and more like a man who told jokes and laughed at them. "Since you are here, you must stay for supper. I will not hear any argument—it is late, the sun will set soon, and there is no sense in walking all the way back to the village on an empty stomach. My wife has been asking to meet you properly. She will have my head if I let you slip away without an introduction."

Your stomach dropped. Supper. With the prince and princess of Dragonstone. In the great hall, or some private dining chamber, with servants and candles and more forks than you knew what to do with. You looked down at your dress, the dress of a village girl who spent her mornings mucking out goat pens and her afternoons scrubbing dragon scale from beneath her fingernails.

"My prince, I am not—" You stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I have nothing suitable to wear to a royal supper. And I would not wish to impose on your household without any warning, I am sure the kitchens have not prepared for an extra guest, and Marta will be expecting me back before dark, she worries when I am gone too long, and I should really—"

"Nonsense." Baelor waved his hand as though shooing away a fly. "Valarr, see that a bath is drawn for her in the guest quarters. Your mother has many gowns she will not mind if Y/N borrows one until the tailor finishes her commission. Send a servant to the village to inform Marta that Y/N will be dining at the castle tonight and will return in the morning."

"Father—" Valarr began, but Baelor was already turning, already walking back down the corridor with the unhurried stride of a man who was accustomed to having his instructions followed.

"This will be good," Baelor said over his shoulder, and his voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "A proper family supper. It has been too long since we had one of those. I will inform the kitchens. Bring her to the dining chamber when she is ready."

He disappeared around the corner, his boots clicking against the stone, and then there was silence. You stood frozen, your hand still clutching Valarr's sleeve, your heart beating somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. A bath. A borrowed gown. Supper with the heir to the Iron Throne and his wife and his sons and—gods, how many forks were there going to be? You had eaten at Marta's table your whole life. You owned one spoon.

Valarr turned to you, and his expression was a complicated mixture of apology and barely suppressed amusement. "I am going to kill him," he said.

"Your father?"

"My father. Yes. That is the one I meant."

"He did not seem to notice the—" You gestured vaguely at the space between you, where moments ago there had been no space at all.

"Oh, he noticed." Valarr's mouth twitched. "He was looking at the ceiling. My father only looks at the ceiling when he is pretending he has not seen something. He did it when Matarys pushed me into the fountain during his nameday feast. He did it when my mother asked him if her new gown made her look fat. And he did it just now."

You closed your eyes. "I am going to die."

"You are not going to die."

"I am going to embarrass myself so thoroughly that I will wish I were dead. I do not know which fork to use. I do not know how to address a princess. I do not know—"

Valarr took your face in both his hands, gentle and steady, and pressed his lips to your forehead. "You will use whichever fork feels right. You will address my mother as 'my princess' and she will tell you to call her Jena, and you will not call her Jena because you are too polite, and she will like you all the more for it. My father already likes you. Matarys will talk so much that no one will notice if you use the wrong fork." He pulled back and looked at you, his pale eye catching the light. "And I will be beside you the entire time. You will not face any of it alone."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that he was a prince and you were a bastard and that no amount of borrowed gowns would change the fact that you did not belong in a castle dining chamber with people who had been raised to rule. But he was looking at you with those eyes, and his hands were still warm on your face, and you could feel your protests crumbling before they reached your tongue.

"If I faint," you said, "you will have to carry me out."

"If you faint, I will carry you out and tell everyone you were overcome by the excellence of the roast lamb."

"That is not funny."

"It is a little funny."

You pushed his chest, but you were almost smiling, and he caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.

"The guest quarters are this way," he said. "The bath will take a little while to fill. In the meantime, I can show you the north tower—it has the best view of the Dragonmont, and there is a particular window where the light hits the stone in a way that makes it look like fire. If you want."

You took a breath. Let it out. Squeezed his hand.

"Show me," you said.

He led you through corridors you had never seen before, the guest quarters, when you reached them, were not as grand as you had feared. The chamber was small but warm, a fire already crackling in the hearth, a canopied bed pushed against one wall with hangings the color of heather. Servants were already moving in and out, carrying copper tubs of steaming water, laying out cloths and jars and things you did not recognize.

Valarr spoke to them in low tones, giving instructions you could not quite hear, and then turned back to you. His hand found yours and squeezed once, briefly.

"The bath will be ready soon," he said. "I will leave you to it."

"You are not staying?" The words came out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended, edged with something that sounded uncomfortably like panic.

Valarr paused. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not the polite smile he wore in public, but the smaller, more private one that meant he was trying not to laugh at you.

"It would be somewhat improper," he said, "for me to stay while you bathe. Unless you are insisting. In which case I suppose I could be persuaded."

Your face went hot. You could feel the blush spreading from your cheeks to your ears to the base of your throat, and you were suddenly very interested in the pattern of the rug beneath your feet. "I did not mean it like that."

"I know." He stepped closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I was teasing you. The servants know what they are doing—all you have to do is stand there and let yourself be treated like a doll for an hour or so. Can you manage that?"

"I have never been treated like a doll in my life."

"Then it is long overdue." He pulled back and looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft. "Trust them. I will be back before you know it."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were alone with the servants and the steam and the copper tubs and the frightening array of jars and bottles and strange instruments laid out on a side table.

What followed was one of the most mortifying hours of your life.

The servants were efficient and utterly unbothered by your nakedness in a way that only made your nakedness feel more acute. You had bathed yourself your whole life this was nothing like that. This was hands in your hair and warm water poured over your shoulders and something that smelled of lavender massaged into your scalp. This was a rough stone, a pumice stone, one of the women called it, though you had never heard the word, dragged carefully over your elbows and knees and the soles of your feet, scraping away calluses you had earned over years of climbing and kneeling and walking barefoot through the village. This was oil rubbed into your skin until you gleamed like polished wood, and then more oil, a different kind, something that smelled of jasmine and made your skin feel impossibly soft.

They cut your hair. Not much—just the ends, just enough to make it fall evenly down your back instead of straggling in uneven lengths the way it always had. You watched the pale strands drift to the floor and felt a strange pang in your chest, as though they were cutting away some essential part of who you were.

Then came the dress. You had expected something simple. Something modest, in a muted color, appropriate for a village girl who had been invited to supper out of politeness rather than any real desire for her company. What the servants lifted from the wardrobe was not simple.

The gown was lilac a pale, shimmering shade that seemed to shift between purple and silver as it caught the light. The neckline dipped low across the chest, lower than anything you had ever worn, and when you looked down at yourself after it was laced you saw your own body as though for the first time. The cut of the bodice lifted and shaped in ways you had not known were possible. The waist was tight, the sleeves long and fitted, and silver embroidery traced delicate patterns across the whole of it, flowers, you thought, or perhaps vines. The skirts fell in soft folds to the floor, and when you moved they whispered against the stone like a secret.

The girl in the mirror was a stranger. She was beautiful. You could admit that, even if it felt like admitting something shameful. Her skin glowed, soft and luminous from the oils and the pumice and the careful attention of hands that knew how to transform a body into something ornamental. Her collarbones were visible above the neckline, her waist impossibly narrow, her hands usually chapped and reddened from work resting soft and pale against the lilac silk. She looked like a princess. She looked like she belonged in this castle, in this chamber, in this gown. She looked like someone who had never mucked out a goat pen or scrubbed dragon scale from beneath her fingernails or woken before dawn to haul water from the well.

She looked nothing like you. This was what they did, you thought. This was what nobles did every day of their lives. They stood in warm chambers while servants oiled and polished and dressed them, while hands they did not have to thank transformed them into something beautiful enough to be looked at. They wore silk while you had worn patched wool. They ate from silver plates while you had eaten from wooden bowls. They had never once wondered if they belonged at the table because they had never once sat anywhere else.

And here you were, dressed like one of them, looking like one of them, as though a lilac gown and some jasmine oil could erase everything you were and everything you came from.

The door opened behind you. You did not turn. You were still staring at the stranger in the mirror, your hands clenched at your sides, your heart beating too hard against the boning of the borrowed bodice. Footsteps. Then silence. Then Valarr's voice, low and rough and stripped of all composure.

"Gods be good."

You turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand still on the latch, his cloak gone and his dark hair slightly damp as though he had bathed and dressed in haste. He was wearing a deep blue tunic you had not seen before, silver thread at the collar and cuffs, and his mismatched eyes were wide. His lips were parted. He looked at you the way you had seen villagers look at moonfyre as though something impossible and beautiful was happening in front of him and he did not know whether to speak or kneel or simply stand there and let it burn itself into his memory.

"You look," he said, and stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "You look like the Maiden herself. Reborn. Walking the earth. In my father's guest quarters."

"That is blasphemy," you said, because you did not know what else to say.

"Then I will do penance tomorrow." He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just short of touching you, his hands hovering at your elbows as though he was afraid the gown might dissolve if he made contact. Up close, you could see the faint flush rising along his jaw, the way his throat moved as he swallowed again. "I mean it. You are—I do not have the words. I have read poetry. I have read a great deal of poetry. None of it is adequate."

Your cheeks were warming again, but the resentment was still there, coiled beneath the fluster. "It is the dress. And the oils, and the—the stones, and my hair, and—"

"It is you." His hands found your elbows at last, gentle and steady. "It is you in the dress. It is you with your hair like moonlight and your eyes doing that thing where you are not certain whether to be pleased or to run. It is you, Y/N. The rest is just trimming."

"I do not look like myself," you said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "You look like the person you have always been, only now the outside matches the inside. That is what fine clothes are supposed to do, I think. I have never understood it until now."

You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything to say. So you stood there, in your borrowed lilac gown, with his hands warm on your elbows and his eyes full of something that looked a great deal like worship, and you let yourself be looked at.

He was still holding your elbows, his thumbs tracing small arcs over the silk, when his expression shifted. The wonder in his face dimmed slightly, replaced by something more careful, more searching.

"You are uncomfortable," he said. "If the dress bothers you, I will find you another. There are a dozen gowns in the wardrobes here—my mother's, my cousins', ones that have been left behind by visiting ladies over the years. Something with a higher neckline, or heavier fabric, or—"

"No." The word came out faster than you intended. You shook your head, your hands smoothing over the lilac skirts almost without your permission. "No, it is not the dress. The dress is…" You struggled for the right word, and failed, and settled for the truth instead. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever worn. I have never worn anything like it. When I was small, I used to dream about dresses like this."

You had not meant to say that. The confession slipped out before you could catch it, and once it was free you could not pull it back. You remembered those dreams now, sharp and sudden, lying on your pallet in Marta's cottage while the fire burned low, imagining yourself in gowns of silver and gold and deep Targaryen red, imagining a life where you walked into a room and people looked at you not with pity or curiosity but with respect. You had always woken from those dreams feeling foolish. A bastard girl with patched wool and callused hands, dreaming of silk. It was like a goat dreaming of flying.

Valarr's hands tightened on your elbows. "And now you are wearing one."

"Now I am wearing one," you agreed. "And I feel like I have stolen something. Like I walked into a room I was not supposed to enter and put on a gown that belongs to someone else and at any moment someone is going to realize the mistake and send me back where I came from." Your voice was steady, but only just. "I feel like I do not deserve this."

"Y/N—"

"I know what you are going to say."

"You do not," he said quietly, "because what I am going to say is that you deserve this more than anyone I have ever met."

You looked at him. His face was earnest and open and so desperately sincere that it made your chest hurt. And beneath that sincerity, beneath the warmth and the love and the way he was looking at you as though you were the answer to some question he had been asking his whole life, something else stirred. A thought. A question. A splinter of doubt that you could not quite dislodge.

Why?

Why did you deserve it more than anyone? Why did any of this, the dress, the oils, the servants, the castle, the prince who looked at you like you were the Maiden reborn, why did any of it have to be deserved at all? Marta had worked her whole life, her hands gnarled and aching, her back bent over poultices and potions and the bodies of the sick and the dying, and she had never once worn silk. The fishermen who went out before dawn in their leaking boats, the baker's wife who rose at an hour that ought not to exist to knead dough for bread she would never have time to eat warm, the village children who ran barefoot through the mud because shoes cost coin and coin was for food—why did none of them deserve pretty dresses? Why did decency have to be earned? Why was beauty a reward for the few instead of a gift for everyone?

You did not say any of this. You were not certain you knew how to shape the words, or whether Valarr would understand them if you did. He had been raised in a world where some people deserved things and others did not, and he was kind but kindness and understanding were not the same thing.

"Y/N." His voice pulled you back. He was watching you carefully, his head tilted slightly, his pale eye narrowed. "You went somewhere just now. Where did you go?"

"Nowhere." You shook your head and forced a smile. "I am here."

"You are lying. But I will not press you." He lifted one hand from your elbow and offered it to you, palm up. "Come. I told you I would show you how the soup is supposed to go, and I meant it. Father will have told the kitchens to prepare something elaborate—he always does when there are guests—but I can at least warn you which course comes with which implement and when you are supposed to nod politely instead of speaking."

You stared at his outstretched hand. A prince's hand, clean and uncallused, offered to a girl whose palms still bore the faint roughness of work despite the pumice stone's best efforts.

"I am a little scared," you admitted. The words came out small, smaller than you wanted them to.

"I know." His hand did not waver. "You do not have to pretend you are not. I will be beside you the entire time. And if anyone makes you feel unwelcome, I will—"

"What? Challenge them to a duel?"

"I was going to say I would glare at them meaningfully. But a duel is also an option."

Despite everythin you laughed. It was a small laugh, barely more than a breath, but it was real. Valarr smiled, and his hand was still there, waiting.

"Alright," you said, and placed your palm in his. "Show me."

He led you not to the dining chamber to a small room just off the corridor, one you had not seen during his earlier tour. It was not grand. A modest table, two chairs, a sideboard bearing a modest collection of plates and bowls and an array of cutlery that seemed excessive for a room this size. A single window looked out over the darkening sea, the sky going violet at the edges where the sun had begun its slow descent.

"A practice round," Valarr said, pulling out one of the chairs and gesturing for you to sit. "Before the real battle. Every knight drills before a tourney."

You sat. The lilac skirts pooled around you on the chair, and you spent a moment arranging them so you would not trip if you had to stand suddenly. "Is supper a tourney now?"

"Supper with my family can be a trial by combat if you are not prepared. Fortunately, the rules of etiquette are simpler than swordplay. There are only six forks to worry about instead of seven, for instance, and no one is trying to unhorse you."

"Six forks," you repeated, your voice flat.

"Only five, actually. I was exaggerating for dramatic effect. There are three." He pulled the other chair close to yours—close enough that your knees nearly touched—and sat down, reaching for a spoon from the sideboard. "This is the soup spoon. You will know the soup course has arrived because someone will place a bowl of soup in front of you. At that point, you may use this spoon. You dip it away from yourself—so—and you sip from the side, not the front. Like this."

He demonstrated with an imaginary bowl, his movements exaggerated and faintly ridiculous, and you felt some of the tension in your shoulders ease.

"Away from myself," you said. "Side of the spoon. Not the front."

"Exactly. You are already better than Matarys, who once drank his soup directly from the bowl during a formal banquet because he was thirteen and wanted to see what would happen. What happened was that our mother did not speak to him for two days."

You laughed despite yourself. Valarr's eyes crinkled at the corners, pleased.

"The fish fork," he continued, picking up a smaller implement with slightly curved tines, "is for fish. The meat fork is for meat. If you are ever uncertain which to use, watch me. I will use the correct one, and you can follow half a heartbeat behind. No one will notice."

"They will notice."

"They will be looking at Moonfyre's rider. They will be looking at the girl who brought dragons back to House Targaryen. They will not be looking at which fork you are holding. And if they do, they are boors, and their opinion is not worth your concern."

You picked up the fish fork and turned it over in your fingers. It was heavier than it looked, the silver cool against your skin. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple. You are the one making it complicated."

"I am not—" You stopped, because he was looking at you with that particular expression he wore when he knew he was right and was waiting for you to admit it. "Perhaps I am making it a little complicated."

"Only a little." He reached over and gently extracted the fork from your fingers, setting it back on the sideboard. His hand lingered on yours. "You are also gripping that fork as though you expect it to attempt an escape. Try to hold it more like a writing quill and less like a weapon."

"I have never held a writing quill."

"Then hold it like you hold my hand. Gently. As though you trust it."

Your eyes met his. The room was quiet except for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, the soft crackle of the torch in its sconce. His thumb traced a slow line across your knuckles.

"You are flirting with me," you said.

"I am always flirting with you. It is one of my defining characteristics." He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "Is it working?"

"A little."

"Only a little. I shall have to try harder." He released your hand and reached for a small plate, holding it up between you like a shield. "Bread. You will tear it with your fingers, not cut it with a knife. Tearing bread with a knife is considered uncouth, though I have never understood why. Bread does not care how it is divided."

"Bread does not care about anything. It is bread."

"Precisely my point. And yet the rules persist." He set the plate down and leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. "You are still nervous."

"I am always nervous."

"I know. But this is a different kind of nervous. You are thinking about forks and soup spoons and whether my mother will like you, and you are forgetting that you have already done something braver than any of them have ever done."

You looked down at your hands, at the faint calluses the pumice stone had not quite managed to erase. "I do not feel brave."

"Bravery is not a feeling. It is an action. You saved a dragon. You flew across the sea. You came back." He tilted his head, catching your gaze and holding it. "What is a soup spoon compared to that?"

"A soup spoon is smaller."

"Much smaller. And less likely to bite you."

"Moonfyre tried biting me once."

"And you survived. You will survive the soup course as well." He smiled, and it was the private smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his mismatched eyes and made him look less like a prince and more like the boy who had sat beside you in a meadow and taught you to read. "If you become overwhelmed during supper, I have a plan."

"What plan?"

"I will feed you."

You stared at him. "You will what?"

"Feed you. Lift morsels to your lips with my own fork. It will be very romantic and deeply inappropriate for a formal dinner, and my father will stare at the ceiling again and you will be so distracted by your embarrassment that you will forget to be nervous about the cutlery."

Your face was hot. "That is the worst plan I have ever heard."

"It is an excellent plan. I have been refining it for hours."

"You have not."

"You are correct, I invented it just now. But I am committed to it. Say the word and I will feed you every course from soup to sweetcake."

"Please do not feed me at your father's table."

He sighed with theatrical regret. "Very well. But the offer remains open. If you find yourself paralyzed by the weight of silverware, simply look at me. I will know what it means."

"You will know what what means? I do not even know what it means."

"I will know." He stood and offered you his hand, the same gesture he had made in the guest quarters, patient and steady and sure. "Are you ready? The soup is waiting, and I have it on good authority that it is leek and potato. My father is very fond of leek and potato. He will talk about it at length. You need only nod and make appreciative sounds."

You took his hand and rose, the lilac skirts settling around you with a whisper. "Appreciative sounds I can manage."

"I never doubted you for a moment." He tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow and led you toward the door. Just before you reached it, he paused and leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are the rider of the first dragon in seventy years. You are stronger than anyone in that dining chamber, and kinder, and braver. The forks are irrelevant. The soup is irrelevant. You could eat with your hands and my mother would still adore you."

"She would not."

"She would. She told me so."

You did not trust yourself to speak. So you tightened your hand on his arm and let him lead you into the corridor, toward the dining chamber and the soup and whatever lay beyond.

The small dining chamber was not what you had expected. You had imagined something vast and echoing but this room was intimate, almost cozy, its walls hung with tapestries in warm shades of gold and russet, its hearth fire casting dancing shadows across a table set for five. Candles flickered in iron holders. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread drifted from somewhere nearby. It was, you realized with a jolt, a room meant for family.

The family was already there. Baelor stood near the hearth, a goblet in his hand, his dark beard catching the firelight as he turned toward the door. He smiled when he saw you and inclined his head in greeting. Beside him, a woman had risen from her chair.

She was not tall. That was the first thing you noticed. Princess Jena Dondarrion was small and fine boned, with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes the pale, clear blue of a winter sky. She was not beautiful in the way the songs described princesses. Her face was too sharp for that, her nose slightly aquiline, her mouth set in a line that suggested she spent more time thinking than smiling. But there was something striking about her nonetheless, a quiet intensity, a sense of coiled intelligence behind those pale eyes.

The young man sprawled in the chair beside her could only be Matarys. He had his mother's coloring, though on him the hair curled wildly around his ears and the eyes held a restless, mischievous gleam. He was handsome, you supposed, in a way that was less polished than Valarr's careful composure. Where Valarr was stillness and duty, Matarys seemed to be barely contained motion, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair, his leg bouncing beneath the table. He was watching you with undisguised curiosity, and when your eyes met his, he grinned.

You dropped into a curtsy before you could lose your nerve, gripping the sides of your borrowed skirts the way Valarr had shown you in the practice room. "My prince's. My princess. I am honored to be received."

The words felt stiff in your mouth, rehearsed and foreign, but Jena's expression softened slightly at the edges, and Baelor raised his goblet in a small toast. "The honor is ours," he said. "Please, sit. You are not a petitioner tonight, Y/N. You are a guest."

Valarr's hand found the small of your back, a brief, steadying pressure, and he guided you to the chair beside his. The table was round, not long, and you found yourself seated between Valarr and Matarys, directly across from Jena. Baelor took the chair beside his wife, setting down his goblet with a soft clunk.

Servants appeared as if conjured, pouring wine into your goblet—a pale gold, not the deep red you had expected—and setting down bowls of soup. Leek and potato, just as Valarr had predicted. Steam curled upward, fragrant and warm.

"So," Matarys said, before anyone else could speak. "You are the dragon girl."

"Matarys," Jena said, her voice quiet but carrying a warning.

"What? I am only stating a fact. She is a girl, and she has a dragon. That makes her the dragon girl." He leaned forward, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. "Is it true she sleeps curled around you like a cat? Valarr said she sleeps curled around you like a cat."

"Matarys," Valarr said, in a tone that was considerably less patient than his mother's.

"I am only asking what everyone is thinking. You cannot blame me for being curious. There has not been a living dragon in seventy years, and now one is napping not half a league from where I sleep, and I am not allowed to see her." He turned to you, his expression plaintive. "Do you know what that is like? It is like being told there is a feast in the next room but you are not permitted to leave your chair."

You picked up your soup spoon, remembering Valarr's instructions. Away from yourself. Sip from the side. The soup was hot and creamy and rich in a way that village soup never was real cream, you thought, and butter, and herbs you could not name.

"Moonfyre does not curl around me like a cat," you said, after you had swallowed. "She is much larger than a cat."

"But she does curl around you?"

"Sometimes. When she is cold."

Matarys looked at Valarr with an expression of profound vindication. "She does curl around her like a cat."

"I never said she did not," Valarr muttered into his soup.

Baelor chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Let the girl eat, Matarys. You can interrogate her after the fish course."

The conversation eased after that, settling into something that felt almost natural. Jena asked you about the village how long you had lived there, whether the fishing had been good this season, if the storms had damaged any of the cottages. Her questions were practical, straightforward, the questions of a woman who had learned to manage a household and was genuinely interested in how other people managed theirs. You answered as best you could, and when you stumbled over a word or forgot to address her as "my princess," she did not correct you. She only nodded and asked another question.

Baelor asked about Marta, how long she had been a healer, what remedies she used for winter fever, whether she had ever trained with a maester. You told him she had learned from her mother and her mother before her, that she knew every herb on Dragonstone and what it cured, that she had never lost a mother in childbirth. Baelor listened with genuine interest, his eyes thoughtful, and when you finished he said, "She sounds like a remarkable woman. I should like to meet her properly one day."

The fish course came and went. You used the fish fork without incident, though you caught Valarr watching you with a small, private smile when you picked it up. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table, a warm point of contact that anchored you when your nerves began to fray.

It was Baelor who raised the question you had been dreading. "Y/N," he said, setting down his knife, his voice gentle but curious. "You have the look of our house, it is unmistakable. Have you any idea who your Targaryen parent might have been?"

The table went quiet. Not the awkward quiet of people who were embarrassed for you, but the attentive quiet of people who were genuinely interested. Even Matarys stopped fidgeting. You took a sip of wine to buy yourself a moment. The goblet was cool against your fingers.

"No, my prince," you said. "I was found abandoned. Marta took me in when I was only a few days old, or so she says. There was nothing with me—no note, no token, no clue to who my parents might have been. I do not even know if it was my mother or my father who had the Targaryen blood."

Jena exchanged a glance with Baelor, something unreadable passing between them. "That is a hard beginning," she said quietly.

"It was not so hard. Marta was good to me. I had food and a roof and someone who loved me." You paused, your thumb tracing the rim of your goblet. "I have wondered, of course. Every child wonders. But after a while, I stopped. It did not matter who my parents were. What mattered was who I was."

Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers lacing through yours and squeezing once.

"That is a wise perspective," Baelor said. "Wiser than many who have had easier beginnings." He did not press further, and you were grateful.

The conversation shifted, turning toward lighter things, the upcoming harvest festival in the village, the quality of the wine from the Arbor, a horse that Matarys had tried to ride and been thrown from. Matarys told this story with great enthusiasm, describing his ignominious fall into a mud puddle with the kind of dramatic detail that made even Jena's stern mouth twitch toward a smile.

Then he turned to you, his blue eyes bright with renewed curiosity.

"Valarr told us something else about you," he said, and something in his tone made you wary. "He said you admire the late Princess Baela. The rider of Moondancer."

You blinked. "He told you that?"

"He tells me many things. I am his favorite brother."

"I am his only brother," Matarys said, unperturbed. "But yes. He said you are fascinated with her. That you named your dragon after hers. Moonfyre, Moondancer. It is a tribute, is it not?"

You glanced at Valarr. He was looking at his plate, his jaw slightly tight, as though he had not expected Matarys to bring this up at supper and was already regretting ever telling him anything.

"It is," you said, turning back to Matarys. "Marta used to tell me the old stories when I was small. The Dance of the Dragons, the conquest, all of it. But I always liked Baela best. She was not the heir or the queen or the one the songs were written about. She was just—brave. Fierce. Loyal to the people she loved. She rode Moondancer against Sunfyre even though she knew she would lose. She did it anyway."

"That is why you like her? Because she lost?"

"Because she fought." You had not meant to say it so forcefully, but the words came out steady and sure. "Because she did not wait for someone else to save her. Because she made her own choices and she stood by them, even when they cost her everything, reading it myself with Valarr's help only made me adore her even more."

"Valarr taught you to read," Baelor said, breaking the silence. It was not quite a question.

"Yes, my prince. He has been lending me books from the castle library. Histories, mostly. Some legends."

"That is impressive," Baelor said, and he sounded as though he meant it. "To learn so quickly, and to read well enough to tackle the histories. You have a sharp mind, Y/N."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I had a good teacher." Valarr's hand tightened on yours beneath the table.

"Valarr is many things," Jena said, her voice dry, "but patient is not usually among them. He must have made an exception for you."

"I am very patient," Valarr said, with a touch of indignation.

"You once threw a book at your septa because she corrected your High Valyrian pronunciation."

"I was eight."

"And you missed. Your aim has never been good."

Matarys let out a bark of laughter. Baelor hid a smile behind his goblet. Valarr looked at his mother with an expression of profound betrayal, and you found yourself laughing too, a real laugh, startled out of you before you could stifle it.

Jena's pale blue eyes shifted to you, and her expression was no longer unreadable. She was smiling, a small, private smile that softened the sharp lines of her face and made her look almost warm.

"I am glad to finally meet you," she said. "Truly. I have wondered what kind of girl could make my son sleep in a peasant's cottage."

"Mother—" Valarr began, but Jena continued as though he had not spoken.

"Do you know, when he was a child, he used to follow his father on hunting trips. He insisted he wanted to be a knight, wanted to learn woodcraft and survival and all the things a future king ought to know. And then he would come back after three days in the forest and cry to me because the bedroll was lumpy and the ground was cold and his tent had leaked in the rain." She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving your face. "He was a fastidious child. Very particular about his pillows. I had to have special ones made for him—goose down, with silk covers, because the wool ones gave him a rash."

"Mother," Valarr said, and his voice was pained.

"And yet now he sleeps every night on a straw pallet in a village cottage, with a roof that leaks and a hearth that smokes and an old woman who apparently throws slippers at his head." Jena set down her goblet. "He has not complained once. Not a single letter home lamenting the accommodations. So you must be something quite extraordinary."

You did not know where to look. Your face was burning, and Valarr's hand had gone rigid in yours, and Matarys was grinning like a fool.

"I do not think it is me," you managed. "Marta's cottage is very comfortable. The straw is fresh, and she keeps the hearth clean, and—"

"And you are there," Jena said simply. "That is the difference. He would sleep on a stone floor if you were beside him."

"Mother," Valarr said again, and this time his voice cracked slightly.

Jena smiled at him—a real smile, full of affection and amusement and something gentler beneath. "I am not mocking you, my son. I am glad. It is good to see you sleep somewhere willingly. You were always a restless child. You used to wake in the night and crawl into our bed because you had dreamed of dragons."

The word hung in the air for a moment. Matarys opened his mouth, probably to make some joke, but Jena silenced him with a single look.

"I am glad you found your dragon," she said to Valarr, and then her pale eyes shifted back to you. "And I am glad you found her."

You did not know what to say to that. You were not certain there was anything adequate. So you simply met her eyes and said, "Thank you, my princess. I am glad too." Beneath the table, Valarr's hand turned in yours, his palm warm and steady.

The meat course arrived a tender cut of lamb, pink at the center, dressed with rosemary and garlic and some kind of dark wine reduction that you did not know the name for. You used the meat fork. Valarr's knee remained pressed against yours beneath the table, steady as a heartbeat.

It was Baelor who brought the subject around, setting down his knife with a soft clink and folding his hands on the table before him. His expression was thoughtful, the same expression he had worn in the corridor when he told you to stay for supper, warm, but measured. A prince making a decision.

"I wrote to my father," he said. "The King. I told him about Moonfyre."

Your hand stilled on your fork. The lamb was suddenly very difficult to swallow. King Daeron the man whose word was law, whose temper you had never seen, whose opinion could change everything. You had known this moment would come. You had known, in some way, that the King would have to be told. But knowing and hearing it spoken aloud at a family supper were two very different things.

"What did he say?" Matarys asked, leaning forward with undisguised eagerness. "Did he believe you? Is he coming here? Does he want to see the dragon?"

Baelor held up a hand, silencing his younger son with the gesture. "He did not believe me."

The silence that followed was not shocked. It was confused, uncertain, the silence of people who had been expecting one answer and received another entirely.

"What do you mean, he did not believe you?" Valarr's voice was careful, but there was an edge to it. "You wrote to him yourself. In your own hand. With your own seal."

"I did. And he read the letter, and he concluded that it was not from me at all." Baelor's mouth twitched. "He thought Matarys had written it. As a joke."

Matarys blinked. Then his face broke into a grin of such pure, delighted mischief that he looked about twelve years old. "He thought I wrote it?"

“He complimented the attention to detail.”

You pressed your napkin to your mouth, but it was too late. A laugh had already risen in your throat, sharp and sudden and entirely inappropriate for a formal supper with the royal family. You tried to swallow it. You failed. It came out as a strangled sort of cough, and then another, and then you had to take a long drink of wine to keep from laughing outright.

Valarr looked at you with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," you managed, your voice slightly strangled. "Perfectly fine. I was only thinking—" You set down your goblet and met Baelor's eyes. You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching. "He did not believe you."

"No."

Baelor's dark eyes were steady on yours, and there was something in them, recognition, perhaps, or wry amusement, or the shared understanding of two people who had learned the same lesson in very different ways. "That is precisely what he decided."

You took a breath and folded your hands in your lap, composing yourself with an effort that felt almost physical. "I cannot imagine," you said, very carefully, "how that would feel. Truly. To tell someone the truth, something you have seen with your own eyes, something you know to be real—and to have them smile and nod and think you are making it up. To have them be so certain they know better that they dismiss you without even bothering to investigate." You met Baelor's gaze and held it. "I cannot imagine that at all."

Baelor looked at you for a long moment. Then he let out a breath that was not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and lifted his goblet.

"Well played," he said quietly.

Jena was watching you with those pale blue eyes, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Matarys was looking between his father and you with the air of someone who had just watched a very entertaining joust and was not quite sure who had won. Valarr's hand found yours beneath the table again, and when you glanced at him, his mismatched eyes were bright with something that looked a great deal like amusement.

"He will believe you eventually," you said to Baelor, your voice softer now. "When he sees Moonfyre for himself. When she is standing in front of him, real and solid and breathing fire. He will have to believe you then."

"Yes," Baelor said. "He will. And when that day comes, I intend to remind him of this letter. Frequently. In great detail." He paused, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the same smile you had seen on Valarr a hundred times, rueful and self deprecating and entirely genuine. "I suspect you may understand something of that impulse as well."

"I might," you said. "A little."

—

The guest chamber was too quiet. You had been lying in the dark for what felt like hours, the canopy above you a deeper shade of shadow against the ceiling, the fire burned down to embers that pulsed faintly in the hearth like a heartbeat made of light. The bed was soft, softer than anything you had ever slept on, goose down and fine linen and pillows that smelled of lavender. It should have been wonderful. It should have been the most comfortable night of your life.

You could not sleep. Your body was exhausted, heavy with the weight of the evening, the soup and the fish and the lamb, the wine and the candles and the way Jena had looked at you when she said I am glad you found her. But your mind would not stop turning. It circled the same thoughts over and over, a crow picking at old bones. King Daeron did not believe Baelor. The King thought the letter was a joke. The King would have to be convinced, would have to see Moonfyre with his own eyes, and what if he believed and was afraid, or what if he believed and wanted to take her—

A knock at the door. Soft, hesitant, barely audible over the distant crash of the waves. You sat up, your heart lurching. "Who is there?"

"Only me." Valarr's voice, muffled through the wood. "I saw the light beneath your door. You are not sleeping."

"I am sleeping. This is a dream. You are speaking to a sleeping person."

"May I come in? Or shall I continue this conversation with the door?"

You hesitated. It was late, very late, the hour when respectable girls were asleep in their beds and respectable princes were asleep in theirs. But you were not a respectable girl, not really, and Valarr had never been a particularly respectable prince. He had slept beside you in Marta's cottage for nights now, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your hair. The servants would talk. The servants were probably already talking. What was one more transgression?

"Come in," you said. The door opened just wide enough for him to slip through, and then it clicked shut behind him. He was dressed for sleep a loose tunic, soft breeches, his feet bare against the stone floor. His dark hair was rumpled, the silver streak catching the firelight, and his mismatched eyes found you in the darkness without difficulty.

"You could not sleep either," you said.

"Your chamber is next mine. I could hear you thinking."

"That is impossible."

"Nevertheless." He crossed the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at you with an expression that was half affection and half exhaustion. "Would you like some company? I find that thinking is easier to bear when there is someone else to share the weight of it."

You did not answer with words. You only shifted over, making room, and pulled back the edge of the blanket in invitation. He climbed in beside you with the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and then his arm was around your waist and your head was tucked against his shoulder and the lavender-scented pillows were forgotten because there was nothing in the world that smelled quite like him salt and leather and something warm and clean that you had come to associate with safety.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly. The waves crashed against the cliffs below. His hand traced slow, idle patterns on your back through the thin fabric of your borrowed nightgown.

"Do you like it here?" he asked quietly. "Staying in the castle, I mean. Is it comfortable?" You considered the question. The bed was comfortable. The bath had been mortifying but the results were undeniable. The food was richer than anything you had ever eaten. The chamber was warm and dry and did not smell of goat or herbs or the particular mustiness that crept into Marta's cottage when it rained.

"It is comfortable," you said. "Very comfortable."

"And Moonfyre would be comfortable here too."

You tilted your head back to look at him. His profile was sharp against the firelight, his pale eye gleaming, his mouth set in the careful line of someone who was trying very hard to sound casual and not quite succeeding.

"What do you mean?"

"The castle and the caves are one and the same," he said. "The Dragonmont runs beneath Dragonstone like a web of veins. You have seen the eastern tunnels—they connect to the castle cellars, to the old hatcheries, to chambers that were built for the express purpose of housing dragons. If Moonfyre lived here, she would have a proper resting place. Warm stone. Hot springs. Room to grow. She would not have to sleep in a cave that is also a thoroughfare for goats and curious village children."

"Moonfyre likes the cave."

"I am not saying she does not. But she has grown, Y/N. She is larger than she was when you found her, and she will keep growing. The cave will not fit her forever. And—" He hesitated, his hand stilling on your back. "And she has knocked things over. In the village."

You winced. That was true. Moonfyre had knocked things over. The baker's fence, for one, when she had decided she wanted to follow you into the village and her tail had swung a little too wide. Old Tom's drying rack, which had been laden with salted fish and had gone crashing to the ground in a shower of scales and splinters. No one had been hurt, but people had screamed. People had run. People had grabbed their children and looked at your dragon with terror in their eyes, and Moonfyre had hissed at them because she did not understand why they were screaming, and you had spent an hour calming her down and another hour apologizing to everyone in the village and another hour after that sitting in Marta's cottage with your head in your hands.

"The villagers are afraid of her," you said quietly.

"Some of them. Not all. But enough." His hand resumed its slow pattern on your back. "It is not their fault. They have never seen a dragon before. They do not know her the way you do. They see teeth and claws and fire, and they are afraid, and fear makes people do foolish things. I do not want anyone to do something foolish and force Moonfyre to defend herself."

You closed your eyes. The image was too easy to summon, a frightened villager with a pitchfork, a dragon who did not understand the threat, fire where there should not be fire. "Neither do I."

"Dragonstone is called Dragonstone for a reason," Valarr said, and his voice was gentle but insistent, the voice of someone who had been thinking about this for a long time and had finally found the courage to speak. "It is the seat of dragonlords. It was built by my ancestors for this exact purpose—to house dragons and their riders, to be a place where both could thrive. The old hatcheries are still warm. The Dragonmont is full of caves and tunnels and chambers that have not been used in seventy years but are still there, still waiting. Moonfyre could have the run of them. She could fly from the mountain and return to the mountain, and no one would scream or run or grab a pitchfork. She would be safe here. You would both be safe here."

You were quiet. His words settled into the space between you, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.

"I do not want to leave Marta alone," you said finally. The words came out smaller than you intended.

Valarr's arm tightened around you. "You would not have to."

"She would never agree to leave the village. That cottage is her home. She has lived there since before I was born—before she found me. She knows every creak in the floorboards and every crack in the hearth and exactly where the roof leaks when the wind blows from the east. She would never leave it."

"Then we will not ask her to leave it." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The firelight caught the silver streak in his hair, turned it to molten moonlight. "I will take care of her. Servants to fetch her water so she does not have to haul it from the well. Guards to keep her safe. A girl to help with her herbs and her remedies and whatever else she needs. She will be treated like a lady of the castle, even if she chooses to stay in her cottage. She raised you. She kept you safe when no one else would. The least I can do is make sure she never has to work herself to the bone again."

Your throat was tight. "She will throw a slipper at the servants. She does not like people fussing over her."

"Then the servants will learn to duck." He reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "You are not choosing between Marta and the castle, Y/N. You are not abandoning her. You are simply moving a little further up the mountain. She can visit whenever she likes. You can visit whenever you like. The distance is not so great that you cannot walk it in an afternoon."

You looked up at him. His face was open and earnest, his mismatched eyes soft with concern, and you could see the care he had put into this, he way he had thought through every objection, every fear, every reason you might say no.

"And what would I do here?" you asked. "In this castle. What would my life be?"

"You would learn," he said. "How to be a dragonrider. A true dragonrider. Not just someone who clings to Moonfyre's back and hopes for the best, but someone who knows how to fly and fight and command. There are books in the library—old books, from before the Dance, written by dragonriders for their children. There are records of techniques, of commands, of ways to bond with your dragon that have been forgotten for generations. You could learn all of it. You could become something the realm has not seen in seventy years."

"And beyond that? When I am not flying?"

He smiled, a small, private smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Beyond that, you could learn whatever you wished. History. Languages. Music. Statecraft. You have a sharp mind—my father said so himself. You could put it to use. You could become a lady who impresses the King when he finally arrives and sees Moonfyre for himself. You could become someone who does not feel out of place at a supper table with six forks."

"There were only three forks."

"Three forks tonight. There will be more at the Red Keep."

You laughed despite yourself, a soft huff of air that was half exhaustion and half something warmer. "You are very good at this."

"At what?"

"Making me feel as though the world is not quite so terrifying as I thought it was."

His expression softened. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and brief against your skin. "I am only telling you the truth. You are not alone in this. You never have to be alone again. Whatever you decide—whether you stay in the village or move to the castle or fly off on Moonfyre and never come back—I will be there. I will take care of Marta. I will take care of you. That is not a negotiation. It is a promise."

You reached up and touched his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the place where his dark hair gave way to that single silver streak. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like a cat seeking warmth.

"Stay," you said. "Tonight. Just stay."

"I was not planning to leave."

"Good." You tugged him back down to the pillows, settling yourself against his side with your head on his shoulder and your hand over his heart. His arm wrapped around you, solid and steady, and his lips pressed once more to the top of your head.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he murmured.

"Goodnight, Valarr."

Valarr's chambers were quiet. Only the occasional crackle of the hearth disturbed the silence as shadows of the flames danced lazily across the stone walls.

Valarr sat near the fire, one leg stretched before him while the other remained bent beneath the chaise. A goblet of wine rested loosely in his hand, the dark red liquid catching the glow of the flames. The linen shirt he wore hung open slightly at the collar, far less formal than the silks and velvets he was expected to wear before the court.

Since arriving at Winterfell, peaceful nights had become a rarity. But tonight, his thoughts were proving far more troublesome than ever.

Valarr dragged a hand across his face and shut his eyes briefly.

It had been two days since the council meeting.

Two days since he had somehow looked you directly in the eyes and called you charming.

His ears still burned at the memory.

For two days he had avoided you with a determination that would have impressed even his father. Whenever he heard your voice echoing through the corridors, he found another path. Whenever he spotted your dark cloak crossing the courtyard below, he suddenly remembered somewhere else he needed to be. Once, he had turned around so abruptly that Daeron had asked if he was being hunted.

Valarr had nearly thrown a goblet at his brother.

The worst part was that nobody appeared to have noticed.

Or at least, he hoped they had not.

With a sigh, he looked down at the wine in his hand.

He was not here for you.

The thought had become a prayer of sorts. A reminder repeated so often that it had begun to lose its meaning.

And Lady Berena deserved better than a husband whose attention wandered elsewhere.

And yet it feels as though a treacherous part of him kept looking elsewhere, kept wanting another conversation- to hear your thoughts on matters that had nothing to do with war or politics.

It simply wanted to know you more.

And that frightened him more than anything else.

Because if he allowed himself to follow that desire, he feared he would discover something he could not afford. Something capable of reducing years of duty, expectation and discipline into little more than ash.

And Valarr was not yet ready to watch it burn.

His fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet as a memory of the morning surfaced.

The training yard.

He should have simply ignored Aerion.

William Stark had been sparring that morning when Aerion, in all his infinite wisdom, had remarked that this was what a proper heir looked like. Valarr had taken the bait immediately.

Looking back, it might have been the stupidest thing he had done all week.

Half the yard had stopped to watch.

The duel between him and William itself had been friendly enough. Wooden swords with no real danger.

Yet each exchange only made the difference between them more obvious.

William moved with the confidence of a man who had spent his life carrying steel. And Valarr did not.

He had managed to hold his own for a time.

Then William disarmed him.

Then again.

And again.

And by the fourth time, Aerion was no longer bothering to hide his amusement.

Valarr had accepted the defeat with as much dignity as he could muster and congratulated William on his skill.

Then he left.

Not because of Aerion.

Not because of the crowd who were probably judging him.

But because from the corner of his eye, he had noticed you watching.

You were standing at the far edge of the yard, giving archery lessons to Errold, the youngest Stark. Before your attention had turned towards them.

And he had not wanted to know what you thought.

Of the prince whose father was called Breakspear.

Of the prince who could never quite seem to live up to the name.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he chugged the wine in a go. Sleep was clearly not coming tonight.

Valarr rose from the chaise and set the goblet aside with a quiet clink. Pulling his fur cloak around his shoulders, he made his way towards the door.

The moon hung high in the sky. Though the snowfall had stopped, the chill still lingered in the air. The last thing Valarr wanted was to fall ill and embarrass himself further.

He opened the door to his chambers, and Ser Crakenhall straightened immediately.

"Your Grace," the man in the white cloak greeted.

Valarr gave him a nod and stepped out of the warmth of his chambers, the cold air striking his face at once.

"I wish to take a walk," Valarr said with a small smile. "Alone."

"But Your Grace-"

"It is an order. And I will remain within the castle walls, Ser. There is no need to worry."

Ser Crakehall looked hesitant for a moment, but eventually bowed his head and stepped aside.

Valarr moved through the corridors, his thoughts swimming somewhere between the humiliation of the morning and the uncertainty of the future.

He descended the stairs with the ease of a man who knew his way around. Over the past few days, he had developed a habit of haunting the halls of Winterfell whenever sleep refused to come.

Within minutes, he found himself at the rear of the castle, standing upon the balcony that had slowly become his sanctuary in the cold North. He had discovered it during one of his nightly wanderings and quickly decided he loved the silence.

Valarr rested his elbows against the railing and exhaled slowly, watching his breath disappear into the night air. After a moment, he leaned forward, resting his face in his palms as his eyes drifted towards the dark woods stretching beyond the castle walls.

The Wolfswood.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

Valarr could not help but wonder what else wandered through those woods after dark.

Just as his thoughts began to drift, he heard footsteps.

Light and careful.

Like someone trying not to be heard.

His hand instinctively moved towards the pommel of his sword as a shadow slipped across the level below him.

Valarr's feet moved before he could think. He descended the stairs quickly and rounded the balcony where he had seen the figure pass.

Nothing.

The corridor stood empty.

Valarr frowned. He was certain he had seen someone. Yet there was nothing there but stone walls and the ever present northern cold.

A pair of Stark guards were approaching from the opposite end of the corridor. Valarr considered asking if they had seen anyone.

Before he could open his mouth, someone seized his wrist.

The world lurched.

Valarr was pulled into a nearby room.

The door shut behind him.

Before he could protest, a hand covered his mouth.

Your scent reached him first. Then your voice.

"Shh."

His back hit the door as you pinned him against it, one hand over his mouth while the other remained wrapped around his wrist.

The moonlight filtering through the lone window was too weak to illuminate the room properly. He could only make out fragments of you.

A dark cloak. The outline of your shoulders. And the way you craned your neck towards the window, muttering curses beneath your breath as the clanking of armor echoed past outside.

Valarr could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Seven above, he was certain you could hear it too.

He breathed through his nose, trying desperately to steady himself. The brush of your palm against his lips did things to him he did not care to examine too closely.

It was all too much.

The woman he had spent two days avoiding. The woman who had occupied every spare corner of his thoughts.

And now she was pinning him against a door in an empty room.

Seven Hells. If someone were to see them-

Valarr abandoned that thought immediately. He could not move or speak. He could barely think.

All he could do was stare at you as something traitorous twisted happily inside his chest.

Valarr gulped when your attention finally shifted towards him.

He could feel you staring back.

For perhaps the first time in his life, he cursed the darkness for hiding your eyes.

"Shit," you muttered beneath your breath. Your hands slipped away from his mouth and wrist.

And Valarr found himself strangely disappointed by the loss of contact.

"My prince, I apologize. You see- I- me- it's just-"

"My lady, is everything alright?" Valarr somehow managed, a flush creeping across the back of his neck.

You laughed awkwardly and stepped away from him, moving into the moonlight.

Only then could he properly see you. You were dressed in common clothes. A rugged dark cloak hung around your shoulders, and a sword rested at your hip.

You looked nothing like a noblewoman. And somehow that only made the sight more fascinating and beautiful.

"I am alright," you said, glancing back towards the window. "I simply need to go somewhere. It is rather...important. I just did not wish to alert the guards."

"My lady, it is rather dark outside. Is everything truly alright?" Valarr took a cautious step closer, trying to get a better look at your face.

"I am certain, my prince. It is nothing."

You moved towards the door and pushed it open. Valarr watched as you carefully scanned the corridor before pulling your cloak tighter around yourself.

"I shall see you later, my prince."

You turned and headed towards the stairs leading down into the courtyard.

Valarr should have stopped there.

You were not his concern.

He should have returned to his chambers and forgotten this ever happened.

Instead, he followed.

He told himself it was because it was dark, and a lady should not wander alone at night.

At least that was the excuse he offered his heart.

"My lady, wait."

You stopped and turned towards him.

Valarr could see your face scrunch in frustration.

"Your Grace, you should really go back. I promise there is no need to worry."

"But my lady, it is not safe for you to wander alone. I know you are a skilled warrior, but still—"

The distant clanking of armor interrupted him. Valarr saw your eyes widen. Panic etched across your entire face.

And then suddenly you were dragging him across the courtyard. Your hand wrapped tightly around his wrist as Valarr nearly tripped over his own feet.

"My lady- I- what- "

You ignored him entirely as the two of you hurried across the courtyard towards the eastern gates.

"Please. Please. Please. Let them not be there," you muttered beneath your breath.

Valarr scarcely knew where he was being taken.

His mind had stopped functioning several moments ago. All he could focus on was the warmth of your hand seeping through the sleeve of his shirt.

The eastern gate came into view. There were no guards there.

Likely a shift change.

And before Valarr fully realized what was happening, the two of you were beyond Winterfell's walls.

You led him through the sleeping town until you suddenly darted into an alleyway and pulled him in after you.

Your hand finally released his wrist, and you bent forward slightly, laughing as you tried to catch your breath.

Your laughter faded as you leaned against the wall of the alleyway, catching your breath.

Valarr stood several feet away, looking thoroughly lost.

The alley was narrow, squeezed between two weathered buildings. Snow had gathered in uneven piles along the stone walls, while lantern light from the nearby streets spilled weakly into the darkness.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Valarr merely blinked at you, as you blinked back.

Then your expression changed.

Valarr watched confusion give way to realization, and then realization gave way to absolute horror.

Before either of you could speak, a voice suddenly cut through the silence.

"What the fuck?"

Valarr's hand flew instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Beside him, yours did the same.

A shadow stepped forward from deeper within the alley, draped in a dark cloak just like your own. Snow clung to the figure's shoulders as he stopped beneath the lantern light.

Valarr tensed, and then he heard you let out a quiet groan. The stranger pulled back his hood.

William Stark.

Valarr felt even more confused than before. William looked at him, then at you and then back at him.

The silence stretched.

"Your Grace?" William finally asked.

Valarr offered an awkward nod.

William stared for another heartbeat before slowly turning toward you.

"What is he doing here?"

You muttered something under your breath. Unfortunately for Valarr, whatever you said was too quiet to hear. William's eyes widened.

"What?"

You moved closer to your brother, lowering your voice further.

Valarr took a cautious step forward.

"-followed me," he finally caught. "I panicked and dragged him here."

For a long moment William simply stared at you. Then he dragged a hand down his face.

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

"What would you have me do?" Valarr heard you hiss back. "Let the guards find me sneaking out again? And then what? Spend the next moon trapped in my chambers while mother lectures me every morning?"

William opened his mouth and closed it before sighing heavily.

"Gods help me," he muttered.

Valarr cleared his throat. Both siblings turned toward him so quickly that he nearly forgot what he had been about to say.

"I apologize for interrupting, but I feel I should mention that I am still very confused."

You narrowed your eyes at him. Valarr immediately wished he had remained silent.

"We cannot go back now," you declared.

"My lady—"

"There are soldiers searching the grounds."

Valarr blinked.

"What?"

You pointed vaguely back toward Winterfell.

"If they find me sneaking out, I am doomed." You crossed your arms. "There is only one solution."

Valarr did not like the confidence with which you said that. Neither, judging by his expression, did William. Slowly, you pointed your finger towards him.

"We take him with us."

Valarr opened his mouth, before closing it again.

William stared at you.

Then, to Valarr's immense confusion, amusement flickered across his face.

"Oh, this should be interesting."

"You agree?" you asked.

"I think we are beyond good decisions at this point."

You nodded as though that settled everything. Then your attention shifted towards Valarr. And Valarr could not help but admire the way you looked under the moonlight.

"Do you enjoy music, Your Grace?"

Valarr stopped.

"What?"

"Music and ale."

"I am afraid I do not understand the question."

Valarr can see a grin tugging at the corner of your lips, and he could not help the flush on his cheeks.

"My prince," you said, clasping your hands behind your back, "have you ever been inside a common tavern?"

"N-No."

Your grin widened.

Beside you, Valarr can see William suddenly looking far too entertained.

"Well," you said, turning toward the lantern-lit street beyond the alley, "it appears tonight is your lucky day."

And for some reason, despite every warning screaming inside his head, Valarr followed.

The tavern was loud. The moment Valarr stepped inside, it felt as though he had entered an entirely different world.

Warmth immediately wrapped around him, washing away the bitter cold that had clung to him since leaving Winterfell. The air smelled of woodsmoke, roasted meat, spilled ale and damp wool. Music drifted through the crowded room, carried by a fiddler tucked into a corner while men and women laughed loudly around him.

Tankards slammed against tables.

Someone was singing.

Someone else was arguing over a game of dice.

And somehow, despite the chaos, everyone seemed content.

Valarr sat stiffly at one of the tables near the bar, his hands wrapped around a mug of ale he had yet to touch. Beside him, you looked entirely at ease.

One arm rested lazily atop the table while the other held your tankard. The hood of your cloak had long since been pushed back, revealing your face in the warm glow of the lanterns hanging overhead.

Valarr found himself staring again.

He needed to stop doing that.

Across the tavern, William had already disappeared into the crowd.

Valarr could see him laughing with several men near the hearth, a tankard raised high in one hand while someone attempted to drag him toward the musicians.

Valarr watched him vanish into the crowd before looking back down at his untouched ale.

"My lady?"

You hummed in response. Valarr hesitated.

"You do not have to remain here with me."

That earned him a confused look.

"I merely meant," Valarr cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your brother appears to be enjoying himself. You need not sit here in my rather boring company."

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Then you snorted. Actually snorted.

Valarr immediately felt his ears burn.

"My prince," you said, shaking your head. "If I wished to be elsewhere, I would be elsewhere."

You took another drink from your tankard.

"I only came because William wished for it."

Valarr glanced toward the dance floor where William was now attempting something that could generously be described as dancing.

He found that difficult to believe.

"And besides," you continued, setting your tankard down. "I do not find your company boring."

Valarr froze. His mind promptly stopped working.

"Oh."

You rolled your eyes. The movement was simple and ordinary. Yet Valarr found himself watching it anyway.

The lantern light softened your features, casting warm golden hues across your face while shadows danced against your skin from the nearby hearth. A loose strand of hair had escaped and now rested against your cheek.

Beautiful.

The thought arrived uninvited, and Valarr nearly dropped his mug.

He quickly looked away. His heartbeat stumbling somewhere inside his chest.

You took another drink before glancing towards him.

"My prince."

Valarr straightened immediately.

"You have been holding that mug for ten minutes."

Valarr looked down at his mug.

"I was observing."

You raised an eyebrow.

"The ale?"

"The tavern."

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

"And what conclusions have you reached?"

Valarr glanced around once more.

A serving girl laughed as someone spun her around. A group of laborers were singing badly enough that it might have been considered a crime. Someone dropped a mug.

Nobody cared.

"It is..." Valarr paused, "very loud."

The laugh that escaped you was bright and genuine. Valarr hated how much he liked that sound.

"That is your grand observation?" you asked.

"I have others."

"Oh?"

Valarr nodded solemnly.

"The man near the hearth is definitely cheating."

You blinked.

Then followed his gaze toward a dice game happening across the room. The older man quickly slipped a die into his sleeve. Your eyes widened.

"He is."

Valarr looked pleased with himself.

"And the fiddler has missed the same note six times."

You stared.

"You can hear that?"

"I was taught music."

You shook your head slowly.

"What?"

"You truly are a prince."

Valarr couldn't help but laugh. For the first time that day, the nervousness in his chest eased slightly.

And for a moment, surrounded by music and laughter and the warmth of the tavern, he almost forgot that he was supposed to be avoiding you.

Valarr finally gathered enough courage to take a sip of his own ale.

Immediately he coughed. Yhe drink was far stronger than he had anticipated. Ypu laughed and Valarr scratched the back of his neck.

"Do you come here often?" Valarr found himself asking.

You shrugged, "Sometimes."

Your gaze drifted around the tavern.

"When I wish to feel..." you paused briefly. A small smile formed on your lips. "Free."

Valarr looked down at the ale in his hand.He understood that feeling more than he cared to admit.

The conversation faded after that. Neither of you seemed particularly bothered by the silence.

Then suddenly you spoke.

"You did quite well today."

Valarr frowned.

"Hm?"

"In the training yard."

Your head now rested lazily atop your folded arms as you looked at him from across the table.

Valarr nearly choked.

"You cannot be serious."

"I am."

"My lady."

You raised an eyebrow. Valarr snorted into his mug.

"Please do not humour me because I am a prince."

The words escaped before he could stop them. You immediately rolled your eyes.

"I am not humouring you."

"You witnessed the same duel I did."

"I witnessed William sparring against someone who has never seen actual battle."

Valarr opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he argue.

"My brother has spent years fighting raiders, wildlings and bandits."

You gestured vaguely toward the crowd where William had somehow acquired another tankard.

"He has been training for actual combat since he was old enough to hold a sword."

Valarr remained unconvinced. And he can see your expression softening.

"My prince."

Reluctantly, Valarr looked up.

"You need to give yourself more credit."

He laughed quietly, almost sarcastically.

"I mean it."

Your finger tapped lightly against the wooden table.

"Many men cannot stand against William for more than a few seconds."

"The men people remember are the ones who win."

"That is not true."

The certainty in your voice made him glance back towards you. You were already looking at him.

Not with pity or sympathy. But with certainty. As though you truly believed every word leaving your mouth.

Valarr felt something tighten in his chest.

"Remember what i said back at the godswood. The strongest people I have known were not always the most skilled."

Your gaze drifted briefly toward the crowd.

"They were simply the ones who kept getting back up."

The tavern seemed quieter for a moment. Or perhaps Valarr simply stopped hearing it. Because once again, you had unknowingly said exactly what he needed to hear.

His eyes lingered on you longer than they should have.

The hours passed quicker than Valarr expected.

At some point, William had disappeared entirely into the crowd, only appearing every now and then with another mug in his hand and a different group of friends around him.

The tavern remained loud. But Valarr found himself smiling.

Not the polite smile he wore during feasts, or the practiced smile expected from a prince.

A real one.

The realization startled him, and his gaze drifted toward you. Your head still rested lazily against the table. One hand wrapped around your mug while the other traced absent patterns into the wood.

You were watching the crowd now. A small smile rested upon your lips. And for a moment, Valarr forgot everything else.

The expectations. The crown. The future waiting for him beyond Winterfell.

All of it seemed distant.

Far away.

Like a dream someone else had lived.

A laugh escaped your lips at something happening across the room.

Valarr felt his heart stumble.

You were beautiful.

Not in the way court ladies were beautiful. Not polished and perfect beneath jewels and silks.

You looked alive.

And somehow that made it worse. Because Valarr could feel himself drifting closer with every conversation.

Every smile.

Every shared moment.

Like a ship slowly being pulled toward rocks despite knowing exactly what awaited it.

His fingers tightened around his mug.

You turned your head suddenly.

Valarr looked away so quickly it made him lightheaded.

"You are staring again, my prince."

The tips of his ears burned.

"I was not."

"You were."

"I was merely thinking."

"About what?"

Valarr opened his mouth, and then closed it. Because he could hardly tell you that all his thoughts somehow seemed to begin and end with you these days.

A grin spread across your face as you watched him struggle.

And Seven Hells.

Valarr was doomed.

But for the first time in his life, the realization did not fill him with dread, but warmth.

And Prince Valarr Targaryen found himself hoping the night would never end.

Chapter 6 [Weekly Updates (every saturday!)]

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As punishment, as insurance, as a living, breathing hostage to guarantee her family's future good behavior, the Targaryens took her the only heir, the precious only daughter, the future of her entire bloodline as a "ward" of the crown. She was brought to King's Landing at seven years old, a frightened little girl with big eyes and a trembling lip, clutching a worn doll to her chest as the Red Keep loomed before her like a monster made of red stone. She grew up in the shadow of the Iron Throne, surrounded by Targaryens, a hostage whose continued safety and good treatment depended entirely on her family's loyalty.

She was treated well, surprisingly well, better than most hostages could ever dream. She was given fine chambers, soft gowns, excellent tutors, and a place at the royal table. But she was never allowed to forget that she was, at her core, a prisoner. A cherished prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless.

She grew close with the young princes, Valarr and Matarys, the sons of Prince Baelor Breakspear. They were of a similar age, and children are wonderfully blind to politics. Valarr, the heir after Baelor, developed a sweet, tender little crush on her as the years passed. He would bring her wildflowers he picked himself from the gardens, their stems crushed in his eager grip, and stammer through compliments that made his ears turn bright red.

And Baelor himself? When she was a child, he was simply kind to her. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing strange or untoward. He saw her homesickness, her fear, her desperate desire to please everyone around her so she wouldn't be sent away or hurt. He treated her gently, speaking to her with patience, making sure the servants didn't neglect her, occasionally even finding her crying in some forgotten corner of the castle and sitting with her in comfortable silence until her tears dried. He never touched her inappropriately, never looked at her with anything but the innocent fondness a father might show. He protected her from the cruelest courtiers, the ones who wanted to see the traitor's daughter humiliated, and she grew up seeing him as a protector, a mentor, a steady, reassuring presence in a world that had been turned upside down.

And then she started growing into a woman.

The soft roundness of childhood melted away, replaced by the curves and lines of womanhood. She grew taller, her figure filled out, her face lost its childish plumpness and revealed the elegant, striking bone structure beneath. She was beautiful in a way that drew eyes and silenced conversation when she entered a room. And the marriage proposals started arriving like a flood breaking through a dam.

Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms sent ravens and emissaries, offering alliances, dowries, lands, and promises. Her house was wealthy and strategically placed, and she was the sole heir marrying her would mean absorbing all of that power and wealth into another family. The proposals came in a steady stream, each one more tempting than the last. But they did not go to her father, languishing under house arrest in his own castle. They came directly to Baelor, because he was her official warder, her jailer, her keeper in the eyes of the crown. The future of her marriage, the continuation of her house, the fate of her entire bloodline, it all rested in the hands of a Targaryen prince as part of the "apology" her family owed for their treason. She had no say. Her father had no say. Only Baelor could decide who she would marry, when, and to whom.

And Baelor rejected every single proposal that crossed his desk. Not because they were bad offers, many of them were excellent matches by any objective standard powerful lords, gallant knights, wealthy heirs with bright futures. Matches that would have secured her house's position and brought honor and stability. But Baelor found fault with every single one of them. This lord was too old, that knight was rumored to be cruel, this heir had gambling debts, that one's lands were too far from King's Landing. The excuses piled up like fallen leaves, and his clerks grew accustomed to drafting polite, formal letters of rejection bearing the Prince of Dragonstone's seal.

The real reason, the truth that Baelor himself did not consciously acknowledge for a long, long time, was that he simply could not bear the thought of her leaving. Of her going away to some far off castle as the wife of another man. Of her not being there, at his side, every single day.

Because by this point, she had become utterly essential to him. What had started as a ward and her warden had evolved into something far more intimate, though still technically proper. She had become his constant companion, his shadow, his little secretary. She was always at his arm, a wax tablet or a sheaf of parchment in hand, helping him manage the endless work of ruling. She organized his correspondence, reminded him of appointments, took dictation for his letters, and sat quietly in the corner of his study while he wrestled with the burdens of being the heir to the Iron Throne. Sometimes, when he was stuck on a particularly thorny political problem, he would ask her advice. And she would think carefully before answering, her brow furrowed in concentration, offering insights that were sharp and perceptive and often exactly what he needed to hear.

They grew incredibly close, she knew how he took his tea, which documents needed his immediate attention and which could wait, when he needed silence and when he needed distraction. She could read his moods from the set of his shoulders and the line of his jaw. And he knew her too, he knew what made her laugh, what books she loved, what foods she craved when she was sad. He knew the sound of her footsteps in the corridor and the way she hummed softly to herself when she was concentrating. They spent more time together than he spent with anyone else in the world, including his wife.

It was Jena who finally made him see it. His gentle, patient wife, the mother of his children. She came to him one evening, her face tired and her voice soft with suppressed hurt, and told him that it bothered her. The way he looked at his ward, the way he always had her nearby, the way he seemed more attentive to the daughter of traitors than to his own wife. She pointed it out quietly, without accusation, almost sadly. And Baelor, standing there in the sudden silence of his chambers, felt the realization hit him like a war hammer to the chest. If forced to choose—truly choose, with no evasion or excuse—he would choose her over Jena. He would choose his little hostage, his secretary, his constant companion, over his own lawful wife.

It should have horrified him. It should have sent him to his knees in the sept, begging the gods for forgiveness. Instead, something dark and possessive unfurled in his chest, and instead of pulling away from her, he began pulling her closer.

He started modifying her wardrobe. A new gown would arrive in her chambers, cut in a style he preferred, made from rich fabrics he had personally selected. The colors shifted gradually until her wardrobe was dominated by deep crimson reds and stark, dramatic blacks. Targaryen colors. His colors. She wore them without complaint, perhaps not even noticing the deliberate shift, and when she walked through the Red Keep draped in red and black, she looked like she belonged at his side. Like she was already his.

He began having her sit beside him more and more often. At meals, at court sessions, at formal audiences. When Jena was seated on his right, the place of the wife, he would place his ward on his left, equally prominent. When Jena was not present, the ward sat at his right hand.

Jena, desperate and worried, proposed what she saw as an elegant solution. Marry the girl to Valarr. It would keep her within the family, bind her to the Targaryens legally and permanently, and remove her from Baelor's orbit into his son's. It made perfect political sense, and it would soothe the rumors that were beginning to swirl. But when Jena suggested it, Baelor's reaction was swift and volcanic. He vehemently denied the idea, his voice rising with a fury that startled his gentle wife. He was angry, furious even, that Jena would dare suggest such a thing. When pressed for a reason, he seized upon the old excuse like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. She was the daughter of traitors, he said coldly. She carried traitor's blood in her veins. Why would he reward traitors by marrying their daughter to his own son, his heir, a future king? It was out of the question. Unthinkable.

Meanwhile, he was giving her private "lessons" in his study, late in the evening when the candles burned low and the castle grew quiet. Lessons on how to be a good wife, he called them. He taught her how to speak to her future husband, how to comfort him after a difficult day, how to manage a household and command servants with firmness and grace. He taught her how to walk, how to curtsy, how to compose her features into serene pleasantness even when she was exhausted or upset. And then the lessons shifted, becoming more intimate, more perilous. He taught her how to kiss a husband. Properly, he said, so she would not embarrass herself on her eventual wedding night. He would demonstrate, his hands cupping her face gently, his lips moving against hers with slow, deliberate instruction. He never pushed further, never made her feel truly uncomfortable or afraid, never crossed the line into something she could definitively call improper. But they both knew, in the secret, unspoken places of their hearts, that what they were doing was already far beyond the bounds of what a warder should do with his charge.

She was always at his side now the rumors began growing like mold in a damp cellar. Whispers slithered through the Red Keep, through the court, through the city beyond. They said she was his mistress. His paramour. His secret lover. They said she warmed his bed while poor Jena slept alone. The rumors grew so loud that Jena finally confronted her directly, face to face, woman to woman. The princess asked, with tears in her eyes, if the rumors were true. And the reader, shocked and genuinely distressed, denied it with complete honesty. Nothing truly improper had ever happened between them. The prince had only been helping her, teaching her, preparing her for her future role as some lord's wife. He had been a mentor, a protector, a guide. Jena left the confrontation relieved, believing the girl's words completely.

And then, two months later, Jena Dondarrion, wife of Baelor Breakspear and mother of his children, fell ill with the winter fever that was sweeping through the realm.

It was a cruel sickness, swift and merciless. Jena's health declined rapidly, her strong body ravaged by chills and fever, her lungs filling with fluid until each breath became a desperate struggle. The maesters did everything they could, bleeding her with leeches, applying poultices, praying to the Seven, but nothing worked. She died within a fortnight of first showing symptoms, slipping away in the gray hours of dawn with her husband holding her hand and her sons weeping at the foot of the bed.

The reader felt awful about it. Truly, genuinely awful. Jena had always been kind to her, even when suspicion and jealousy must have been eating at her heart. Jena had never treated her cruelly, never had her whipped or dismissed or sent away, even though she had every right as Princess of Dragonstone to do so. The reader mourned Jena sincerely, wearing black for weeks and spending long hours in the sept lighting candles for the dead princess's soul.

But more than her own grief, she felt a deep, aching sympathy for Baelor. After the funeral, after the last prayers had been chanted and Jena's body had been laid to rest in the crypts, the reader made a decision. She would go to him in his study and comfort him. He had been kind to her for so many years. He had protected her, taught her, guided her. The least she could do was offer him solace in his grief. Her intentions were the purest they had ever been.

She found him in his study late that evening, sitting alone in the darkness with only a single candle burning. He was not working. He was just sitting there, staring at nothing, a cup of untouched wine on the desk before him. She entered quietly, her footsteps soft on the stone floor, and spoke his name gently. He looked up at her, and the raw, unguarded grief in his eyes made her heart clench painfully. She crossed the room without thinking, sat beside him, and took his hand in hers. She told him she was sorry. She told him she was there for him. She told him he was not alone.

What happened next was a blur of grief and longing and years of suppressed desire finally breaking free. He kissed her, but not as a lesson this time. He kissed her like a drowning man gasping for air. She did not return to her own chambers that night. Or the next night. Or the night after that.

Half a year later, she stood before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor, swathed in a gown of pure white silk that cleverly disguised the soft swell of her belly. The ceremony was rushed, the guest list carefully controlled, the whispers of scandal already spreading through the court. But Baelor Breakspear looked at his bride with naked satisfaction, his hand warm and possessive on the small of her back as he spoke his vows in a clear, steady voice. And when the High Septon pronounced them man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Baelor smiled the smile of a man who had finally, after years of waiting, gotten exactly what he wanted.

She was his now. Completely and irrevocably his. The hostage had become the wife. The ward had become the princess. And her family, sitting in their distant castle, could only watch as the Targaryens tightened their grip on everything they held dear.

---

Darker ending from the night of the funeral:

He kissed her and her body went rigid, her hands pressing instinctively against his chest, but he was so much stronger than her. He had always been so much stronger than her.

She tried to pull back, to create distance, to gently remind him of who she was, of who he was, of the impropriety of this moment. She said his name, a questioning, uncertain sound. But he did not stop. He pulled her closer, his hands gripping her waist with a desperate, possessive strength that made her ribs ache. His voice, when he spoke against her lips, was rough and broken. He told her he needed her. He needed her so badly. He had needed her for years, had burned for her for years, had denied himself for the sake of duty and honor and a wife he had never loved the way he loved her. And now Jena was gone, and he was alone, and he could not bear to be alone tonight. He could not bear it. He would not survive it. He needed her. She was the only one who understood him, the only one who truly knew him, the only one who could make the pain stop. Would she really be so cruel as to abandon him now, in the darkest moment of his life? After everything he had done for her? After he had protected her, clothed her, fed her, kept her safe from the vipers at court? After he had rejected every suitor who would have taken her away from him? Did all that mean nothing to her?

The words tangled around her like silk cords, binding her, confusing her. Guilt bloomed in her chest, hot and sickening. He had protected her. He had been kind to her. He had given her a home when she was a frightened little hostage with nowhere else to go. And now he was in pain, terrible pain, and she could help him, could ease his suffering. What kind of person would she be if she turned away from him now? But beneath the guilt, a small, panicked voice screamed that this was wrong, all wrong, that she did not want this, that his hands were moving over her body in ways that made her feel trapped and small and terrified.

She did not want to kiss him. She did not want his hands on her. But he was her warder, her keeper, the man who controlled every aspect of her life. He decided where she lived, what she wore, who she spoke to, what she ate. He decided her future, her marriage, her fate. He was a prince of the blood, the heir to the Iron Throne, and she was the daughter of traitors living on borrowed time and royal sufferance. If she angered him now, if she pushed him away and wounded his pride in this moment of terrible vulnerability, what would happen to her? Would he send her away? Would he finally accept one of those marriage proposals and ship her off to some distant, dismal keep to be the wife of a man she had never met? Would he withdraw his protection and leave her to the mercies of the courtiers who still whispered about her traitor's blood? Could she afford to refuse him? Did she even have the right to refuse him?

She realized, with a cold, sinking clarity, that she did not. She had never had the right to refuse him. Her entire existence was conditional on his goodwill. And so when he kept kissing her, when he pulled her from the chair and into his lap, when his hands tangled in her hair and his mouth traced a burning path down her throat, she did not fight him. She went still and quiet and compliant. She closed her eyes and let it happen. She told herself it was gratitude. She told herself it was comfort. She told herself she owed him this for all the years of safety he had given her. She told herself that her body's trembling was from sympathy, from shared grief, from anything other than fear and revulsion.

He took her silence as consent. He took her stillness as acceptance. He whispered against her skin that she was so good to him, so perfect, his sweet girl, his constant companion, his everything. He had waited so long, denied himself so long, and now she was here and she was his, truly his, finally his.

She did not return to her own chambers that night. She lay in his bed, staring at the canopy above her, feeling his arm wrapped around her waist like an iron band. She listened to his breathing even out into sleep, felt his chest rise and fall against her back. Her body felt foreign to her, heavy and strange. There was a dull ache between her thighs and a sharper ache behind her breastbone that would not go away. She did not cry. She did not move. She just lay there, wide eyed in the darkness, waiting for dawn to come.

He sent for her the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. And she went, because she did not know how to refuse him. Because she was too afraid of what would happen if she said no. Because he had given her everything, and now he wanted this in return, and she could not bring herself to deny the grieving prince his only comfort. So she went to his chambers every evening, and she let him take what he wanted, and she learned how to smile and murmur the words he wanted to hear. She learned how to be what he needed. She learned how to survive.

And when she missed her moon's blood a month later, and then again the month after that, and the maester confirmed what she already knew in her bones, Baelor kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made her stomach turn and told her they would be married before her belly showed too much. His eyes were bright with satisfaction, with triumph, with a possessive joy that looked almost like love but felt exactly like ownership.

She stood in the Great Sept of Baelor half a year later, swathed in white silk that draped cleverly over the swell of her stomach, and spoke her vows in a voice that did not tremble. She was Princess of Dragonstone now. Wife of the heir to the Iron Throne. The most envied woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

He watched you and Baelor converse further down the dais with a clenched jaw. Why did the two of you need to lean so closely into each other’s orbit? His brother was not yet fifty, and certainly not hard of hearing.

But Maekar knew why. You hadn’t been meant for him, not at all. A pretty maiden from a powerful house, you’d been chosen for Baelor – to be the Crown Prince’s second bride – instead of stepmother to a fourth son’s brood of children.

At some point in your stay at the Keep, during courting, things had changed and Maekar had been faced with his brother, asking him to marry you instead. He had accepted, of course he had. Maekar was no fool, despite what some might say; you were young and radiant, a true beauty.

It had not been a hardship to take you under his protection earlier today. He remembered your blush as he had taken your maiden’s cloak from you and replaced it with the crimson and black of House Targaryen. Perhaps you had pretended it had been Baelor who had done so.

Maekar could not blame you. Anyone would prefer the Prince of Dragonstone over his dour, scarred younger brother. Who would want him, when they could have been Queen instead?

You had still been talking with Baelor when Maekar had stepped up to announce that you would retire. There was to be no bedding, a small mercy. He could not have been able to watch as Baelor spearheaded the charge, and tore your dress from you. Could not have survived seeing you shoot desirous eyes at his brother.

You were his wife. His. Not Baelor’s. If Baelor had wanted you, he should not have all but given you away.

There was silence when the two of you entered his chambers. Yours now, too, he supposed.

You moved to loosen your laces, sitting at the edge of the bed. Maekar stopped you, trapping your wrists against his long-fingered hands.

“I will not take you unwilling,” he said, breathing out slowly through his nose, determined not to be the kind of man who took out his frustrations on his wife. “Nor will I take you while you imagine me to be another.”

You tilted your head, brows arched in surprise. Your eyes were wide and confused. “Unwilling?” you squeaked, before you added, “And who else would I think of?”

“You need not pretend,” he huffed. “I know I am no great prize compared to Baelor.”

Immediately, you squinted. “What has given you the idea that I want Baelor?”

“It is only natural that you would resent this, the Crown Prince was promised to you–” The rest of his words were muffled in a kiss as you surged to your feet.

He allowed you to nip at his lips clumsily, your tongue a wild thing, curious and eager. Then you separated to breathe.

“I asked to marry you,” you admitted, cheeks gaining a rosy hue, “I saw you and I thought you the handsomest man I had ever seen. I begged my father to change the betrothal. I went so far as to go to Prince Baelor himself and confess my feelings for you.”

You smiled, a hesitant, brittle thing, and it filled his heart full of hope. “I have thought of nothing but this night for weeks. So please, let us continue and allow me to have my husband. Show me what the Anvil is capable of.”

And show you, he did. Repeatedly, thoroughly. No crevice of you did he leave untouched as he took you. He made sure to make you scream his name, and let everyone know just who was giving you such pleasure.

The day prior, a small party had arrived with careful instructions from his sister the queen—she had sent her youngest son Daeron, who was eight of age now, to ward in Oldtown. It seemed that for all its coin and privileges, the capital was not the most salubrious environment for boys to be raised into young men, and thus had sent her last son to her uncle in the hopes of salvaging his education and values.

Gwayne was rather proud and looking forward to participating in his nephew’s education, however he wondered how it related to you. As the second child of King Viserys, a daughter brought into this world on the very day Queen Aemma had passed on, you had come as an escort to young Daeron, the boy’s dragon being too small to be ridden. 

“I am to remain here in Oldtown and rely on House Hightower to find a husband, and I am sure my lord will have a perfect suggestion,” you said sarcastically, turning to his uncle again. “Your eldest son is still unwed, is he not?”

Hobert smiled placidly. “Indeed,” he confirmed. Gwayne understood then and there, the true purpose of your coming here. While he understood the ways of noble and royal arranged marriages, he could imagine how difficult being sent away from your home without a say was, and he regretted that you had not been informed until after the arrangement had been made.

“I will not let the Lord Hand choose my husband,” you said firmly before turning on your heels and leaving the room. 

At his desk, Hobert sighed. “She is the dragon’s daughter indeed,” he said, a polite phrasing for the headache he no doubt expected.

“Do not worry, uncle, I shall take it upon myself to make sure the matter is resolved without any more fuss,” Gwayne said amicably. “Father will be satisfied.”

While you had reacted in anger in Lord Hobert’s sitting room, the truth of the matter was grief. Since your birth you had never quite found your place in King’s Landing, or within your own family. For the king, you represented the passing of his wife, and for Alicent, you were the shadow of the queen that had preceded her. For your sister Rhaenyra, even though she cherished you, you were the walking reminder that your mother had died for a lost cause.

Some days you wondered what your life would have been like if you’d been a son. On the rare occasions you allowed yourself to contemplate it, you knew there was only one path your life could have taken. You would have been made Prince of Dragonstone, and would have likely been betrothed to a daughter from House Velaryon from a young age. In those moments of contemplation you realized the choice wouldn’t have been ours, as your own parents’ marriage had been arranged.

Son or daughter, you were submitted to the will of the crown, under the weight of obligation.

However the Gods had seen it fit to have you born a girl, and now that you had recently come of age and the queen was seemingly eager to use you as leverage and to keep you under her influence by sending you to wed one of her kin. Upon departure you had not understood you would not only escort your youngest half-sibling, but would only return once wed.

For near a fortnight you lived with your newly discovered fate, until you came to the conclusion that resisting it would be your undoing. The choice was between acceptance and madness, and the third option was inconceivable to you—to go against your father’s order and defy the very customs by which you lived.

One morning after prayer, you were strolling the gardens and mentally going through a letter you would later write to him, when you came across Ser Gwayne. It almost seemed to you as though he was waiting for you at the end of an alley, but you dismissed the thought.

“Ser Gwayne,” you greeted politely, surprised when he fell into step with you, arms crossed behind his back primly.

“I have been wanting to speak with you, princess,” he said amicably—he had meant to come to you sooner, but he had not wanted to provoke your anger further. “I wanted to assure you, I was not aware of my father’s agreement with my uncle.”

Seemingly surprised, you looked at him intently before answering, and he hoped you could see he was being genuine. “I believe you,” you said, perhaps more curtly than you ought to, but you did not entirely trust his intentions.

“While my situation was much different than yours, I can sympathize,” he offered, hoping you would be receptive to his sympathy.

“How so?” you inquired, slightly incredulous. 

“I was very much a young boy when my father came to King’s Landing to serve King Jaehaerys, and took my mother and sister with him, but chose to leave me in my uncle’s care,” he explained, and while you had known of his situation, it was still discomforting to hear it from him. “I was never given any sort of explanation as to the reason, nor any choice.”

“I am sorry,” you replied.

Ser Gwayne gave you a small smile, and the two of you walked in silence for a moment, as though he was expecting you to speak again. In the end, you proved him right. “I suppose you could not petition the queen or the hand to retract their arrangement with your uncle,” you said.

He tilted his head towards the sky slightly, looking up at the looming shadow of the Hightower, and gave you a self-deprecating smile. 

“I am afraid not. It is beyond the scope of my influence,” he replied, trying not to sound too bitter. “In other matters, I would have gladly been your champion.”

While he seldom spoke of it, and instead centered himself around his duties here, serving his uncle and training young squires sent by the Hightower’s bannermen, he sometimes wished for a more prominent role. Oldtown might have been the voice of the faith and the richest city in the realm, he longed to be trusted and influential, to make his own mark in the world.

“There isn’t much for me to do, but make peace with the situation, then,” you continued, sounding resigned and defeated more than truly convinced. “I have written to my father, and it is his definite wish that I find a good match here. So I shall obey my king. Even though I suspect the queen whispered the idea into his ear.”

At that Ser Gwayne gave you another pained smile, and you realized that perhaps, you had been harsh with your tone and implication. “My apologies, she is your sister,” you were quick to add.

“Do not trouble yourself,” he reassured you—he might have been the queen’s brother, he knew of the ruthless reality of court. “It is a political calculation, that is certain. Bonds between families are what make the realm.”

With another sigh, you raised your eyes to the blue sky and the flocks of seagulls circling overhead, coming from the bay of Whispering Sound. It was a clear day with a gentle sun, one you intended to spend contemplating the choices offered to you.

“Whether to a Hightower or another lord, I was always to be married for political influence, I have known that fact since I was a child,” you said bitterly.

“We must all serve in the way our birth dictates,” Gwayne replied in turn, this time sounding more bitter than he was comfortable with. 

At that you seemed to frown, but quickly smoothed your features over elegantly. “Ser Ormund is a logical match,” you told him then, almost regretfully—part of you loathed to agree with the Hand’s plan, out of pure spite. “What can you tell me of his character? After all, who would know him better than his cousin.”

For some reason he could not comprehend at that moment, Gwayne was not entirely comfortable with the question, but still answered as honestly as he could. “We are brothers, in all but blood,” he explained. “He is intelligent and confident in himself. Pious, but a touch arrogant at times, I must admit.”

His answer seemed to satisfy you. “Would he make a good match, tell me, Ser Gwayne?” you inquired.

Gwayne gave you a small nod, a pang of discomfort in his chest. “An excellent one.”

Weeks went on leisurely, the weather of the Reach agreeing with you. The city was far more agreeable than the capital, and you enjoyed being out of the queen’s scrutiny, even though you still felt her eyes through those of her uncle.

All were anxious for a decision on your part, even though it seemed everyone’s understanding that you would eventually choose Ser Ormund, and you loathed that the choice you were given was only an illusion.

While Ser Ormund appeared to be the man his cousin described, you could not bring yourself to accept a betrothal. For weeks you observed him, quickly dismayed by the way he showed Daeron so little patience nor interest. However it seemed Ser Gwayne had taken to him as an older sibling would. 

The young man took pride in having a new wardrobe made for him in the Hightower colors, and if not for the color or their hair, the two of them looked so alike they could have been brothers, or father and son. They spent their mornings in the training yard, and when the summer sun became too bright in the afternoons, retreated to the library where they studied. 

Ser Gwayne introduced him to poetry and ballads, and it seemed Daeron manifested an interest in music and playing the lute, which his cousin encouraged. 

Whether it was what you had seen of his character or the spirit of spite very much alive in you, you slowly came to a decision regarding Ser Gwayne. One early evening you asked him to your chambers, having prepared arguments as one would in a negotiation. You were being forced into a political match, therefore you would treat it as an entirely political matter. 

When Gwayne entered your chambers, he noticed you were dressed for the night already, with a long nightgown that grazed the floor and an embroidered robe in the Targaryen colors, fastened at the waist. 

It was later than was appropriate for a man to pay a call on a young woman, but he had been too curious to resist your unusual request.

“I have a proposal,” you said rather decidedly before he could speak. “I thought we could serve each other’s interests.”

Gwayne was taken aback by your offer, unsure what it was supposed to entail. “You are the queen’s brother, and I am the king’s daughter,” you observed, to which he nodded. “As such, you have the queen’s ear, to some extent, as much as I have the king’s.”

Understanding dawned on him, a prickling at the back of his neck at how bold you were being. He took a step forward, tilting his head in interest. “Indeed.”

At that, your polite smile grew into a delighted grin. “Marriage is a consolidation of assets, would you not say?” you asked, slightly breathless. 

“I would say,” he replied, slightly amazed at your offer. “Each on our own we might not have much influence, but together we will have a stronger voice.”

Since the very day he had interrupted your conversation with his uncle, he had wondered how to turn the situation to his advantage—you were a beautiful young woman, with a countenance and temperament he could see himself enjoying in private, and you could easily be the way to advance himself. 

After all, he was only the son of a second son, and stood to inherit very little but a small sum of money. He was a knight of impeccable reputation, which brought him pride, but he owned no castle and land. All he had was his good name and his reputation on the tourney field, but with you as his wife, he could hope for more for himself, but also any children you would bear him.

“Before we agree to this, I shall need some guarantees,” you said, looking awfully serious.

“Such as?” he asked. 

A heavy pause settled over you, then, slowly, your eyes travelled from his face down to his trousers, then up again until you were holding his gaze straight-on. “I will not spend my life tied to a man whose touch I cannot stand and whose sight I cannot bear,” you said severely, which made him swallow his chuckle.

Still, he found himself utterly charmed by your forwardness. “Have you made the same proposal to my cousin?” he answered, biting his lip to restrain his smile.

“I will, if you are to disappoint,” you said in a flat tone, your expression impassive, but he thought he saw a glint of amusement in your eyes.

“Pray tell, how shall I prove myself to you, princess?” he inquired, standing up straighter.

Once more your gaze travelled from his handsome face to the hem of his doublet, which fell mid-thighs, yet slower. You allowed your eyes to trace the black laces at the front which were undone at the base of his throat, making your meaning as clear as could be.

“Show me,” you replied, quieter, almost insecure, although you feared he would refuse.

Without a word he complied, the prickle of anticipation at the back of his neck returning tenfold, spreading down his spine. His fingers came to undo the leather lace holding his dark green doublet closed, pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it to the ground carelessly. His eyes keeping track of the move of emotions on your face, he then pulled his gray linen shirt over his head.

Watching avidly as he revealed himself piece by piece, you were delighted by his alabaster skin, spattered with freckles at his chest and stomach. He was lean but obviously strong, and you knew him agile from the training field. “Do I prove satisfactory so far?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, briefly glancing up.

Almost on instinct, you reached up and settled your palm over his heart, marvelling at how warm he was, and how soft the nearly hairless skin was. “Have you seen enough or must I convince you?” he inquired.

He seemed to almost mourn it when you let your hand drop away. “It is not quite enough I’m afraid.”

“Might I be allowed to request the same of you? Marriages are built on exchange after all,” he suggested, and he was so polite about it, you were inclined to accept. 

With a slight smile, you untied your robe and removed it, draping it over the back of a chair before taking a few steps around the room, closer to the hearth. In the soft light of the fire, the shadow of your curves stood up through your nightgown. 

“I must leave some element of mystery for you to uncover in due time,” you said.

“Do men not carry mystery?” he asked, a touch of wonder to his tone, his eyes following the play of light and shadow, the movement of your hips and the dips of your waist through the thin cotton. The buzzing warmth in his spine melted to heat, permeating his entire abdomen and settling low in his core.

“For all the poetry men have written about the female form, I would say we have the advantage in that regard,” you replied, confident once more, and it incensed him.

His next question came easily, eager on his tongue. “How would you have me demonstrate that I can please you?”

Delight flushed your face with heat. “Here I was hoping for mere tolerance of sight and touch, but you offer me pleasure?”

“I would,” he replied in a breath, shedding his boots and then his trousers under your avid attention. Your own breath had grown shallower, a strange warmth enveloping you, coursing through your veins. 

“No mystery,” you reminded him quietly, and at that he removed his smallclothes, standing entirely bare in front of you. “Sit.”

Eyes bright and attentive, he slowly made his way to the bed, delighted at how you followed two steps behind, then sat on the edge of the bed. His stomach shivered and clenched when he noticed the way you were looking between his legs, exploring without touching. This time, you did not have to prompt him.

“Oh,” you breathed with unconcealed wonder as he reached between his thighs and wrapped his hand around himself.

It was not as large as you had feared, and it was lovelier to look at than expected. Slowly, he stroked the thin skin over the hard length, the head of it flushed pink, soft sounds coming from his lips.

It made your own core ache, a feeling which you knew and now longed to explore through another’s touch, but you could not let go of such a wondrous view yet.

You watched desire spread over his features, a deep flush coming to his cheeks, darkening his freckles and spreading down to his neck and chest.

Mouth parted on shuddering exhales, he started rocking his hips into his hand. “Am I pleasing you yet?” he asked, his voice rougher.

“Almost,” you replied, and he smiled at that, amused and seemingly aroused at the slight taunt.

Pulling your gown up until it revealed your legs but no further, you climbed after him on the bed until you were kneeling on either side of his hips, your arms around his shoulders. His own hands came to rest on your thighs, tense and trembling, no doubt wishing to slide higher.

Slowly, you kissed his parted lips, enjoying their softness and the warmth of his tongue when it prodded yours. Without warning you gently pressed into him until his hard length was caught between his stomach and your core and started a subtle rocking.

He responded as beautifully as you had anticipated, his hands tightening around your thighs, his kiss still restrained but turning passionate. You carded your fingers through his soft mane, relishing the simmering heat building in your core, your pearl pressed against his length through your gown. 

“Allow me,” he murmured after a long minute of surrendering to your pace, his right hand sliding under the draping of your nightshift over your lap until he found your core, and pressed a thumb to it, exploring its seam and finding only wetness.

“Seven Gods,” he cursed, drawing tentative circles atop your nub until your hips rocked into his hand and your fingers tightened in his hair. 

Following the rhythm of his touch, you reached between your bodies and wrapped a hand around his length, stroking it as he had. He faltered then, clinging onto you with a rough moan. You swiped a thumb of his tip, swiping the bead of wetness that had pearled there, and he looked like he could cry.

“Am I pleasing you?” he nearly begged, eyes wide, and you gave him an encouraging hum. “I want to take you,” he then said, bold and desperate, and you shook your head even though your entire being was yearning for it, desperate to feel him inside of you.

“I cannot give myself to you,” you replied. “Not when I might still turn to Ser Ormund.”

The mention of his cousin made him groan, and you hid your victorious smile in his neck. “I will not disappoint you, princess,” he vowed, and you rewarded him by pushing him back onto the mattress, to which he complied without resistance.

Flat on his back, pleading eyes wide and rimmed with red, his mouth dropped open when you reached for your gown and pulled it off completely. He looked upon you as though he was seeing the Maiden herself straddling him. Your hand still wrapped around him, you rose higher to your knees and guided the tip of his length between your folds and ground down, taking him into your body.

He threw his head back when you slowly sank onto his length until your hips were snug with his. Palms flat to his chest and shoulder for leverage, you rocked back and forth, the stretch of him pulling you under fast despite the slight discomfort. His thumb was quick to find its place again on your pearl, and it proved to be your undoing.

Neither of you could stand the feeling for long, madly chasing your peak, your eyes watching the other’s face. You were tight around his cock, a wet heat to which he was unable to resist, rocking up into you desperately, encouraged by your sighs and moans.

Pressure mounted at the base of his cock and he cursed, biting his lip to keep it at bay until your own pleasure was spent. Soon you were shuddering, your hips losing their rhythm until you were grinding against him, clenching around him as your peak took you under.

“Gwayne,” you called, and he nearly cried with how close to the edge he was, crying out a sob when finally you relented and he pulled out, spilling on his own stomach. 

With a breathless laugh you fell to the bed, nestling to his side with your head on his shoulder. “Do we have an agreement, then?” he asked, sounding awfully pleased with himself.

“Yes,” you replied with a soft laugh, kissing a freckle at his shoulder. “I shall not seek your cousin out.”

“Good.”

The two of you remained silent for a long moment, until your breaths had evened and the sweat on your skin had cooled, making you shiver. Without a word he rose from the bed and retrieved your robe, which you took gladly.

“I shall write to my father. He will be pleased, I’m sure,” you said as you fastened the belt around your waist, then glanced up at him, still shamelessly bare.

“As will mine be,” he replied, then bent down to press a kiss to your lips, chaste but full of intent. “Together we might achieve a great deal for ourselves.”

A/N: Dividers by @/arcielee. Requested by @nourangul ♡

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And here you were, nearly a decade after he had saved you that rainy afternoon, seated on a cushion near the hearth of his solar with your legs folded neatly by your side, watching your saviour fight to stay awake.

Baelor was opposite you, perched comfortably on his wide reading chair, scanning scrolls and various other letters that demanded his immediate attention, all while visibly battling not to succumb to sleep’s awaiting embrace. His eyelids gradually sank lower until the gaze he used to assess the parchment turned into narrowed slits; shadows coloured the skin beneath his eyes, their presence proving how tired he truly was despite his stubborn refusal to admit it.

You had long since abandoned your book, finding his struggle far more entertaining than “The History of the North”, the contents of which he had insisted he would quiz you on during breakfast the following day.

His hair had grown significantly greyer since you had first laid eyes on him all those years ago. 

He had been the first person your vision had settled upon once you had awoken from a two moon long slumber, the startling contrast of his one blue and one brown eye had your eyelids fluttering open and closed repeatedly, their unusual pairing, as well as his distinct features, had made you believe he was a figment of your imagination.

The soft, amused lines that often creased around his eyes when you would visibly convey your visceral loathing towards a particularly old-fashioned court custom had also deepened as he had aged. 

Whilst you had had your lessons on etiquette, history, and embroidery since you were young, there were many things you did not have the chance to learn before entering the court’s watchful eye, and it was the older prince who took the time to educate you with patience and guidance.

He had confessed to you one spring evening, after two years of being under his care and guidance, that he had always wanted a daughter.

“How many chapters have you completed?” Baelor’s soft timbre wrought you out of your musings, his gaze moving from the words in front of him to your undivided, star-struck stare.

Your head whipped down, opening the book back to where a feather had held your place, and indicated with your fingers how far you had delved before becoming distracted.

“Six?” his brows furrowed, a hand rising to absentmindedly stroke his beard. It was a habit, you had learned long ago, that he did when he was unsatisfied with your progress, “I imagined you would be nearly done by now.”

It was your turn to communicate your disapproval of his excessive expectations with a shrug of your shoulders and a jut of your lower lip. Feeling brave, you pointed at him, made a motion that represented sleeping, and fixed him with an accusatory look.

“My fatigue has no bearing on your studies,”  Baelor responded, his own reading long forgotten as he discarded the scroll on a nearby table. 

“I should confess,” he began suddenly, appearing uneasy, “that there have been some discussions amongst my council concerning your best interests.”

You placed the book beside you, uncaring that you hadn’t marked your place, and leaned forward.

“You are,” Baelor’s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, his digits pressing so harshly into the soft fabric that you were certain there would be residual indents long after he had released his hold on them, “at an age where it would no longer be appropriate for you to remain under my care.”

As though you had eaten expired food, your stomach churned violently; the overwhelming lightheadedness that assaulted your senses made you grateful you were already seated on the floor.

“I have found quite a few amiable suitors, all of which you will have the opportunity to get to know before you make your final decision to.. marry one of them.”

You moved to a kneeling position, the majority of your weight resting on your calves, as you stared at the older man with a betrayed, anguished look on your face.

A desperate wish to speak once more filled your heart, it had been your sole prayer for years, one that you hadn’t silently begged for since the day Baelor told you that you did not need an audible voice to relay a message worthy of being heard. Now, as you were subjugated to his decree, you wished for your voice to return to you with a quiet sob.

“You will be happy,” he spoke gently, “as well as generously taken care of.”

You wanted to confess to him that you longed to remain by his side until the end of your days, listening to his mild complaints concerning the realm all the while gladly completing the reading he would assign you.

Of course, you could send him letters outlining your opinions on the novels you had finished, which would not be much different from how you communicated your thoughts to him presently, but you did not want to be away from him. 

Baelor refused to look at you, his jaw clenching beneath his beard as he revealed that arrangements for you to meet each one of your suitors would be made in the upcoming days.

Distraught, you moved forward, skirts tripping you as you closed the distance between yourself and the man whose decisions you had once obeyed blindly.

When Baelor’s gaze finally returned to yours, your vision was too blurry to notice the glossiness to his own eyes–he was not unaffected by your uncharacteristic outburst.

Desperately, both of your hands grasped at one of his hands, a tingling of sparks traversing up your limbs and settling heavily over your heart at the feel of his calloused, large hand cradled within yours. You could count on one hand the number of times you had touched him since he had found you, most of which had been accidental.

“I will not allow anything to befall you, if that is what burdens your heart,” was Baelor’s strained reply to your hushed cries.

Frantically, you shook your head and bowed your face to kiss the top of his hand, your hold tightening.

“Rise,” Baelor ordered and for the first time since your heart had opened to the older man, you refused to follow his command.

His knuckles against your lips suppressed the sound of your cries; your warm tears flowed freely onto his limb, running down the length of his fingers to collect at the tip of his digits before falling into the chaotic mess of your skirts below.

Baelor spoke your name in a low, pained tone, his available hand moving to push your chin upwards until your tear-stained, puffy face was visible to him once more.

“Do not be afraid, sweet girl,” he offered you a kind smile, one that once would have had your heart racing and stomach fluttering pleasantly.

Now, it evoked unwanted, distressing thoughts.

What if you never saw it again?

“On the morrow, after you have slept on it, you will see that–,”

The older man was cut off by the abrupt collision of your mouth against his parted lips.

Baelor’s startled form remained still when you awkwardly enclosed his upper lip between both of yours, inexperience evident in the clumsiness of your movements.

Less than a beat later, Baelor had moved you backwards with a firm hold on your shoulders, his breath leaving him in quick huffs as the gravity of what you had done hit both him and yourself like a bolt of lightning.

His alarmed expression caused a wave of dread and humiliation to cascade over you, an ice cold pit of regret now replaced the frightened swirl that had afflicted you only moments prior. 

In a flurry of movements, you twisted out of his light grip and fled.

The following weeks were torturous, to say the least.

You silently endured the distance Baelor had created between the two of you, his solar and private library no longer welcoming sanctuaries that you could seek peaceful solitude and warmth within.

Suitors met you and, once you ignored them thoroughly enough, disclosed their reluctance to move forward. 

Initially, each one was more determined than the last to be the one who, if they could not steal your affections, would earn your respect and willingness to form a strategic alliance with their house.

Of course, there were some suitors who believed themself above you, reiterating words you had heard countless times.

“A traitor’s daughter is provided refuge by the very man whose life her father had plotted and treasoned against,” one had said during a stroll of the gardens, “how ironic.”

“If I were the prince, you would not have been shown mercy, of that, I am certain,” another had mumbled underneath a tree after you had accepted his offer to watch the sunset.

The final suitor you would grant your precious time had been the most filthy of his vulgar predecessors.

“Has he tasted you? Is that why he kept you to himself all these years? A silent mouth to fuck?” 

Before you had the time to process his crude allegations, he pressed his unpleasant mouth hard against yours, inciting a startled sound from deep within your chest.

Of its own accord, your hand rose and firmly struck his cheek.

Days later, when you refused to meet another suitor, despite the desperate pleas of your lady’s maids and chaperone, Baelor himself was forced to take matters into his own hands.

“You must be willing,” were the first words he had spoken to you in weeks, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders and heaviness of each step he took, “I had expected you to behave more mature regarding this subject.”

You moved to your desk to scribble several sentences, occasionally stopping to glare up at his patiently waiting form, before holding it out for him to retrieve.

“I do not wish to be married, especially not to a man who is incapable of behaving like a gentleman.” 

Baelor read your words aloud, a grimace tugging at the side of his mouth as he looked at you pointedly, “Who has behaved ungentlemanly towards you?”

You motioned for him to continue reading.

"He kissed me without permission, that is why I struck him."

A livid look passed over Baelor's face before he schooled his expression back into a mask of composed neutrality.

"I was not informed that he behaved in such a manner towards you, but I assure you he will be dealt with."

You reached for a fresh piece of paper to jot down another message before you held it up for him to read from where he stood.

“I will take meeting each suitor more seriously if, and only if, you offer your assistance in the teachings of one, final subject of my choosing.”

“Very well,” Baelor agreed with a tilt of his head, a weight settling over his shoulders as he watched you continue to write.

You hesitated once you finished, placing the stiff quill down firmly as an onslaught of thoughts plagued your mind. Finally, you turned over the note to his outstretched hand, the tip of your finger tingling pleasantly when it brushed against his heated palm.

“I will not marry until you have taught me how to properly and thoroughly–,”

Baelor’s voice cut off, his figure stiffening until you could nearly feel the flustered indignation rolling off of him in waves.

“You cannot be serious.”

When you made no movement to reveal you were jesting, Baelor gave a firm, disapproving shake of his head.

“No,” was his adamant reply.

Immediately, your hand returned to the quill, a hurriedness to each stroke you wrote.

“I have never asked anything of you, except this. I ask for your guidance one last time, on a subject that I wish to be better acquainted with. It is merely a peck that I wish for.”

The look of disbelief and then contemplation that reflected within Baelor’s eyes told you that he was truly considering it.

“A peck?” he questioned, taking a seat on the cushioned chair in the corner of your bedchamber, “Then, you will return to your suitors?"

You could have dislocated your neck from how enthusiastically you nodded, your hands rising to press over your chest as a silent vow to uphold your end of the deal.

He sighed frustratedly, a hand moving to pat the short hairs atop his head downwards.

“Very well,” he held out a ring adorned hand when you bounced over to him, “but as soon as I say stop, you will stop.”

Once more, you nodded your agreement and moved to hunch over his frame.

Baelor stared up at you pensively, his lips tightly pressed together as he waited for you to get this urge out of your system.

As though he were a sacred gift sent directly from the Gods to you, you carefully cradled his face in your hands and leaned forward to plant a light kiss over his tense mouth.

For a moment, neither one of you moved, the cool exhale of his breath tickling the top of your lip. 

You had kept your eyes open because he had, but soon enough your lashes were fluttering until you could no longer hold the heavy weight of your eyelids up.

A low sound left his throat in response to your sigh, his eyes drooping when you cautiously pulled at the flesh of his bottom lip.

Baelor’s mouth parted, wide enough to allow you access to lick the front of his teeth. 

You had spent countless evenings watching them appear and disappear as he read to you; equally having imagined what his tongue would taste and feel like against your own each time it had swiped across his lips to moisten them.

“Stop,” Baelor’s raspy voice entered your ears and settled heavily between your legs, a visible tremor moving across your limbs as he shifted beneath your hold.

Urgently, you held him in place, a secure loop of your arms around his neck as your head turned sideways to press a kiss below his right eye.

“You appear to be–,” you cut him off, tongue swiping at his temple to taste the saltiness of his skin.

A mewl left your throat when you returned to his lips, the messy melding of your mouth against his was unpracticed but willing and desperate to please. 

You were certain he had had past lovers whose skill when it came to something as simple as kissing would put your experience, or rather, lack-of, to shame. However, it did not matter, not now that you had finally fed your desire to know what he tasted like.

A deep noise rumbled through Baelor’s chest, scattering your thoughts into nothing except how he felt.

When you pulled back to regard his face you found his darkened, mismatched eyes already on you, his lips moistened from your spit and reddened from your nibbles.

“Have you had your fill?”

His cropped, dark grey and silvery hair stood in messy clumps atop his head, courtesy of your fingers and their ceaseless tugging. Though, it was the dusky pink hue that coloured the tops of his ears and cheeks that fascinated you.

A sharp intake of air filled Baelor’s lungs when you drew closer, your thumbs caressing the sides of his eyes before you bent to place kisses against the heated flesh of his cheekbones. He exhaled your name unevenly, the huskiness to his voice made it sound like a plea and a prayer mixed into one word.

Would he be upset if you marked his flesh?

Determined to leave a remembrance of this encounter into his skin, you suckled a large, colourful spot into his throat. 

Baelor’s subtle shift of his head, his body instinctively submitting to your ministrations, was all the permission you needed to continue. With a newfound hunger, you returned to his mouth to suck on the wet muscle of his tongue, the suction of your cheeks slipping it further past your lips.

In a lapse of momentary judgement, Baelor pulled you over him, your knees resting comfortably on the cushion below, a calf pressed to either side of his thighs.

The sound of teeth clashing, saliva obscenely mixing, low sighs and deep moans filled the chamber; the lewd combination of noises created a swirl of arousal within your abdomen. 

Baelor’s reluctance to view you as the woman you had gradually grown into under his tutelage was now forgotten as your hips bucked against his thigh, fingers grasping roughly at the coarse hair of his beard to angle his head how you wanted it.

Unthinking, you unlatched your lips from around his tongue and leaned backwards, pulling his face to your neck. 

Baelor’s tongue swiped across the scar that horizontally marked your throat, the sensitive flesh tingling under his attention.

“Sweetling,” he rasped, panting against the marred skin that had once been your most painful insecurity.

His affections were laved heavily over the length of your neck, the stifled murmuring of “I would have never,” was followed by an array of kisses and light nips, and then, “let this happen.”

The underlying insinuation of his words had you pulling him back upwards, your open mouth fitting against his with a frenzied neediness. 

It felt like you could kiss him for days and not feel an ounce of hunger or fatigue.

“Wait–,”

You scarcely heard him over your loud whimpers.

“Sweet girl,” Baelor called, gently pushing you backwards to examine your features and took a shuddering breath at the sight that greeted him; his widened pupils dragged down to lock on the string of spit that still connected your mouth to his, “this has gone on far enough.”

A look of hurt passed over your face, an embarrassed whine bubbling up in your chest when he turned his head to the side when you attempted to kiss him once more.

“You are more than proficient at..” he trailed off, his throat bobbing as he leaned further back, “well, you know.”

Nudging closer, your mouth made contact with his again, a twist of your torso releasing his already loosened hold on your arms.

Baelor’s quiet complaints fell on deaf ears, his lips moving against yours even as he repeatedly assured you that you did not require any more of his teachings.

Haphazardly, your hips continued to shift against his firm thigh, the feeling of your wet core dragging against the heat of his limb proved to be too much when you felt the quickly approaching tendrils of a release begin to wash over you. The scorching temperature of his leg somehow seeped through the layers that separated the both of you, his hands moving to help you find your completion despite the occasional murmurs of protests he exhaled against the skin of your burning cheeks, extended throat, and swollen lips.

“Baelor,” you struggled to stutter aloud, his name was barely discernible and strange on your heavy tongue, but his head snapped up at the sound of it regardless.

An indecipherable look spanned across his face, his heated, wide hands rising to cradle your face. 

Baelor leaned forward, his hesitancy forgotten as he assisted you with reaching your peak. 

He lifted his solid thigh to press more snugly between your legs, the strength of it sending wisps of pleasure that began at your core and dispersed throughout each of your limbs left you malleable above him.

During the onslaught of pleasure, you would later recall your lips returning to his, the depth of his open mouth swallowing your cries of ecstasy to replace them with guttural groans of his own.

Baelor’s lips moved down to your throat a final time, licking at it over and over again until the skin felt raw and tender beneath his care; he lapped at it as though he could replace the large scar that rested there with an even more noticeable one of his own making.

Dark spots danced around the edges of your peripheral, their size growing until your vision was rapidly tunneling. 

Your hips ceased their movements as a blanket of satiated bliss enveloped you; your limbs weightless and tingly in the aftermath of your release.

The Small Council chamber was empty now, Valarr long gone, the candles guttering in their sconces. Baelor remained where he was, slumped in the chair at the head of the table. He had agreed, surrendering the only woman he had ever truly loved to his own son.

The next morning arrived with a cruelty that only the gods could devise. The sky above King's Landing was a bruised, overcast grey, weeping a cold, persistent rain that drummed against the slate roofs of the Red Keep. Inside the Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and heavy incense, trying valiantly to mask the smell of wet wool and damp stone. The seven-sided crystal fractured the meagre light into weak, intermittent rainbows that danced across the stone floor, but there was no warmth in them.

Baelor stood at the front, shrouded in the shadows. From his vantage point he could see everything, yet he felt entirely removed from it, as if he were watching a play performed on a distant stage.

You stood before the altar looking like a vision woven from starlight and silk. Your gown was crimson, heavy with intricate embroidery that glittered subtly with every breath you took. Valarr stood beside you, resplendent in black and crimson, the silver streak in his hair catching the candlelight. He looked at you with open, adoring intensity that made Baelor's stomach turn.

"I am yours," Valarr said, his voice ringing out clear and strong, trembling only slightly with the sheer force of his emotion. "And you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days. I promise to shield you from harm, to cherish you, and to love you with all that I am."

Baelor watched Valarr's face. There was no hesitation there, just the pure, unadulterated love of a boy who believed he had won the greatest prize in the world. It shattered something inside Baelor to watch it.

You turned to face the septon. You were smiling, but Baelor saw the tension in your shoulders, the slight nervous flutter of your hands at your sides. You repeated the vows, your voice softer, melodic. You meant it, in your way. You were committing to this life, to this man, to the duty Baelor had forced upon you.

When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Valarr did not wait. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands gently, and kissed you; a deep, passionate claim of your mouth, right there in front of the High Septon, the court, and the gods.

It felt like hell to Baelor. He turned away before the kiss broke, unable to stomach the sight of you belonging to another, unable to watch the life he should have had unfold before his eyes like a nightmare he could not wake from.

The festivities in the Great Hall were an overwhelming mix of noise and colour that neither of you truly wanted. Forgoing the bedding ceremony had been an easy decision; neither Valarr nor you had any desire to turn your intimacy into a drunken spectacle. You retired to your chambers early, the heavy door closing out the rest of the world.

The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and a dozen candles scattered across the tables. A vast bed draped in heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the linens crisp and white at the centre. Valarr stood by the fire looking at you with a mix of adoration and nervousness.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," Valarr whispered, crossing the room to you. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I want to make you happy."

You looked at him, seeing the man who was now your husband. "I know you will, Valarr," you said softly, covering his hand with yours.

He undressed you with agonising slowness, treating every layer of silk and lace like sacred wrapping paper. When you stood before him in nothing but your shift, he did not rush. Instead he led you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were made of porcelain.

Valarr was a fast learner, his enthusiasm tempered by a desperate need to please. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, listening to the sharp intakes of your breath and guiding his movements by your soft gasps. When he settled between your thighs he looked up at you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Tell me," he urged, his voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

He pushed inside, groaning against your lips. It was pleasant, warm and vigorous and full of a youthful stamina that lasted longer than you expected. You met his thrusts, your body responding to the friction and the heat, finding a release that left you panting and trembling beneath him.

Valarr followed shortly after, spending inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, holding you tightly as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

He murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. "My wife."

Within minutes his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his leg tangled possessively between yours. He was out, exhausted by the emotional and physical exertion of the day.

You lay in the dark, staring up at the velvet canopy above. A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, sliding hot and wet down your temple and into your hair. Then another. You did not make a sound, just let them fall, tracking silently through the dampness on your face.

As you lay there in the circle of Valarr's arms, the reality of it settled over you all at once. Baelor would never hold you like this again.

You thought about the secret passages, the stolen moments, and the way Baelor's hands felt on your skin. You thought about what it would have meant to simply leave, to refuse the marriage, to take your son and go somewhere no one knew your name. You imagined a life where you chose yourself, where you chose love over duty. You cried because you hated this life, because you had done everything right and still felt as though you were dying inside.

On the other side of the Red Keep, in a chamber that felt too large and too quiet, Baelor knelt on the cold stone floor. He was still wearing his doublet, the fabric chafing against his throat, but he could not move to take it off. He felt paralysed, trapped in a moment of grief so profound it threatened to tear him apart.

The thought of you in Valarr's bed, Valarr's hands on your skin, Valarr's lips on your mouth, it was all too much. For the first time in his adult life, Baelor Targaryen wept. He wept for the woman he loved, for the son he had lost to his own selfishness, and for the crushing, unbearable reality in which he existed in a world where you were not his.

The weeks that followed were a slow, agonising march through grey. Baelor kept his word. He did not speak to you or seek you out, effectively erasing himself from your life with the same discipline he applied to his governance, but it cost him dearly.

He saw you, of course. One afternoon, as he exited the Small Council chamber, there you were standing in the corridor ahead, waiting for your father or perhaps for Valarr. You were dressed in deep red velvet, the colour bringing out the brightness of your eyes, which softened at the sight of him.

"Baelor."

He opened his mouth and took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself.

"Father?"

The voice was sharp, clipped from behind him. Valarr strode past, moving with a purposeful aggression that made the air around them vibrate. He did not look at Baelor as he walked to you.

"How fortunate am I," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "to have such a beautiful wife who comes to visit me!"

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed your cheek, a lingering press of lips that was as much a performance for Baelor as it was an affection for you. "Come, my love. I have something to show you."

You allowed yourself to be led, but you turned your head back over your shoulder, eyes locking onto Baelor's in a silent communication; a mixture of regret, longing, and sadness.

Valarr noticed the look. He said nothing, only tightening his arm around you and steering you away as he glared at his father.

Baelor stood alone in the corridor. He could not remember what he had been doing, where he had been headed. He retreated to the solace of his solar, where he spent the rest of the day replaying that moment in the hall, replaying the argument with Valarr. I should have fought harder, he thought, the mantra looping in his mind until his head throbbed. I should have fought for her.

Not that his agreement with Valarr's terms helped bridge the chasm between them. Valarr hated him. The betrayal was still fresh, a festering wound in Valarr's mind. He did not know if he would ever forgive his father, and he made no effort to hide it. But being near you, loving you, and being loved by you in return made the burden easier to carry. You were his balm, his reward.

Yet the insecurity gnawed at him, a rat in the walls of his happiness. He tried to suppress it, tried to accept that you were with him, but he could not shake the feeling. Every time he looked at you he wondered if you were comparing him. When he touched you he wondered if his hands felt as skilled as his father's. When he lay with you, driving into your body with desperate intensity, he wondered if you were closing your eyes and imagining Baelor.

His single-minded focus became the one thing he could give you that his father never could: a child. He wanted to see your belly swell with his seed, to create a life that was undeniably yours together. It would be the only part of you that was just for him, a legacy untainted by the memories of his father's touch.

He came to you every night, sometimes twice, worshipping your body, trying to erase every trace of the past with his own passion. "Let me give you a child," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with need. "Let me give you a son."

You, for your part, were an eager and willing participant. You wanted the family, the stability, the distraction. You wanted to give Valarr what he needed so he would stop looking at you like you might disappear at any moment.

Baelor, meanwhile, was desperate for some semblance of peace in his home. He was in pain, a constant, dull ache that radiated from his chest. His heart was broken, his mind a mess of regret and what-ifs.

He finally did the one thing he had avoided for weeks. He sent a request to Jena's chambers.

She arrived, her posture stiff, her eyes guarded. She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him not with anger but with a cool, detached curiosity. It was worse than her rage.

"I was wrong," Baelor said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He did not know where to start, so he started with the truth. "I was a fool. I was arrogant and cruel, and I used you. I used our son as a pawn in my own selfish game."

He looked down at his hands. "I am sorry, Jena. For the affair. For the callousness. For making you feel less than you are. You were right about everything." He broke down, his composure cracking as he sat there, stripped of his pride, waiting for her judgment.

Jena watched him. She saw the genuine remorse in the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked. She knew he was saying this because he was lonely, because you were gone, because he had lost his son. But it did not change the fact that she still had love for him, buried beneath layers of resentment. She sighed, a long, weary sound.

"Forgiveness will take time, Baelor. But I am willing to try."

It was not a triumph, but it was a start.

A month later, the family gathered for a small, private dinner in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was cautiously civil. Jena sat at Baelor's side, close enough that their elbows brushed on the table. Valarr sat at the foot with you beside him.

Valarr stood, looking full of pride and happiness, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.

"We have news," Valarr announced, his voice trembling with excitement. "My spectacular wife is with child."

A gasp went around the table. Baelor felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at you; glowing, your hand resting gently on your stomach, a soft, serene smile on your lips. You looked completely, utterly happy, as though you had everything you had ever wanted.

"Congratulations," your father boomed, beaming. "That is wonderful news."

He looked down at your son, Theo, a boy of two years, running around the table with a toy dragon in his hand, oblivious to the commotion. "And you, young man! Are you excited to be a brother?"

Theo did not even pause. He lifted the toy high in the air, roaring at the top of his lungs, completely ignoring the question. He continued running until Valarr caught him, lifting him and placing a kiss on top of his head.

Baelor sat frozen, the excitement of the room fading into the background. Under the table, hidden by the linen cloth, Jena's warm, soft hand covered his. She squeezed his fingers tight, offering him silent comfort in the midst of his torment. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the life drain out of him, listening to the sound of his son's happiness and knowing it was built on the ruins of his own.

The seasons turned within the Red Keep, the stone walls absorbing the shifting temperatures and the relentless passage of time. The initial, brittle peace that had settled over the royal apartments after your pregnancy announcement began to wear thin, not through any great catastrophe, but through the friction of daily existence. Marriage, you discovered, was not merely the grand gestures witnessed in the sept or the desperate passions of the wedding night; it was the mundane, grating reality of shared space.

You and Valarr argued, no different from any other newly married couple learning the painful geometry of two lives intersecting, yet the air between you always seemed to hold a charge, a lingering voltage from the secrets you kept. One afternoon a disagreement regarding the education of your son escalated into a shouting match that left the nursemaid hovering nervously in the corridor. Valarr's voice, usually so measured in public, cracked with frustration as he paced the rug, his hands gesturing sharply. You stood your ground by the hearth, your chin lifted, eyes flashing.

But when the shouting faded, there was always the aftermath. Valarr would inevitably cross the room to you, his anger draining away to leave him looking boyish and apologetic. He would pull you into an embrace, burying his face in your neck, and you would soften, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You loved each other. It was a complicated, knotted love, tangled with duty and jealousy, but it was real.

As the new year bloomed, the atmosphere in the castle shifted from domestic friction to a heavy dread. Jena fell ill. It began simply enough; a persistent cough that rattled in her chest and a fatigue that kept her abed longer than usual. But the weeks wore on, and her strength did not return.

Baelor became a fixture at her bedside. He sat for hours, reading to her in a low, steady voice or simply providing her company. In those long, quiet weeks, the distance that had yawned between them for years seemed to close. They spoke of things long buried; memories of their children when they were small, the scandals of courts past, the simple, mundane absurdities of royal life. It was not the passionate love of ballads, nor was it the all-consuming fire he felt for you, but it was warm, steady, and comfortable. He found that he liked her, this woman who had borne his children and endured his silences. She was funny, in a dry, sardonic way he had never noticed before, and she was kind, more so than he deserved.

One evening, as the light outside the window bled into a bruised purple, Jena woke from a restless sleep, her breathing a raspy, whistling sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room. Baelor leaned forward, taking her frail hand in his.

"Valarr," she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.

"He is outside," Baelor said softly. "He will not enter while I am here."

She closed her eyes, a faint, tired frown touching her lips. "He is so much like you. So proud. He holds his anger like a shield."

Baelor squeezed her fingers. "He has reason."

Her eyes opened again, fixing him with a look that cut through his defences. "You hold onto your guilt. It is drowning you, Baelor."

He looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. "I have made unforgivable mistakes."

"What is done is done. You must forgive him, and you must forgive yourself."

Baelor looked back at her and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

She squeezed his hand weakly. "Good. Now, help me sit up. Then call the boys inside."

Jena died the next morning.

Baelor had not known there was more room for sadness, but his heart expanded to accommodate it. The realisation of what he had lost in the quiet moments of reconciliation came too late.

The funeral was a blur of condolences, black, and smoke. Baelor stood at the front, Valarr and Matarys on either side of him. Valarr was pale and stony as he stared straight ahead, fixed on the pyre, as if willing the world to stop turning.

He remembered his final conversation with Jena. She was beautiful, bright, and entirely focused on his comfort and wellbeing even at the end. He had always assumed his mother would always be there, perhaps taken her presence for granted; now there was only silence. Valarr felt your hand slip into his and squeezed hard. He needed your strength.

Inside your chambers afterwards, the silence was absolute. Valarr stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his back rigid. You watched him for a moment, seeing the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and walked over to him slowly, not touching him yet, just standing close enough that he would know you were there.

"She is gone," Valarr said, his voice cracking on the words. He did not turn around. "She is really gone."

"I know."

It was as if those two words broke the dam. Valarr turned, and the mask shattered. He reached for you with a clumsy movement and collapsed in your arms. You caught him, wrapping your arms around him as his knees gave way, sinking with him to the floor.

He sobbed into your shoulder, a sound deep and wrenching that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones; weeping for the mother who had smoothed his hair and bandaged his knees, for the voice that had soothed his nightmares and sung him lullabies, for the unconditional love that had now passed. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, letting him pour his sorrow out into the fabric of your gown. There were no words for this. You just anchored him, your presence a steady, silent promise that you would not let him drift away.

After a long time the sobbing slowed, turning into ragged, uneven breaths. Valarr pulled back slightly, his face puffy and red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

"You are all I have."

You reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You have your father," you said gently. "He grieves with you."

Valarr looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and nodded. "I know." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, drawing strength from your breath against his skin. Then he stood, pulling you up with him. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, grateful press of lips, before straightening his tunic and squaring his shoulders. He looked like a prince again, albeit a battered one.

He found Baelor in the solar the next evening, sitting behind the massive desk that seemed too large for one man. The room was dark, lit only by a few tapers and the dying embers in the grate. Baelor was staring at a book but he was not reading it. He looked up when Valarr entered, his eyes guarded and weary.

"Father." The word was awkward and heavy.

Baelor stood slowly. "Valarr."

Valarr took a deep breath. "I do not wish to be at war with you. It is too much, and, mother hated it." He paused. "I shall not apologise for what I said to you. I was right."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know."

"But," Valarr continued, his voice softening slightly, "I wish to move forward."

When Baelor opened his eyes, the gratitude in them was clear. It stripped away the years, the titles, the grievances, leaving only a father looking at his son. "I would like that," Baelor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would like that very much."

The scars from the past remained, but this was a beginning. They spoke then, haltingly at first, then with more ease.

Weeks melted into months, and the heavy cloak of mourning began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of new life as your time drew near. The labour was long and arduous, a test of endurance that lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning. You gritted your teeth, sweat beading on your forehead, hands crushing the linens. Valarr paced outside the room like a caged beast, his face a mask of terrified helplessness.

Baelor arrived with Matarys shortly after. He saw his son, wild-eyed and frantic.

"The birth can take hours," Baelor said. "You must prepare yourself for the wait."

The hours dragged on, marked only by the shifting of the guard and the occasional muffled cry from within the room. Baelor watched Valarr, seeing the terror in his posture, and remembered his own fears when Valarr and Matarys were born.

When the child finally came, he let out a squall that shook the rafters; a strong, healthy sound.

The door opened and a midwife stepped out, her apron stained but her face beaming. She curtsied low. "My princes! You have a son!"

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. He did not wait for an invitation; he pushed past the midwife and into the room.

You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but your eyes were fixed on the bundle being placed in your arms. He was perfect, small, squinting against the light, but as he settled, the features became clear.

A tuft of stark white hair crowned his head. He opened his eyes, and you drew in a breath. One eye was a deep, shining lilac, the other a clear, bright blue. He was all Valarr, and yet entirely his own person.

Valarr approached the bed with hesitant steps, his eyes wide. When you gently transferred the bundle into his arms, the transformation in him was instantaneous. He looked down at the child with complete awe.

"Hello," he whispered, his voice trembling. He touched the infant's cheek with a single finger, like the boy might break. The baby shifted, yawning, and Valarr let out a choked laugh. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his face unchecked. "Welcome to the world, Jenaerys."

You smiled, brushing the white hair back from the baby's forehead.

Baelor stood in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on this moment of triumph for his son. But Valarr looked up and saw him, nodded, stepping aside slightly; an invitation.

Valarr gently passed the infant to his grandfather. Baelor took the child, supporting the tiny head with his large hand. He looked down at the newborn, and all he saw was you.

The delicate curve of your nose, the shape of the mouth, the sweet bow of the lips that were yours. It was as if you had taken your own features and breathed life into them, gifting them to this child.

This was the son he would never have with you.

Baelor lifted his head, his gaze moving from the baby to you. You lay against the pillows, smiling at him. It was a soft, knowing smile, full of understanding and shared sadness.

He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down his throat. He looked back at the baby, then at you again.

"You did well," Baelor said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of everything he could not say.

The year that followed the birth of the new prince settled into a rhythm that felt almost like forgiveness.

Valarr moved through the halls with a new centre of gravity. The sharp, frantic edge that had defined him, the desperate need to prove, to possess, to secure, had dulled into a steady, quiet confidence. He spent his available hours in the nursery, looking down at the boy with a look of utter disbelief, as if the child were a miracle he had conjured from the air itself. He leaned down to nuzzle the baby's stomach, eliciting a squeal of delight.

From his spot by the window, Theo watched the interaction. He crossed his small arms, huffing. "He just sleeps," the boy complained, his voice high and petulant. "He does not play anything."

Valarr chuckled, a low, warm sound. He reached out a hand, beckoning him closer. "Give him time, little lord. Soon he will be chasing you, stealing your toys, and generally making a nuisance of himself. You shall miss the quiet."

Your son approached reluctantly, but when Valarr ruffled his hair, he leaned into the touch. Valarr's affection was not divided; it multiplied. He looked at the dark-haired boy with the same fierce adoration he held for the infant, bridging the gap of blood with sheer will and love.

It was harder than Baelor had anticipated to step back, to watch you build this life with his son while he remained on the periphery. But he forced the feelings down, burying them under layers of duty and familial affection. This peace was too fragile to risk. He had his sons, he had these perfect grandsons, and he had you in this new, purified light; as a daughter, a friend, a fixture of his life that he could admire from a careful distance. This, he told himself as the sun dipped below the walls of the Keep, was a good life. It was not the life he had dreamed of in the quiet hours of the night, but it was a life he could endure, and even enjoy, because you were safe within it.

The peace was shattered at Ashford.

The tournament was meant to be a display of chivalry and sport, but soon turned to malice. The Trial of Seven was a chaotic mess of steel and mud, a melee of honour that turned brutal. When the dust finally settled, the crowd's roar died in their throats.

Baelor had fallen.

He did not die, though the Seven seemed to toy with the idea. A blow from a heavy mace, wielded in the heat of the moment by his own brother Maekar, had struck him squarely. The Prince of Dragonstone lay motionless.

Three days passed agonisingly slowly. The castle of Ashford became a tomb of silence. Maekar paced the corridors, his face gaunt, his hands trembling whenever they were still. Valarr sat by the window in your shared chambers, staring out at the tourney grounds now empty of revellers. He spoke little, but the fear radiated off him like heat. He was not ready to be an orphan. The thought of facing Matarys and telling him their father was gone was unbearable.

You moved through the days like a ghost, your body present but your mind trapped in the sickroom, imagining the worst.

On the third night, the castle slept. The torches in the hallways burned low, and you lay in bed beside Valarr, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but sleep continued to evade you. You did not care about propriety or if a guard saw you or what the court would whisper. You just needed to see him.

Baelor's sickroom was guarded by a single drowsy sentry, who stepped aside at the sight of your determined face. Inside, the air smelled of valerian root, feverfew, and the copper tang of dried blood.

Baelor lay in the centre of the large bed, looking smaller than he had any right to. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his tanned skin. His breathing was shallow, a faint rise and fall of his chest that seemed to require all his strength.

You moved to the chair beside the bed and sank into it. The sight of him, a man usually so vibrant and strong, reduced to this, broke something loose inside you. A sob tore from your throat as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound, but tears spilled over uncontrollably.

You remembered the way he looked at you in the Kingswood, the way he held your son, the sound of his voice saying your name like a prayer. You remembered the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, the safety you had felt in his arms. It was clear in that moment that you loved him still.

"Please," you whispered, leaning over him, your tears dripping onto his tunic. "Baelor, do not leave me."

You pressed your lips to his cheek. It was dry and cold, the stubble rough against your soft skin. "I love you." You kissed him again; a firm, lingering press on his lips, pouring every ounce of your love and your regret into that contact. You did not want to be a princess or a wife. You just wanted him to be alive.

Exhaustion eventually claimed you. You leaned forward, resting your head on the edge of the mattress, right beside his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him as you fell asleep.

The first thing Baelor truly saw when he opened his eyes was long hair and soft skin.

The pain in his head was a blinding, splitting agony, a white-hot spike driven through his temple. He groaned, trying to move, but his body felt heavy, disconnected.

He turned his head slightly, and his breath caught.

You were asleep, your head resting on his chest. For a moment, Baelor was certain he had died. This surely was the Stranger's final mercy, a vision of heaven's most beautiful angel keeping vigil beside him before the end.

He stared at you, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering in sleep and the soft parting of your lips. He missed all of this; the warmth of you near him, the smell of your hair, the quiet intimacy of just breathing the same air as you.

You stirred, your eyes heavy with sleep fluttering open and focusing on him. For a heartbeat, the world held only the two of you. A slow, tired smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

"My heart," he breathed, his voice a dry rasp.

The sound of his voice shattered the spell. You scrambled backward, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. You felt as if you could not breathe. The intimacy of the moment, the love you saw in his eyes, it was too much.

"I must fetch the maesters."

You turned and fled the room, rushing into the corridor. "Maester! Help! The prince is awake!"

"Wait," Baelor tried to say, reaching for you, but his strength failed him. He watched the empty doorway where you had stood, the warmth of your presence already fading into the cold morning air. He closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of heaven snatched away, leaving him with only the pain in his skull and the hollow ache in his chest.

You returned to your own chambers, drained and hollowed out by the night's vigil and the emotional whiplash of seeing him awake. Valarr was waiting, fully dressed, though the sun had barely risen. He turned as you entered, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks.

He looked devastated.

"I woke to find you absent from our bed," he said. "I went to check on my father, and found you there." He took a step closer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I give you, you continue to carry a torch for him."

"Valarr."

"Do you wish you were his wife instead of mine?"

Something inside you snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the years of walking on eggshells; it all rose up. "I am sick of this, Valarr. Why must I continuously prove myself to you?"

He began to speak, but you cut him off, raising a hand. "I am married to you, and I am happy. I carried your child. Let this go." You took a breath, your gaze steady on his. "You have already lost your mother. Do you truly wish to spend your life hating your father and looking for betrayal where there is none? You must forgive him, truly, because you are poisoning our marriage by carrying this resentment."

His composure crumbled. His hands began to shake as he closed the distance between you, taking your hands in his. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I did not mean it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to him."

You squeezed his hands, your own anger softening. "You will never lose me, Valarr." You leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I love you."

That was the truth. You loved the man he was, the father he was to your children. But in the quiet, secret chambers of your heart, you knew there was more. His close brush with death had shown you that you were far from over Baelor. You would always, always love him. But you had made your choice, and that choice was Valarr.

Weeks later, the family returned to King's Landing, but the respite was short-lived. King Daeron II passed away peacefully in his sleep, and the weight of the crown descended upon Baelor's head. He moved through the ceremonies with grace, but inside he felt entirely unready. He had not been able to speak a private word with you since the tournament, since the morning he had woken to find you and then lost you to the chaos. For three years, Baelor tried to forget you, to smother the fire of his feelings. He failed. The familial peace he had forced himself to accept felt like a prison now. He wanted to tell you he loved you still, to apologise for what he had done, to apologise for not marrying you himself.

His opportunity came on a warm afternoon, several days after his coronation. Baelor saw you slip out of the main hall, moving toward the gardens. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs, and followed, keeping his distance as he rehearsed his words in his head. You moved quickly, with purpose, disappearing around a turn. He turned a corner, the anticipation rising in his throat, and stopped dead. You were there, but you were not alone.

Baelor could only watch as you stepped into Valarr's arms, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He watched as Valarr tilted your chin up and kissed you; a kiss full of a tender, possessive love that Baelor had never been able to claim publicly. He saw the way Valarr held you, as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. This was a tableau of love, of a bond that was living and breathing, while his own love was a ghost that haunted the halls. Seeing you like that, a perfect, united whole, made him feel utterly foolish, pining for a woman who was clearly, irrevocably happy in the arms of another.

His heart broke again. He shook his head slowly, the bitterness of regret rising in his throat as he turned around and walked away.

Baelor, hurt and quietly jealous, could not protest later that week when Valarr announced that he would be taking you and the children to Dragonstone, putting an entire sea between you and Baelor.

"Of course," Baelor said, his voice betraying none of the storm within him. "If you think it best."

The year on Dragonstone had worn the sharp edges from your life, smoothing it into contentment. In the nursery, the air was warm and close. Valarr sat on the floor, his long legs folded beneath him, a position he endured without complaint for the sake of his audience.

"And so the brave knight defeated the evil wizard and saved his kingdom."

Theo, at five years old, sat cross-legged directly before his father, his chin resting on his fists. His dark eyes were wide with concentration. "I want to be a knight, Papa!"

Valarr smiled. "You will be a great one."

Jenaerys was not so captivated by the story. He toddled to the heavy wooden chest in the corner, his small hands patting against the iron hinges. "Open," he demanded, his brow furrowed with effort.

"No more toys; it is time for sleeping," you said from the rocking chair near the fire. You shifted your weight, the familiar ache of your back a gentle reminder of the new life growing within you. In your arms, your newest babe, Baelon stirred. He was just learning to sit up on his own, a wobbly, determined effort, but the cadence of his father's voice was lulling him into sleep. His head lolled against your chest, his breaths coming in soft, even puffs against your skin.

You watched Valarr, your heart swelling. He was a patient storyteller and a better father, weaving tales of conquest and dragons, teaching his sons where they came from in the very heart of their ancestral home. He met your gaze over Theo's head, and the look you shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was your life, your fortress, built not of stone but of shared moments and the small, perfect bodies of your children.

Jenaerys, having given up on the chest, ambled back over and plopped down onto Valarr's outstretched leg, babbling a string of tired words that he clearly believed were a vital contribution to the narrative. Valarr did not miss a beat, simply resting a hand on his son's back and continuing the story.

You looked down at Baelon, fast asleep, and ran a thumb over his soft cheek, then let your hand drift down to rest on your own stomach. The subtle, rounded swell was still a secret shared only between you and Valarr. You had always wanted a large family, and the gods were being generous.

Back in your chambers, the fire had been built up, chasing away the evening chill. You sat on the edge of the large bed, watching as Valarr poured two cups of wine and handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours.

"Have you been feeling well?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Quite well, you need not worry." You tilted your head back to look at him. "Although this house is becoming rather overrun with men. A mother needs an ally."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that a hint, my lady?"

"One more son and I shall be completely overwhelmed."

Valarr's hand spread wider over your belly as he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "This one," he whispered, his voice filled with certainty, "is a daughter. I can feel it."

A thousand miles away, in the oppressive, perfumed air of the Red Keep's council chamber, Baelor sat at the head of the polished table, irritated.

"Must we discuss this once more? Valarr is my heir. The line is secure."

"A king needs a queen, Your Grace," another lord ventured, a plumper man who dabbed at his brow with a silk square. "For companionship. For counsel. You should not be so, solitary."

The word solitary struck a nerve. Solitary was his bedchamber at night, vast and empty. It was the long walk from the throne room back to his apartments, his footsteps echoing in a silence that seemed designed to mock him. He was a king surrounded by thousands, and he had never been more alone.

He thought of you; a constant, living presence in the hollow spaces of his life. The sound of your voice. The way your eyes would light up with a mischievous spark just before you said something daring. The feel of your hand in his, a perfect fit. How could he ever take another woman to his bed? The very idea was a betrayal of a truth that lived in his bones.

"I have no need for a queen."

The council, as expected, did not relent. They sent ladies to him. Each encounter left him more certain, more hollowed out as he compared them all to you, and not a single one could measure; not in grace, not in beauty, not in the fierce, loyal heart he knew so well. He gave up the charade, retreating further into the solitude of his duty.

His only solace was the raven that arrived from Dragonstone every fortnight. Valarr's letters detailed the boys' antics, your health, and matters of governance. Each letter was a taste of the life he had exiled himself from, a life that contained you. He missed your family terribly. He missed the sound of Valarr's voice, the sight of his grandsons, and you.

The city is too quiet, he wrote. Your brother and I would have it filled with your presence again. Come home.

The days in King's Landing unfolded like a dream, a brilliant, sun-drenched respite from the shadows of your past. The Red Keep, once a place of stifling formality and whispered anxieties, now echoed with the unrestrained laughter of children. Jenaerys had discovered the perfect kingdom for his games. The gardens were a sprawling wilderness of hedges and statues, the corridors a labyrinth of hiding places just his size. He took particular glee in darting away from his nursemaids, a flash of a child disappearing behind a stone gargoyle or a curtain of heavy velvet. The servants would flurry, their calls growing increasingly frantic, only for him to emerge with a triumphant grin from behind a curtain or the top of something he had no business climbing. He was a whirlwind of joyful mischief, and his energy was infectious.

Where Jenaerys was action, Theo was inquiry. He followed the maesters around like a duckling, his small finger pointing at everything. His curiosity was boundless, his wide eyes taking in every detail with a sweet, serious concentration that charmed everyone he met.

And then there was your infant son, a cooing, gurgling centre of gravity. He was passed from adoring arms to adoring arms. The septas, the couriers, the guards; all were utterly captivated. But no one was more captivated than his grandfather.

Baelor was transformed. In your time away, he had become stern, but that melted away, replaced by a man who was content to participate in all the silly antics the children required of him. Watching them, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was what you had always wanted for them; the joy of being children, knowing they were loved, living in a place filled with laughter. You allowed yourself to hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, that these days could stretch into forever.

Evenings, however, belonged to you and Valarr.

The hustle of the court faded behind the doors of your bedchamber. You brushed out your hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing after a long day of managing the children and court life. You watched Valarr in the looking glass. He had changed in the year you had been away. The bitterness that used to cling to him like a second skin had sloughed off, leaving behind a man who was confident, devoted, and utterly at peace with his world.

He turned, catching your eye in the reflection. A slow, tender smile curved his lips.

"You are staring, my lady," Valarr murmured, coming up behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.

"And if I am?" You leaned back into his touch, tilting your head to rest against his chest. "I have much to look at."

He chuckled and turned you around, lifting you easily to sit atop the vanity table.

"I missed this," Valarr whispered, his voice dropping an octave, roughening with that familiar edge of desire. "I missed the quiet. Just you and I."

"As did I," you breathed, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "The boys are happy here. It is good to see."

"It is," he agreed, though his focus was entirely on your mouth. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours; a tease, a promise. "I have been neglecting my wife."

"You have been busy being a prince," you countered, your breath hitching as his hand moved from your waist to the laces of your nightgown.

"Tonight I am just your husband."

He kissed you then. You parted your lips, welcoming the sweep of his tongue, the tang of the wine he had drunk at dinner still lingering on him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardening length of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.

Valarr groaned into your mouth, lifting you from the vanity without breaking the kiss. He carried you to the bed, laying you down against the crisp linens. He followed you down, settling his weight between your thighs, pressing you into the mattress. The heat of him was overwhelming, a furnace that chased away the chill of the night.

"I love you," he rasped, pulling back to look you in the eye. His gaze was intense. "Everything I am, everything I have; it is for you."

Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer volume of emotion swelling inside you. "I love you, Valarr. More than life."

Valarr shifted, laying you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. The nightgown was a flimsy barrier, and he made quick work of it, his hands sliding the fabric up your thighs, over your hips, until he could pull it over your head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your skin, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace. He looked at you; your heavy breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs, with a worshipful hunger that never failed to undo you.

He shed his own clothes quickly, and then he was skin against skin, all hard muscle and heat. He settled between your legs, not entering you yet, just rocking against your slick folds, teasing you both. "You feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "So perfect."

"Please, Valarr," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you."

He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours. He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and guided the head to your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, inch by agonising inch, stretching you open until he was seated to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite; you could feel him in your very core.

You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even deeper.

He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stole your sanity. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession. His hands found yours, their fingers lacing together, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. He kissed you then; a deep, filthy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. The pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of your bodies filling the room. You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, leaving red furrows in his skin. He did not flinch; he just drove into you harder, with a desperate, frantic energy.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His arms banded around you as he continued to drive into you. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach threatening to snap. He must have felt it too. He lifted his head again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. "Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Come for me."

His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and your release crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made you cry out his name. Your cunt clenched around him, rippling and spasming, and with a hoarse shout he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spent inside you, a hot, flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his heart hammering against your ribs.

You lay tangled together, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks, the firelight casting long shadows on the wall. It was a perfect night, a perfect moment of connection and love. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly complete.

The dream was not long for this world, however, ending with the arrival of the Spring Sickness.

It came on the winds from Flea Bottom, a whisper at first, then a roar. The city was awash with a cruel, efficient plague that showed no deference to rank or coin. The lowborn died in their gutters, the highborn in their silken beds. The Red Keep, an impenetrable fortress for armies, proved no defence for this invisible enemy.

The first blow landed hard. Matarys, a boy of barely seventeen with his father's kind eyes and his mother's fiery spirit, took sick. It was a swift, brutal illness. One day he was complaining of a headache; the next he was burning with a fever that no maester could break, his body wracked with chills so violent his teeth chattered constantly. He died three days later, his young body simply giving out.

Then Valarr fell ill.

It started with a weariness he could not shake. Then the fever came. He lay in the sick bed, far from the place of your perfect night, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the roaring fire. His skin was pale and waxy, pulled taut over the sharp bones of his face. He looked like a stranger, a beautiful, broken effigy of the man you loved.

You never left his side. You sponged his burning skin with cool water, forced water and broth between his cracked lips, and prayed. You prayed to the Seven, to the old gods, to any god who would listen. You bargained, you wept, you promised anything, everything, just for him to overcome this. But the gods had turned their faces away.

On the fourth day, he woke. His eyes were hazy with fever, but they found yours. "My love," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

Your heart clenched. "I am here. I am right here."

"Bring the children to me, please."

Your first instinct was to refuse, to protect them from this, from the sight of their father so broken. But the look in his eyes was desperate. You nodded, sending a guard, and moments later a nurse led the three children into the room.

Valarr struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort, as you piled pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard. He looked terrible, but a weak smile touched his lips as his sons were lifted onto the bed.

Theo, ever the observant one, stayed at the foot of the bed, his small face etched with a confusion that was close to fear. "Papa? Are you sick?"

"I am a little tired," Valarr managed, his voice thin. He held out a trembling hand. "Come here."

Theo crept forward and took his father's hand. Jenaerys, less understanding, simply plopped down onto the mattress, patting Valarr clumsily. "Papa," he babbled, happy and entirely unaware.

Valarr's smile widened, a genuine, heartbreaking thing. He pulled the children close, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads. He looked at his beautiful boys, their bright, innocent eyes, and then his gaze shifted to you, to the gentle swell of your stomach, and the sleeping baby in your arms. He looked at his entire world, gathered in this room, and it was more than enough. It was everything.

Valarr held them for as long as he could, his strength fading fast. Then, with a sigh, he spoke. "Be good for your mother and cause no trouble, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Papa." Both boys said it together.

"Never forget, you are my sons, and I love you."

The nurse gently took the boys away, their cheerful ignorance a stark contrast to the crushing dread that filled the room. You knew this was a farewell. He placed a trembling hand on your belly, the touch so light you barely felt it.

His eyes fluttered closed, his body sinking back against the pillows. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, until the candle guttered out and the room was plunged into darkness. You must have fallen asleep, because you woke with a start, the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You reached for his hand. It was cold. You scrambled closer, your fingers fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. There was nothing. The Stranger had come in the night and stolen your husband.

Valarr's pyre was lit the next day. Baelor, his face a mask of cold, regal grief, stood and watched as the body of yet another son was committed to the flames. You stood apart, the heat of the fires blistering against your skin, but you felt only an internal, icy cold. You held the hands of your sons. They were quiet, not understanding the solemnity, only that their mother was holding their hands too tight. They did not understand that the smoke curling into the sky was all that remained of their father.

When the rites were over and the last embers had faded to ash, you fled to your chambers. You barely made it to the safety and privacy of your rooms before you began to truly weep. This was not a graceful weeping. It was an ugly, gut-wrenching storm of sobs that wracked your entire body. You collapsed to the floor, your nails scraping the stone, your cries the sound of a soul being torn apart.

The door opened, and Baelor entered. He said nothing, just crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside you. He was the only other person in the world who knew this specific flavour of hell. You did not hesitate. You crawled into his arms, burying your face in his chest, and let the grief consume you. You sobbed for the endless hours you had held yourself together, for the terrible conversations with a toddler who kept asking when his father would play with him. You sobbed for the future that had been incinerated, for the man you loved who was now just smoke and memory.

When you finally pulled back, hiccuping, your face streaked with tears, you saw that Baelor was crying too. He had lost the love of his life, his wife, his parents, and both his children. How much more could one man be asked to endure?

You decided you could not stay. King's Landing already felt like a tomb. Every stone, every corridor, every shadow held the ghost of Valarr. The sight of the pyre was burned into your mind, haunting you, tormenting you. You needed to go home to Dragonstone, where the memories were not of sickness and death but of passion and hope. You would raise your sons there, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons and the memory of their father.

Baelor did not try to stop you.

For a girl who lived in a modest castle, Summerhall was a paradise. It seemed to be airy, endless, rich in everything; from history to its gardens to its food — oh, the food! The plump berries bursting with red juices that dribbled down and stuck to your chin, the meats and fish, always fresh and cooked so that they were glistening and fell slightly off the bone, and the cakes – crumbly, golden and moreish.  

The palace seemed to exist in a place you’d only heard of in fairytales, where the drama of the Kingdoms seemed to be non-existent and days felt like an eternity. Even the water seemed to heal, one dip erasing the tiredness of your body and making you feel brand new again. 

It was there that you met Daeron, Dyanna’s eldest of the same age as you. Sandy blond haired Daeron, whose siblings looked at him as if he lit the moon at night, a boy who did not particularly enjoy combat (though endured it for his brother) but was skilled at reading and was rather well spoken. 

In the rare moments where Aerion was off entertaining himself, you’d spend time together, quizzing you on the bizarre riddles he’d heard from his uncle, or climbing trees, a right that only the pair of you had from being the eldest. 

“Aerion doesn’t like being left out,” he’d remarked. “He’s not allowed to climb because he’s too small. Sometimes I quite like it up here. It’s quiet.” 

It had been a joyous time then; a time where the weight of responsibility or the distinct boxes your opposing sexes, though discussed, hadn’t yet materialised. You were simply two happy young children whose lives were shortly about to grow more complicated. 

As the seasons passed, Dyanna had more children and visits became less frequent, communication received in the form of letters to your mother. They were mostly light-hearted, but you caught word of Daeron’s growing nightmares; his gradual shrinking from cherished older brother to tormented soul, a victim of Targaryen madness.  

It was hard to imagine Daeron – your Daeron - restless and hysterical, even if he’d always been a dreamer, a Romantic…which is why when Dyanna had died, you’d first thought of him. The one who had her the longest yet was taken away from him too early.  

Your mother had grieved, hard, and you couldn’t imagine what the walls of Summerhall felt like; cold, barren with the echoing of children crying for a mother who would not return and the silent unravelling of a father. It was horrible, and as your mother held you to her chest you innocently vowed that you, nor your father, would ever die so that she would never have to cry again.  

In one of life’s cruel ironies, when you were eight and ten your mother was the first to die. Crabs in the belly, they’d said, words garbled amongst the muffle in your ears, as if your body were literally trying to push away the news from settling in. Nothing mattered now; not the sunrise the following morning, not the taste of freshly baked bread, and certainly not the colour of your dress, which sat crumpled in a corner, unused and unneeded as your father postponed your match-making feast.  

“She must be allowed to miss her mother,” he’d said. Your father was good, attentive. So much so that when he noticed you started refusing your breakfast oats or would not leave your room for hours he wrote to Maekar, in a desperate, final plea to take you for a month. 

‘I have no doubt you understand the grave implications of losing one’s mother, a wife. My daughter is ill, I’m afraid, and no cure imagined or maesters have been able to soothe her. Your home used to make her so happy. If you would have her for a while, allow her to enjoy a change of scenery in the Stormlands, I hope she can return in better spirits.’ 

Graciously, Maekar had taken you in, and though a room was fitted to be yours it didn't feel the same. There was something about returning to a place like this with a fresh pair of eyes and a different body entirely that forced you to realise just how quickly royalty had been forced to grow up.

Aerion was no longer a playful boy, still a little on the smaller side (you would never say this to his face), but chiselled and hungry in a way a grown man would be. Daella wore regal dresses and pinned her hair in a particular way. Aemon was no longer even around.

And Daeron, well, Daeron was stuck somewhere in between, a man in age and certain experience but still seemed to have the quiet essence of a child. Even during the separation, amidst all the trauma, he never forgot you. 

It was late into the first moon of your visit where you’d witnessed Daeron drunk. Surprising, as word was that he was intoxicated rather frequently, but you figured Maekar had given him strict instructions to not do so around you. The rule was to be broken eventually, and was, in the form of a thudding sound below you during what had been a quiet evening on your balcony. With a peek over the ledge you noticed Daeron, swathed in grey, scrambling to his feet after presumably scaling a gate. You’d called out his name, and he’d answered, head lolling, but finding itself looking upwards in your direction.  

“Daeron? Are you alright?” 

He’d blinked, slowly. 

“Perhaps you could — let down your hair? Lend a hand?” He chuckled to himself, tripping over his feet even as he stood upright. 

“You’re in no condition to climb.” 

He drew in air through his teeth. 

“I’d hoped you’d have more faith in me.” 

You tutted playfully. 

“Go through the castle. I will meet you halfway, and if we get caught, I can say I found you in the stables.” 

Though it had taken some time, Daeron had followed your word, chin tucked to his chest as he appeared at your door, cloak beginning to fall off his body. The scent of alcohol didn’t bother you as much as the smell of stale food did, and with a glance to a damp wet spot on his torso you concluded that he might’ve had an accident on the way home – and chose not to question it.

What you did comment on, however, was the bleeding from just above his ear. 

“You should go to the maester—“ 

“And be scolded from my father for sneaking away when I haven’t been caught?” He interjected, raising an eyebrow. It’s but a scratch. The remedy is simple; I’ve administered it myself.” 

The remedy came in the form of his half-empty wine skin, decanting your silver pot of dried petals and holding it above the flame of a candle, unrefined, like a commoner from the streets of Flea Bottom.  

“I fear it will take a while to boil,” you remarked, looking down at the liquid, heat beginning to escape the surface. 

“I have nothing but time,” he’d hummed, silent until he heard the quiet bubbling from the pot before speaking again. “...You were crying. I heard you.” 

“I miss her.” 

“Our mothers were always the finest pair of friends,” he began slowly, eyes fixated on the floor. “Perhaps they are together like double stars. Never truly gone....” he trailed off before nervously looking up at you, eyes wide and cadence thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect a drunk man could be.  

“Maybe you are right,” you sighed, dipping one of your spare handkerchiefs into the boiling wine placing it upon the wound and holding it there. “How did you manage this, anyway?” 

Your touch was gentle, skin soft in a way a maesters’ wouldn’t have been, and, as you focused on slowly dabbing the blood away, didn’t notice how Daeron instinctively nuzzled his head towards your chest, eyes half lidded as he peered at you, gaze especially focused on your lips. He swayed, but you accounted that to the wine, or possibly a mild delirium.  

“It is just an iron gate. The walls of the Red Keep are impossible,” he laughed, swiping his tongue over his lips. “Luckily there are many secret routes that work to my favour.” 

“You speak as if you’ve tried.” 

“I have. My cousin caught me that time. He’s a fine lad, but I much prefer having you find me,” he spoke earnestly, eyes scanning your face for a reaction. Daeron saw your smile, but he didn’t feel your cheeks warm. 

“Must I keep a wineskin in my chambers for the next time you come to me bloodied?” 

He cocked his head, satisfied. 

“Why not? Might do you a favour when you get thirsty.” 

Perhaps it was because you hadn’t chastised his habits, or that the stars of your late mothers had spurred you together, or even a third thing in between, from that moment Daeron became attached to you more than ever before. On paper it made sense, you were a similar age and understanding, but most importantly you were the only female that wasn’t his sister, a septa or a whore. 

In essence, you were just what he needed. 

As for you, well, Daeron made you laugh, crack a smile at a time where it felt impossible to do so – and he was a great listener, content in simply resting his head on your shoulder whilst you nattered. It was always done away from the eyes of his father, but never Egg, who became almost like a brother to you also. With them, it was easy for one month to turn into two, and eventually, five.  

On the six month, with the wounds of your mother’s death slowly healed, you decided it was time to leave.

Daeron was staring at you.  

It wasn’t unfamiliar. He looked at you a lot. So much so you could tell he was sober without even sparing him a glance – his body was always impossibly still, not fidgety but focused. He’d joined you out on the grass for the afternoon and had lay beside you without a word, an arm draped over his eyes. The light stung.  

You’d learnt to enjoy each other’s company like this; usually you were doing some banal activity and Daeron would watch, tell you about his dream, or perhaps end up dozing off entirely, to which you’d leave him in whatever room or position only for him to find you and start the process all over again. You likened him to a stray. 

Moments passed before he broke the silence. 

“Do you think I should cut my hair? My sisters seem to think I would be much handsomer if I did.” 

You shrugged and kept reading. 

“The ends are the slightest uneven, but it suits you just fine.” 

Lazily, he pushed the messy blonde strands back with his fingertips and looked you up and down. 

“Would you care to cut it for me?” 

“Would you ask me to trim your beard, also?” you snickered. “There are a dozen maids who are trained to do that for you.” 

“Well, from what I’ve heard the mundane seems to be of a great interest to you.” 

Sarcasm lingering, Daeron didn’t look away, watching as you lowered your book but kept the pages open, using your finger to note where you’d stopped. You squared your shoulders and turned to look at him. 

“What did Egg tell you?” 

The blonde chuckled again, but it was far emptier than before.  

“He overheard…I know you’ve spoken to my father about leaving. About the motherhouse… becoming a novice.” 

You closed the book entirely, face falling as the weight of your secret was finally spoken aloud. It was easy to write to your father about it – even easier to speak to Maekar – but certainly not to Daeron. 

It wasn’t because you regretted your choice, but the nature of how he’d discovered – even if you couldn’t be mad at Egg – wishing you had taken the chance to speak to him slowly, rationally…on your own terms. You knew the revelation would sting regardless; this wasn’t a matter of a brief distance or separation, but a life away.  

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” you began, clearing your throat. “But you have to understand I’ve given it much thought. There have been nights I’ve barely slept.” 

“That makes for the both of us,” he grinned, before laying on his side, propping himself up by his elbow. “But it feels rather grand, don’t you think? You would leave this life behind? Truly?” 

The tremors in his top lip and fingers were now apparent, knuckles red as he loosely clutched at the blanket underneath you. 

“I was never supposed to stay here, Daeron,” you mused, fiddling with your beaded necklace. “This isn’t my home. Soon enough I would’ve had to return to my father, but…I’ve found such a peace in being away from it all. I don’t care to be a bride or carry the responsibility of the courts. Surely you understand?” 

“I do, but I don’t think anyone would disagree in that I am not designed to be a septon,” he said flatly, mind racing as he contemplated your reasoning. “You would never be able see us again. What of my sisters or Egg?” 

“Of course I will miss them,” you sighed. “Egg is a smart boy, I’m sure he’s already begun to understand. The girls have you. You are a well-meaning brother, I know that. I trust you will take care of them.” 

Rather ungracefully, Daeron snorted. 

“It’s wondrous to know you would put so much misplaced faith in me.”

Tutting, you lowered your chin, bringing your face slightly closer to Daeron’s in a failed attempt to avoid the rays of sunset from obscuring your view. What was a minor annoyance to you was a holy portrait to Daeron; the sun kissing the length of the outline of your body, appearing to him like an angel – or otherworldly being would. For a moment he was captured, in awe of the deity before him. 

“You used to tell me how Egg would climb into your bed at night when he was frightened. And now, here he is, still running to you when there’s something greater than him. Is that not enough to show he admires you?” 

His lips twisted into a messy line, somewhere between a grimace and a chuckle. It was painful, wasn’t it? You’d not yet officially become a novice and yet here you were, speaking like a skilled septa as if the Seven had designed you for the very role.  

The corner of his lips twitched. “But what of you? You would live a life of innocence, never to know the joys of the flesh?” 

“Daeron…” 

“It’s but a jest, but equally a worthwhile question,” he continued, lips parted as he watched you shift your weight. “It is a human instinct. Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“It does not bother me,” you replied flatly before standing to your feet, smoothing your dress in the process. His ask had been the first of its kind; rightfully, you’d never spoken to Daeron about such things and had never expected to, and it made you all the more uncomfortable, like your skin had suddenly been plagued with mites or a horrid fever.

“Besides, I suppose you’ve done enough whoring for the both of us.” 

Daeron pulled a face, eyebrows upwards in equal shock and disgust at your sudden snipe. 

“I only asked out of curiosity.” 

“I do not shame your choices, yet you belittle mine. Unfortunately, my mind is decided and it is not your choice to make.” 

Your jaw was tight as you turned to leave defiantly, only to be stopped, physically, by the feeling of Daeron’s hand on your skirt. 

He’d reached out towards your hough, three fingers clinging to the lacy fabric, careful not to rip it but enough for him to make his presence known. 

Blonde strands obscured most of his face, but you could see his eyes clearly; bright blue and glossy, but beggared. Startled by the action you felt fused to the ground, stuck between wanting to walk away completely but also wanting to hear his reasoning. He was still the same Daeron, after all. 

“I’m sorry, that was crude of me – please…forgive me, would you? 

His voice was small and honest, more of a pauper than a prince. It was likely just a slip of the tongue, a young man saying the first thing that came to his mind instead of considering their impact first – harmless, really, but not enough to placate your very real and very current anger. You waved his hand away from your skirt and sighed. 

“Not now, Daeron. Let me be.” 

He relinquished, rather quickly, but you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your neck as you retreated back into the indoors, far away from the blazing sun. 

Full and crescent moons passed, indicating that the day of your departure grew nearer. Your family’s carriage was to arrive at Summerhall one morning, take you home before embarking on a long journey to King’s Landing and begin your training. Where the days had been long, they now seemed to lapse in rapid succession, and you wondered if it was because the gravity of your choice was now real.  

Daeron hadn’t spoken to you since the afternoon on the green, but it hadn’t stopped him from watching you from afar; peering into the dining hall when you would eat your dinners, or ‘accidentally’ walking past your chambers.

If he wasn’t hovering, then he disappeared completely, either in a cup or in a whore, something that was repeatedly made apparent to you by Egg. 

“Daeron’s out again, so I came to you. He told me he hurt you. I don’t think he meant it. He does silly things sometimes.” 

“I know,” was all you replied. “I was mad at him, but not anymore. We’re friends. It happens. One day you’ll understand that.” 

Little Egg, forever the messenger, must’ve carried word, as on the morning of your final day, amidst your dressing, you were greeted to a knock on the door. On the other side was Daeron, his hair tousled in a way that made him look rather handsome, eyes widening and seemingly straightening his back as you glimpsed at him. 

“For you,” he murmured, shrouding his body behind your door as he outstretched his hand. His palms were shaking, and squeezed under the weight of his clenched fist were the stems of an assortment of flowers, baby blue, pink and yellow. “A gift for your departure. I-It’s not much, I know, but jewellery seemed ill fitting…” 

With an exhale, you took them off him, momentarily soothing his trembling hand. 

“Thank you,” you said, voice firm but not rude. “I should finish gathering my things —“ 

“I can help you—“ he insisted in a raised tone. 

“I’ll be down for breakfast,” you cut him off, uneasy at the notion of the pair of you being alone. “You could see me there?” 

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I listened to you. I-I left you alone like you wanted.” 

“I never asked for you to stop speaking to me.” 

“But you implied it. I just wanted to be good for - to you…” he corrected quickly. “Please. It is your last day.” 

You glanced down at the flowers – they were pretty - and back at Daeron’s trembling figure. It was so easy for him to break down your defences, tugging at your heartstrings with the great notion of friendship and eternity. You knew it would kill you if you left Summerhall on bad terms, never never able to truly rectify them again.  

“Allow me this moment, please?” You said softly. “I must sleep early as my carriage leaves at sunrise, but we can spend the afternoon together, I promise. Like the days of old.” 

“The days of old…” he contemplated, nodding. “If that is what you wish, my lady.” 

He backed away, and unbeknownst to you that would be the last time you would see him until late that evening, long past the afternoon and beyond supper. You’d queried everyone in sight, to which they shook their head or diverted their eyes — a reminder that his word would always carry more weight than yours. 

By the time the evening arrived you were sick, tired, exhausted by Daeron’s flakiness that you wished the moon would be replaced with the sun already.  

You were ready in your nightgown when a guard knocked for you, and sure enough Daeron was alongside a pair of them; hunched, sweating and looking plain awful.  

“He called for you,” they spoke flatly, guiding him into your arms the way a mother would a newborn. You didn’t argue, nor spare Daeron even a scolding glance, but took him, silently, arm around his waist as you guided him back towards his chambers. It was an arduous affair, he was drunk, and far heavier than you could’ve imagined, his arms around your shoulders feeling as if you were carrying a baby ox. 

Once you reached his room, you helped pull off his shoes, heaving him those final few steps to the bed, spine bouncing against the pillows.  

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you,” he drawled. “I-I just needed to…” 

“Talk? We’ve only had all day to do so, Daeron.” 

His lip wobbled. 

“One could say I had cold feet.” 

“We’re not getting married.” 

“No. It’s the opposite. A funeral of sorts. Both are lifelong, aren’t they?” He paused. “There were – things I wished to say to you, but I couldn’t bear it…” 

“Without help?” You replied. “We have been friends for a lifetime, Daeron. What is so difficult that you cannot say it without influence?” 

He didn’t reply, but thrust his head to the ceiling in exhaustion and began to paw at his clothes, trying to remove his tunic. 

“It is soon to be my twelfth moon, and yet I am the same man. A coward. It’s silly — I thought I reckoned with it…” 

You sighed, watching him fail to undress himself, and, in an act that would soon become you hamartia, decided to help him; fingertips grazing over his as you steadily undid the buttons.  

“You mustn’t think that way. Change is always possible.” 

“Not for men like me.” 

He paused and placed a clammy hand on your wrist, voice barely a whisper. He had that look again, the look you’d come to know as one of love, or at least intense affection. 

“Must you leave before my nameday?” 

You hadn’t done it intentionally. It was just a coincidence that happened to work in your favour.  

“Your father might make you a match. It would be inappropriate for me to remain here.” 

“I think he has given up with such a thing,” Daeron murmured, his grip still on your wrist. You’d discarded his outermost layer down the foot of the bed. “He’s always been wise under it all.” 

You pursed your lips. 

“He loves you.” 

“Do you?” Daeron said abruptly, and it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. “L-love me? I care not if you think me foolish, but I cannot imagine a life without you.” 

So that was what he’d wished to say. In a sense he’d said it many times throughout the months you were with him, but you’d been too passive, too ignorant to say. Now it was in-front of you, very real and too hard to ignore.  

“I care for you, Daeron,” you said honestly, swiping a tongue over your lips. “I do. But my call to the Seven is much stronger.” 

“It is grief talking. I know just how much it can consume… I know what it’s like to wake on the morrow and regret your choices.” 

“What are you suggesting?” you breathed, chest heaving and words unsteady. 

He tutted, and chuckled to himself.  

“My mother always thought we’d be a fine pair…let us indulge her wish, please. Marry me and I vow to make you happy for the rest of your life…I will be so good for you, I swear it…” 

His words were like an anchor, weighted and sharp, sinking right to the bottom of the ocean that was your heart. Had this revelation come earlier - had your mother never died - would you have accepted it? How true were the words he were speaking, and how much were influenced by the cup? It was impossible to look him in the eye, not when he was sweaty, shaky and on the verge of tears, for you feared you might see the sincerity in it all. 

“The arrangements have been made. I leave at sunrise.” 

Swallowing, you made an attempt to pull yourself up from the side of the bed, but Daeron gripped your forearm, his trimmed nails digging into your skin.  

“Then let us spend this moment together. You keep me still.” 

Daeron might’ve been nothing like his brother or cousin, but he was still a prince. Needy. Consuming. Unmistakably above you in terms of status. You might’ve been friends, but in the eyes of tradition and the way of the world you weren’t equals. You never would be. Even if you were married.  

The blond was nuzzling his head against your arm now, a sneaky hand wrapped around your waist as if to try and pull you onto the bed. You didn’t budge; instead, dignified, you gently cupped his cheek to placate him. 

“Daeron. I think it’s time for you to rest.” 

He listened, guided by his fondness for you and your light touch to his torso, pushing down on his soft stomach to guide him back to bed. Relaxed, it seemed he was about to give in completely when his grip, still around your waist, tightened, slowly becoming a silent battle for dominance.

He was strong – attributed to the liquid courage, no doubt – and before you knew it you were face-to-face with Daeron, all that was left were your legs dangling over the side of the bed. You were crudely balancing yourself on an elbow, the silk of your nightgown slowly sliding down, and showing off the bare skin of your collarbone and shoulders. He seemed content now, unabashed as his eyes fluttered over your body, tears still pooling in the corners and threatening to spill when he was ready. 

“My dear friend,” Daeron crooned, “it has been a silent torture to watch you grow into a woman. You’re beautiful, truly…” He paused, enough to let his words linger. “Might you gift me with a kiss? Just one?” 

A kiss was innocent enough, surely, and if there were anyone in the seven kingdoms to share your first one with it made sense to be your Daeron, right? You felt a little foolish as your heart raced as you brought your face towards his; ungraceful as you pressed a gentle peck to the corner of his mouth, tasting a mixture of salty sweat and sweet wine.

Unsure of where to place your hands you opted for the space between his pectorals, drawn closer to him by his hand pressed against the small of your back, the other on your face as he guided you to the centre of his mouth. You were kissing, properly now, Daeron leading messily – switching between his tongue flicking at your own, and eventually moving from your mouth entirely, kissing your cheek, up to your ear and back down to the crook of your neck.

He chose to nestle there, pink lips shiny from your saliva as he inhaled your scent. Intuitively, you cradled him. 

“I am going to miss you so,” he whined. “My heart…I adore you —Just let me hold you, please…” 

Opening your mouth to object, you felt a sudden wetness on your skin. He was crying – softly, but it was there all the same. How could you leave when he had no one else to cry to? His father? A whore? No, he was safest with the girl he’d known since he was a boy, his best friend who was soon about to leave him to serve a life of devotion…just not to him.

That was why you held him, traced soothing patterns on his bicep, and slowly let him strip you; pull at the tie of your nightgown to reveal your body and let him cup your breasts. You didn’t know how to feel as he let out a deep, ragged moan as he toyed with your nipples, placing a sloppy kiss to the flesh of them before taking them in his mouth, nor if the suckling sensation was pleasurable at all. He glanced up at you intermittently, desperate to see if you were coming undone the same way he was, but it ultimately didn’t seem to matter to him. 

You were like this for a few moments, slippery, but in a safe place until he slowly began to buck his hips against your legs. The fabric of your nightgown was sheer enough for you to feel his hardening manhood poking at your skin like a dagger, enough for you to grip his bicep. 

“Daeron —“ you stuttered, heat rising as he began to tug at his underwear, pulling enough of it down so that his shaft were freed. It slid fittingly between your thighs as Daeron’s fingers made their way to your privates, fingertips running over your folds with such a painful attentiveness, careful not to cross that invisible line. It sparkled, almost as if he were injecting life into you. 

“You burn for me as much as I do for you,” he slurred, satisfied as his eyes gleamed. Hard and throbbing, his privates twitched against you. 

“Do you feel that? That is my love…all for you…” 

Words evaded you, but none of it seemed to matter. Daeron’s mouth was back on your chest, squeezing the fat and latching onto your nipple as he began to pump himself between you, in a kind of unholy method of self soothing. 

You couldn’t gauge the length but it felt heavy, slick and slimy with his arousal as it glided between you, dangerously close to your entrance as his tip rubbed against the flesh of your ass.  He peered up at you for encouragement, and, sensing your hesitation, spoke gravely, like he were believing his own words. 

“Let us have this moment… I won’t — you will still be pure. It’s not wrong. I’ve – I’ve wanted to have you for so long, please…” 

His thrusts continued, cuddling into you as you passively placed a hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair. It mollified him no doubt, but was equally your way of making sense of it all. He’d always needed you, and you weren’t sure why you’d thought any different. Perhaps he would somehow arrange to have you become a Septa for his sisters, or whichever of his siblings had a child first. Maybe he would sin just so he could seek you out for confession. Whatever happened after this, he was imprinted on you for life. 

His motions grew uncoordinated, and, throwing his head back he let out an obscene moan, one that twisted your insides and made every nerve in your body quiver. 

“I’m almost there, my love…” he heaved, hair muffling his words. “Did you like that? You drive me mad. Madder than my dreams ever could. God’s above, let me worship you —“ 

His knuckles turned white as he gripped your ass, your thighs — any exposed area of skin – before he hastily reached down, hand snaking around his shaft and angling his wet, bulbous tip to your folds, not enough to penetrate but enough to feel the pressure against where you were sensitive. With a few strokes and furrowed brows he came, smearing his release like a paintbrush against your wetness, instinctively pushing as much of it into you as he could.  

Daeron collapsed completely, sticky forehead buried in your neck as his spent coated the valley between your thighs, slowly beginning to dry – all in a confusing picture for the maids to discover the next morning. He whispered sweet nothings in your ear before he began to fall asleep, dreaming of you, no doubt.

———————

Everyone had heard what had happened. Prince Aerion had lost it during a puppet show and attacked a performer. He snapped nearly all of her fingers and would have done worse had the hedge knight not showed up to stop him. Word of it spread like wildfire, even you, a serving girl of house Ashford, still inside the castle heard of it before the prince even returned to his guest chambers.

You were told by Mina, another serving girl who just turned ten and one. She had made sure you leaned in close so she could whisper in your ear, afraid that the prince would materialize and break her fingers too. The woman attacked, who you learned was called Tanselle, was performing a classic Westerosi play. Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.

You wish you could say you were shocked but you weren’t. While every common folk child had been told the story of the Mirror Shield growing up, it made sense that the Targaryens wouldn’t have been aware of it. The legend of Ser Serwyn actually predated the Targaryen’s arrival in Westeros but Targaryen’s have a culture of their own, and they have always trampled on everyone else’s.

That was a few hours ago. You had since busied yourself with cleaning the kitchen which had been a disaster due to all of the guests and the tourney. You were humming quietly with Mina nearby when one of the head maids entered with her hands clasped in front of her. She was an older lady with a permanent frown engraved on her face.

“Prince Aerion requests that wine be brought to him at once.”

Everyone seemed to freeze at her announcement before looking at Mina. As the youngest, a lot of the servants older than her would pass their work onto her and she could not protest. Mina looked panicked at sudden attention, her face growing pale. You could tell how scared she was, and she had every right to be after what had happened at the puppet show. Not to mention all of the other rumors of his cruel behavior.

Taking a deep breath you step forward, “I will bring him his wine.”

The head maid raises a brow, “You will?”

You nod, already moving to fetch wine and ignore the stares from the other girls. You didn’t want to delay any further.

There are two knights of the Kingsguard standing outside of Prince Aerion’s guest chambers. One of which gives you a sympathetic look before opening the door for you, closing it behind you just as quickly.

The prince was sitting on a large ornate chair by the fire, staring into it as if he wanted it to consume him. You can see where his skin is red from the beating he took, some of the marks already beginning to turn into purple bruises, just a few shades darker than his violet eyes. The only acknowledgment of your presence he gives is a gesture to the glass next to him.

Just pour the wine and leave, you kept telling yourself.

The pitcher felt heavy in your hands, which was funny because you had been pouring wine for many years now and you’ve never had such a problem.

“You took your time,” he mutters bitterly.

Your eyes widen, “M’lor—my prince—"

“M’lord?” he hums, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair before finally looking at you.

“I meant no harm your grace, truly, I only—“

“You’re shaking like an unsteady flame. Put the pitcher down before you spill my wine.”

You nod quickly and set the pitcher down on the side table before turning on your heel to leave.

He waits until you’ve nearly made it to the door to call out: “Stop.”

Taking a deep breath, you plaster a smile on your face and turn around but still keep your gaze fixed directly past him, not daring to truly look at him, “Yes, my prince?”

“I do not recall dismissing you.”

“Apologies, your grace, I just assumed—“

“Assumed?”

You don’t respond and he clicks his tongue a few times while shamelessly raking his eyes over your figure. “Sit,” he commands, nodding to the chaise.

So you sit and stare at the fire.

Aerion pours his own wine and takes a sip while watching you. He sets the goblet down a little too hard, the sound makes you flinch and yet you refuse to look away from the flames.

He stands from his chair and stalks toward you, like a predator hunting its prey. He stops in front of you and reaches out, using the side of his pointer finger to lift your chin, forcing you to look at him, really look at him. He brushes his thumb over your lip as you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“You’re quite pleasing to look at, for a servant…”

“Your grace?” you ask as your face grows hot.

“You’ve been cooped up in this castle rather than serving on the tourney grounds. A real shame…you’re much nicer on the eyes than the other girls and hags. Why aren’t you present? I always believed every serving girl dreams of a lesser knight finding her palatable enough to take back to his tiny castle or shack as his wife.”

“…I am content serving the Ashfords, my prince,” you mumble quietly, his hand still on your jaw making your skin hot.

He hums, “Are you? It really doesn’t intrigue you at all? The show? The violence?”

“I hear plenty of violence, and violence at shows. That's enough for me,” you say before you can stop yourself, your eyes widening at your own nerve.

He grins, “You hear of violence? Tell me then, what do you hear?”

“Forgive me, your grace…I should not have spoken of it…it is improper of a lady…”

“But you are no lady,” he deadpans, “you’re a serving girl. Just two steps up from a common whore.”

Aerion pauses as if in deep thought, “Or is it one step? Would you say you’re better than a bar wench?”

“Your grace?”

“No, no, bar wenches open their legs just like whores for enough coin. But some servant girls do as well, do you?”

“What? No!”

“You mean to say you take no coin then? That makes you worse than a whore.”

“No, my prince, please, I simply mean to say—“

“You’re a virgin?”

Aerion had already known that. It was clear in the way you entered the room, and it became impossible to ignore after your face flushed at his first compliment. He grabs his goblet of wine and takes a drink before offering it towards you, he looks at you expectantly and not wanting to upset him you reach for the glass but he clicks his tongue and raises the drink to your lips.

“Attagirl,” he praises when you take a sip, “Now, share what you’ve heard,” he coos before setting the goblet to the side. You had never had wine like this before, this was strong and sweet, not at all like the watered down mead you were given.

“Men get hurt all the time at tourneys…but some injuries are more violent than others.”

“Go on,” he encourages and you know he knows what you’re thinking of.

“I was told of a man whose horse was inpaled…the horse, it fell on top of him and crushed his legs…They had to kill the horse to get the man out from under it.”

“And who was this man?”

“I…am not sure of what his name is, your grace.”

“Exactly. Because he isn’t anyone important. Just a no name knight from nowhere who got too cocky. He had to be reminded of the dragon's power.”

You don’t respond, letting your gaze fall to the floor and he lets out a sound of disapproval before sitting next to you. He lounges on the chaise, leaned back with one arm over the top, it’s a complete contrast to how you sit so rigid.

“And the puppet show?” he asks, tilting his head, “will you tell me about it?”

You fidget with your hands, “You were there my prince, you…”

“That I was. But I want to hear what all the little servants are running around saying.”

You take a deep breath, “I was told about a performer who…whose fingers were broken during her show…”

“By?” he asks.

“You,” it’s said as a whisper.

His eyes flicker, “Why’d I break the whore’s fingers?”

“You did not like the story…” you state but it’s really more of a question.

He scoffs, “Of course not. A story meant to incite rebellion. To show a dragon being slaughtered…” he trails off, this conversation was clearly reigniting his anger.

“That was not the purpose of the story,” you say all too quickly and immediately curse yourself for your big mouth.

“What?” he asks, his tone dangerous.

When you finally looked at him, it was clear that he was becoming annoyed at you. So you did the best you could to backtrack, “Forgive me, my prince. It is a famous story…for peasants and servants and wenches. A royal such as yourself would have no need to concern themselves with a peasant tale.”

“And yet I now find myself curious, tell me this story.”

Your gaze falls back to the fire. He scoffs when you open your mouth to speak, quickly interrupting whatever protest you were going to make, “But first, more wine…you aren’t shaking as terribly now. I trust you won’t spill it.”

You nod and stand, “Of course your grace,” quickly you make your way to the side table to refill the goblet.

Just as you attempt to hand him the now full goblet he reaches forward and tugs you into his lap making you gasp as some of the wine spills over the edge. Wine spills on the chaise but that is not what makes you panic—the chaise is red, the stains will hardly show if they show at all—no, what makes you panic is the few drops that landed on the prince's tunic. You freeze as it begins to trickle down your wrist and arm but Aerion only grins.

He glances at his tunic and chuckles before looking at you while tilting his head. Without breaking eye contact and a softness that you hadn’t expected, he wraps his fingers around yours, trapping your hand between the warmth of his skin and the cold of the cup. Then slowly, he brings your wrist to his mouth, his tongue flicking out to lick the sweet wine from your skin.

Aerion hums, licking his lips before taking in your flushed expression, “Your Lord Ashford has spent more than he’s worth on this tourney…let’s not waste his wine now,” he then presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your wrist.

“Your grace…I…” you didn’t think it was possible for your face to become hotter than it already was, “I am so deeply sorry.”

“What for? My tunic? It’s red. Like the chaise. It won’t show. If it does I’ll have another tunic made. I have the coin for it, you’re not trying to imply I don’t… are you?”

“No! Of course not your grace! I only meant…”

He hums in response and begins to rub circles on your hip with his free hand, it is then you’re reminded of your current position.

With his hand still around yours, he pulls the goblet to his lips before resting the cup in between the two of you. It was a flimsy barrier that would be easily removed but it was the only one you had.

“Will you start your peasant story now? I do so enjoy your squirming but I’m beginning to get impatient.”

“Right, of course, your grace. The story is of… Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.”

“Stupid name. Continue.”

“I don’t believe you saw this part during the puppet show but in the songs Ser Serwyn saved a woman named Daeryssa from giants.”

“That’s a Valyrian name. I’ve never heard of this Daeryssa…”

You hum, nodding, “I don’t think she’s real, your grace… made up for the story… and Valyrian names are just so beautiful.”

He grins, letting his head fall back against the cushion to really look at you, “They are aren’t they?”

“Yes, your grace, very beautiful.”

“And what do you think of my name?”

“It is…a brave name, Prince Aerion. A brave, handsome name…”

His grip on your hip tightens, his fingers were no doubt leaving little indentations that would bruise. Although, his grip wasn’t angry or aggressive, it was possessive. Possessive like the way other servants would hold onto their crumbs of bread in the presence of others or how high born girls clutched their jewels while walking in towns and shops.

Aerion quickly downs the rest of the wine and tosses the goblet to the ground caring very little about the noise. He relished in the way you tensed up in his lap at the sound and how you jolt when his now free hand rests on your other hip.

As for your free hand, it falls to your lap with your other one where you begin to play with them. He clicks his tongue and grabs your hands, “Here,” he commands putting them on his shoulders, “don’t drop them.”

You nod and he grins, taking hold of your hips once more. Clearing your throat, you resume speaking, “The story you saw is how he got the title of Mirror Shield. It was said that Ser Serwyn defeated a dragon by outsmarting it…he polished his shield til it was as shiny as a mirror and snuck up to the dragon while hiding behind the shield. The dragon only saw its reflection and did not react and once he was close enough, Ser Serwyn slayed it.”

Aerion is silent for a long time and for a moment, you believe you may have offended him. And that maybe he will lash out and punish you as he did the girl with the puppets.

“That is a foolish story.”

“I agree my prince,” you say almost too quickly, “a dragon would never be so foolish.”

He hums, a smirk playing on his lips at his words while he rubs circles on your hips, “Is that what you think?”

“I think…the dragon ought never lose.”

You feel his cock then, growing hard and pressing against you. His grip tightens and you tense, shifting ever so slightly making him groan and close his eyes.

“My prince…”

He shushes you, “Perhaps I will take you back to Summerhall with me as my maid, I’m sure that Lord Ashford can go on with one less servant…”

You knew that was a bad idea. Nobles always had short attention spans, he would eventually grow bored of you and then you would be discarded. And yet, you still felt a fluttering in your stomach at the thought of going with him.

“Perhaps…” feeling his cock against you gave you confidence, making you bolder in your teasing, “but I am not yours yet, my prince. I need to go tend to other lords…”

“Hmm…” his eyes are half lidded as he stares at you, “I do hope you don’t sit on the laps of these other lesser lords…”

“Are you… possessive, my prince?”

“Dragons always are.”

Reluctantly, he allows you to slip from his lap. But you were not entirely naive, you knew this would not be the last time you would see and interact with the prince. He had you in his sights.

In fact, the very next day the head maid approached you to tell you that Prince Aerion had requested you by name. To tell him more peasant tales of course, no other reason.

“It’s honest work!” The old woman had told you. “What more can ye ask for? Young one’s these days are so ungrateful! I would go myself if it weren’t for these old bones of mine.”

You had blushed and conceded. You didn’t want to be ungrateful. The old woman had taken you in from the orphanage where you had lived most of your life and given you work in exchange for a roof over your head and a full belly. What more did you have a right to ask for?

Only…the rumors…of him. Aerion the skinchanger. Aerion the wicked. Aerion the beast. Everywhere you went you had heard terrible things about all the things he liked doing. Tales of broken bones, dead animals, body parts cut…You shiver. Just thinking about it makes you afraid. Makes you want to retreat. But there is nowhere else for you to go, as you stand outside King’s Landing castle. So you take a deep breath and knock to be admitted through the servant’s entrance door.

The old woman doesn’t need you anymore, she had kept you when her home was full of sons to tend to. Now her home is empty after the Blackfyre rebellion. Most of her sons did not return. So you were let go. She was kind enough to send you off to a home that needed you however. A great opportunity she had said, you should be so grateful she said…and yet you can’t help but wonder why in such a great home as the Targeryan’s they should be so short of servants that they had started hiring orphans like you. You are pulled out of your thoughts as the door opens and a hefty woman answers the door. You smile trying to seem friendly.

“You’re late.” She says with a grimace. “Let’s get you started with carrying some wood.”

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To your surprise you discovered that you weren’t in fact going to be working for the entire castle but in fact only for a small section of it. You had never known that the castle was divided into different wings entirely, some taken up by entirely different Targeryan family members. Yours was Maekar Targeryan’s wing. The head kitchen servant that had greeted you on your first day had looked annoyed at having to explain such things to you. As if you were stupid.

How could you have known though? Maekar’s wing of the castle alone was so big that you followed Tessa, the servant charged with teaching you everything, everywhere for fear of getting lost.

You are grateful for Tessa, a cheerful maid who loves gossip and is only too happy to get a new maid to talk to. On your very first day, as you enter Aerion’s bedchamber with Tessa before dawn to start up his fireplace, she gleefully whispers to you about the previous man servant who had disappeared in the middle of the night after running out of Aerion’s bedchamber, his face covered in blood.

“I think he might have bit him.” Tessa whispers to you. “Though someone else says Aerion wasn’t even in the room…”

The door slams open. You jump and stand up quickly to greet the man entering through the doorway. Your heart hammering in your chest.

“Aerion?” The man asks in an annoyed tone.

“I do not know my lord.” Tessa replies. “He was not here when we arrived.”

The man, who you guess to be Maekar Targeryan by his silver blond hair and beard as well as by his dissatisfied expression, gives you both a dissatisfied look then grunts in response and quickly walks back out.

“He’s probably at the whorehouses.” Tessa tells you, after Maekar has left. “I’ve heard from my friend who works there, that he visits the Targeryan bastards who sell themselves there…or at least women who look like they could be Targeryan.”

You don’t particularly care about who Aerion visits at the whorehouses though. You are more worried about what he did to his previous servant.

“Why did he bite the servant that left?” You ask, your hands trembling. Hoping to make sure you know what not to do in front of the man.

“No idea.” Tessa says unhelpfully. “But he should have known better, the first rule of being an upstairs servant is this; Avoid being noticed by Aerion at all costs.”

You blink….wondering if she is joking. How can you do your job and at the same time not get noticed by the person in whose home and sometimes room you are working on?

“How do I do that?” You ask after realizing she is not joking.

“Do not speak to him unless spoken to. Do not look at him. Obey his commands. Other than that make sure to not get noticed by him when he is drunk or worse when his father is not home. Follow those rules and you’ll be fine.” She says not seeming worried at all. “It’s simple stuff really….but the idiot who got bit was always trying to act above of his station. He probably told Aerion a joke he didn’t find funny. As long as you know your place though Aerion mostly just ignores you.”

“Are you sure?” You ask again, not liking the sound of this at all.

“Definitely.” Tessa says. “I’ve been working here for 5 years, he hasn’t bit me yet.” She laughs. When she sees your worried face though, she adds. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t even notice any woman who is not silvered haired. You and I, we might as well be a speck of mud on the wall.”

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Never be near him when he is drunk. Never be near him when his father is not home. Never speak to him. Never look his way…. You recite the rules to yourself like a prayer, as if knowing them will keep you safe. To your left Tessa is telling you some gossip about a maid whose new child looks more like the local singer, than like his father, you smile and nod but you keep reciting the rules to yourself unable to pay attention. You come back to earth however, as you trip on a stair and almost drop the bucket of steaming water you are carrying.

“Careful!” Tessa warns. “Otherwise you’ll have to walk all the way downstairs for more. The cook will be bloody angry if she has to heat up more water for Aerion’s bath…and so will he…” She adds in a more worried tone.

You look at her dismayed, then look around hoping no one saw you falter.

“It’s alright.” She says trying her cheerful tone again, but as you both near the door to Aerion’s room her lips tighten and her steps become careful. She turns to you and whispers. “You are new, just pour the water and stand back in case he needs anything. Mostly it’ll be me and the other maids who will hand him things. You do nothing, say nothing, don’t look at him and you’ll be alright. You are just here to learn at first. This is your first test. Make sure to pass it.”

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You have failed. You know you have failed the moment Aerion Targeryan fixes his eyes on you, and you hadn’t even poured the water in yet…

You had entered the room to find several servants pouring their buckets of steaming water into the giant tub in the middle of the room, and had gone as Tessa said to stand in line and do the same thing, avoiding looking at the silvery frame of a man you saw out of your peripheral vision. Finally it had been your turn, you had stepped forward to pour the steaming water into the tub just as Aerion himself decided to step into it. You had not expected this. You halted immediately. The water was so hot. Surely he would burn himself! You had thought, as you looked up at him in surprise, the water still in your bucket. He was naked. And beautiful. Oh so beautiful. His sharp angled face and choppy silver hair hazy in the steaming tub. His body tightly muscled, pale, smooth, and glistening with the droplets from the steam.

It was your weakness for his beauty that doomed you. He had not noticed you falter the first time when you hesitated to pour the water, but he definitely noticed when you could not stop staring at his beautiful face, his beautiful torso, his beautiful cock. You came to your senses only when you went back to his face and noticed his gaze fixed on you. Your stomach dropped.

Now with trembling hands you try to compose yourself. You fix your eyes on the tub and pour the water you should have poured in the first place. Then you step back and stand by the wall avoiding his gaze. Say nothing. Do not look at him. Your body trembles uncontrollably. You look at the floor the entire time after that, but you can’t help but feel as if his eyes are still on you. You hope you are wrong.

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Tessa sighs. No more cheeriness from her. This above all else lets you know that things went just as badly as you feared.

“We will keep you out of his way for a while.” She says. “He doesn’t even remember who I am half the time, and I have been working for him for years. Hopefully he’ll forget all about you and your indiscretion after a while.”

You nod, blushing. Embarrassed beyond belief to have failed, and to have failed like this…by not being able to keep your eyes off of him. How pathetic…you think.

“Did he seem incredibly angry?” You ask. “I tried not to look at him after the first time I caught his eye.”

“He seemed…furious.” Tessa confirms, worried. “He kept glancing at you the entire time…even ended his bath early…he usually loves staying in the steaming hot water until it cools. I’m sorry, I should have warned you about the heat of the water being normal for him.”

You shake your head. “You warned me plenty to not look at him…that’s on me.”

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And so you try to stay away from him. You make beds, light and maintain fireplaces, pour hot water, carry trays, and more for many fortnights. For Maekar, and for his children; for Daeron, Aegon, Daella, and Rhae. Never again for Aerion though.

You had hoped he would forget you like Tessa said. Yet you can’t help but feel his eyes on you at all times. As you carry trays to his father’s room. As you pass by him your head down carrying wood for a different fireplace. As you laugh at Aegon’s jokes who often seeks out servants to talk to. As you bring Daeron more wine. While you are down in the kitchens eating your meals. As you throw corn to the ravens in their cages. While you go to lie down in your cot in the servants sleeping quarters. Everywhere in the castle you feel his eyes, like a crawling sensation through your body that you can’t shake. The feeling remains. So much so, and at all times, that you start to wonder if it’s all in your head.

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“I feel afraid all the time.” You confess to Tessa one night as you both sit in the kitchens having dinner. “As if I am being hunted by him.”

She laughs. “I have yet to see him chase you.” She says, sarcastically.

“You mock me.” You say reproachfully.

“I just think you worry too much.” She says playfully. “You act like he’s chasing you down, when he hasn’t even addressed you once. I was worried that first day because he looked so angry, but he has not done anything to you. And trust me…every single servant that has truly displeased him has known it almost immediately.”

You consider this as you try to entice the tattered kitchen cat with a piece of cheese. The old feline only blinks at you haughtily and ignores your offer. Perhaps she’s right you think. You have never had the gift of bravery, perhaps it’s just your own fear feeding on itself that makes you feel as if his eyes are constantly on you.

“Perhaps you are right. I think far too much of myself, mayhaps he doesn’t even remember me anymore.”

She takes your hand and smiles. “I shall take you out to my favorite tavern on our next day off, we shall dance, and meet handsome knights, and you’ll forget all about it.”

You can’t help but smile, once again you are so grateful to have someone like her by your side.

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“Who is your new friend?” The young man asks Tessa, as he approaches you both.

“We work together now.” Tessa says smiling and taking your arm, after she has introduced you.

“Ufff…” The young man says letting out air though his mouth, as if to say he’s sorry to hear that.

“I’ve been working there a few fortnights by now, it’s not so bad.” You say smiling shyly. He is quite handsome. Dark haired curls fall into his dark eyes.

“I’m glad you think so.” He says, as he moves to stand closer to you. “At least that means I will see you around these parts more often.” He smiles crookedly. He is definitely the practiced flirt, and you immediately know he must show such flattery to every wench he encounters, but he’s handsome and seems fun so you smile back.

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You both spin in the middle of the dance floor as the drums and the flutes sound out a rapid rhythm, your hair falling into your face, your breath coming in fast, your laughter uncontrollable as he spins you and then catches you back. Your face hurts from laughing so much, the room spins around you, and so do his eyes. Violet eyes.

You halt roughly, with a gasp, losing your balance and almost stumbling to the floor. He catches you, and holds you upright.

“Are you alright?” He says as he holds you in his arms. His brown eyes a bit worried.

You look around the room, dizzy now, searching for violet eyes. You see none. Am I going mad? You think to yourself, your hands shaking.

“I’m alright.” You finally answer. “I think I just drank a bit too much, I should sit down for a moment.”

“I’ll go grab you some watered down ale.” He says, and walks away, leaving you sitting at a table.

You wait, and you wait, and you wait, but he never returns. You sit by yourself, a bit embarrassed to have been abandoned so easily. When Tessa finally comes back, flushed and happy from dancing, you play off your disappointment at having been abandoned.

“He must have found another wench he would like to see around these parts more often.” You say, trying to sound playful.

“He’s an imbecile.” Tessa says, as she pulls you up to dance with her.

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You stumble through King’s Landing hand in hand with Tessa. You both laugh at nothing as you walk back to the castle, the night feels alive and everyone seems to be out tonight. You can’t help but turn around every so often though, looking behind you as if expecting to see him. You never do see him though, every time you turn around there are only the usual King’s Landing sorts; drunks, whores, servants, alley cats, and gutter rats. By the time you are stumbling into your cot you feel silly for having been so on edge all night.

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You are being dragged somewhere. Where am I going? You groggily think, unsure of where you are being carried. Then you feel the cold floor on your feet.

Your eyes pop open, suddenly you are very alert. Someone stands over you, as they hold you by your armpits off the ground having dragged you out of your cot in the floor. You try to see who it is but it is dark and you see nothing. You are frozen with horror for a moment. Then you feel his tongue on your neck, licking from the base of your neck to your ear. Shivers run through your entire body. You want to scream, but you can’t. Your panic so terrible that you are unable to make a single sound. Then he drops you on the floor. And whether from the impact or from finally getting your bearings you call out.

“Help.” You say, even though your voice cracks.

You feel him crawling on top of you, and you fear that no one has heard you. When you hear the mutterings and shuffling of other sleeping cots.

“What is happening?” You hear someone say, as a torch flickers on. Then another torch, then another. The maids around you waking with confusion from their sleeping cots beside you. Suddenly the room is bright, and you can see the other maids around you staring down at you in confusion. You can also see him now, as he straddles you. His violet eyes hazy, his choppy silver hair messy as he looks down at you. You stare up at him, you can smell the alcohol on him. Never be near him when he is drunk. You remember.

You look in horror to the people around you, hoping for guidance, hoping for help. They all just stare at you dumbfounded. You look back towards Aerion and meet his purple gaze. Never look his way. You remember. He looks at you as if you owe him something, his gaze intent and angry. He goes to remove his tunic pulling it off his torso to reveal the smooth chest underneath.

“No.” You manage to say. Never speak to him. You remember.

His jaw tightens. “You didn’t say no to the low born scum at the tavern.” He says angrily. “But you dare say no to me?”

Your eyes widen. He was there. You finally realize.

He looks furious. Then he stands up, but not to leave. Instead he starts working at the laces on his breeches.

“You seemed to enjoy seeing my cock before. I’ll give you the pleasure of seeing it again.” He says angrily, looking down at you.

You try to get up then, as he is busy untying the laces to his breeches. Your legs betray you however, they feel weak and shaky. You only manage to get halfway up, before you stumble. You look up and notice Tessa for the first time. She has been standing behind some other servants, she looks in shock. You reach out your hand to her then. Your salvation.

She looks surprised for a second, then she starts to step forward toward you when another maid stops her. Aerion turns to look then, towards where you are reaching out.

“Close the door on your way out.” He orders them, with the bored haughty voice he always carries.

Your fellow maids don’t hesitate. They start walking out immediately. Some avoiding your gaze, some looking sorry as they leave. But they all leave. Even Tessa who is pulled away by others, not that she is trying hard to get to you.

“I’m sorry.” You say, turning to Aerion with tears in your eyes. “I don’t know what I have done to deserve this. I’m sorry, my lord. I'm sorry I looked at you.”

“You have done nothing to deserve this.” He says, his eyes cold. “I’m just drunk. Otherwise I would never…I’m a Targeryan…I only lay with…You are nothing.”

You look up at him. Not understanding. As tears fall down your face, he throws himself on top of you. His lips smack into yours, bruising you. His kisses so rough they are painful. As if he wants to eat you. You can feel his hardening cock rubbing into your thighs through your thin nightgown. You try then to push him off, even though you know it’s pointless. Even though you know you don’t have even a quarter of his strength, even though you know you would never be able to run away. He pulls at your nightgown, exposing your breasts as you try to cover them. Then he grabs at your legs, groping at your thighs harshly and pulling your nightgown, bunching it up above your hips. He then forces your legs open apart with his arms. He smiles then, as he goes to press his hand into your cunt.

This is the first time you have ever seen him smile, you realize. It’s a cruel mocking smile. He sticks out his tongue as he stares into your eyes running it in a strange watery movement, almost like a snake. He licks your lips and face, before shoving his tongue into your mouth forcefully at the same time he inserts two fingers into you. You gasp, the sensation a painful one. He pays no mind to your discomfort however, as he simultaneously fucks you with his tongue and his fingers. You try to ignore the feeling, you try to escape mentally if not physically. But your body betrays you. You can feel a growing ache in you, you can feel your wetness start to drench his fingers. Making it easier for them to slide in and out of you each time. He only goes faster and faster, and the ache in you only gets bigger and bigger.

“You love my fingers inside of you don’t you?” Aerion tells you, as he finally pulls away from your mouth. “I knew how dirty you were the moment you looked at me. I knew you wanted me to fuck you right there and then in front of everyone.”

You shake your head denying it. Even as he pulls his soaking wet fingers out of you.

“Yes you did. It’s your fault. I’m of the blood of old Valyria. I would have never chosen you. I would have never wanted you. I’m a dragon, you are a dirty commoner.” He says, as he aims the tip of his glistening cock at your entrance. He closes his eyes for a moment in pleasure, his mouth slightly open before looking at you again.

“I’m only doing this because I’m drunk.” He says his breath shaky. “You are not worth it.” Then he clutches at your hips and slams his cock inside you, groaning with pleasure. A deep guttural sound. He bends over grabbing on to your waist then, as he shoves himself over and over again into you. You shake your head trying to drive away the feeling of his thick long cock thrusting in and out of your cunt. After a while, he stops and grabs tightly into you, holding you so close that it feels as if he is trying to crawl inside you. His pelvis trying to push his cock further inside you than is humanly possible. His eyes closed and fluttering, he groans like a wounded animal into your ear.

Finally he rests on top of you, laying all of his weight on you. You lay there numb, staring up at the stone ceiling, unable to move. The tears now dry on your cheeks. After a while he gets up, and goes to open your legs again. He smiles appreciatively at your cunt dripping with his seed as if he’s proud of his work. You stare at him unblinking, unmoving. He shoves his fingers into your cunt again, but slower this time. As if he’s trying to scoop his spilled seed back inside of you.

“Targeryan seed.” He says smiling, as he digs his fingers deeper into your cunt. “Not even a drop should be wasted.”

“It’ll be a dark haired bastard.” You say. Speaking to him for the first time. The fear numbed out of you.

He tenses. He looks angry again.

“Targeryan blood, even bastard born, is more valuable than any low scum seed you could have ever hoped for.” He says spitefully as he puts his angry grimaced face close to your own. “You should be thanking me. You would have opened your legs like a whore for any low scum that payed you a compliment at a tavern. I honored you by making you mine. Not that you deserved the honor, you dirty whore.”

You look up at him, with no expression on your face. You are too tired to care about the insults. They almost seem to not matter at all.

He clenches his jaw, and shoves himself off you.

“It won’t happen again.” He says, as he looks down at you. “I only did it because I am drunk. Otherwise I would have never chosen you.”

You laugh. A humorless breathless laugh. Even as more tears you didn’t you know you still had spill out of your eyes.

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“I’m sorry.” Tessa says, her eyes bloodshot.

You nod. Not really caring about her apologies. You know she could not have done anything to save you, you know your resentment is not justified, you know if you had been in her place you might have done the same. After all what is the life of one nameless maid, to the whims and wishes of a bored royal, specially one with the blood of the dragon. Even so, you unfairly resent her.

“Did you bring it?” You ask numbly, as you toss corn to the ravens in their cages.

She nods and hands you the moontea. You grab for it greedily and drink it down quickly, as if someone will come to take it away from you. You should be grateful for it. You know how expensive it is. The maester that attends to Maekar and his children had prepared it just for you, after hearing about what happened. Who told the maester you never find out, but you do come to know that the maester informs Maekar. What Maekar is told however, you can only guess. And your guess is that he was only told Aerion bedded a willing maid, for Maekar said nothing and did nothing about it. No servant, no maester wanted to be the one to tell Maekar who his son Aerion truly was.

“Are you going to leave?” Tessa asks timidly. “I can…”

“I have nowhere to go.” You say sullenly, interrupting her, as you stroke a crow that has landed in your shoulder. “He won’t do it again. He was just drunk.”

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Aerion lays in his bathtub, his arms spread over the edge of the tub, his eyes on you, as you stand by the wall of his bedchamber with the other servants. He smiles. That’s how you should have known to run, but you see nothing as you stare at the floor your eyes unfocused.

Aerion snaps his fingers twice. The sound brings you to attention.

“Come and clean me up.” He orders you. You walk towards him automatically. Obey him. You remember. You pick up a wash cloth on your way. He shakes his head at you.

“With your tongue.” He says, as he shoves his pelvis forward and out of the water. His erect cock emerging from the soapy bath water.

You halt. Your face burns hot. The other servants start walking away immediately as if on cue. You follow them with your gaze as they exit, wondering whether you should dare to run after them. You glance at the guard at the door, who ignores your gaze and starts closing the door behind him. You press your lips together, as your vision starts to get a bit blurry, trying to not cry this time.

He snaps his fingers again impatient, trying to get your attention back on him.

Your legs feel weak like jelly as you approach him.

“Kneel.” He orders as he rises out of the tub. His body dripping wet. You obey.

He leans down and grabs your face, licking your lips with his tongue.

“Lick me clean.” He says, as he stands again his chest rising and falling faster with each breath as he looks down at you with dilated violet eyes. You clench your fists but obey. You run your tongue from the bottom of his balls to the top of them, and from the top of his balls to his cock, pressing your tongue against it from bottom to tip. You taste the bit of seed that spills out of him. He starts thrusting into your face then as he looks down at you, and you think he is about to force himself inside your mouth when he walks away from you instead. He seems frustrated. Angry even.

“Leave.” He orders, his jaw clenched harder than you’ve ever seen it.

You hesitate a second wondering if you heard correctly.

“Leave!” He yells at you so angrily that spit droplets sputter out.

You stand on shaky legs as fast as you can and run.

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“Where will you go?” Tessa asks.

You jump, you hadn’t noticed her at the door. You turn back to packing the few items you have to your name with shaky hands.

“I don’t know.” You confess. “But I can’t stay, I don’t know what he’ll do next time. I don’t even know why I’ve made him so angry.”

You are about to close the small knapsack you are tossing your items into when she tosses a small coin purse into it.

“What is this?” You ask her.

“It’s not much.” She says, “But I’m sure you’ll need it while you find somewhere to stay.”

You try to swallow the knot in your throat.

“Thank you.” You say finally turning to look at her. Her tears spill endlessly from her face.

“I’m sorry.” She says trying to hold on to sobs. “I’m a coward. I left you there with him.”

You go to hold her then, patting her back. All your bitterness towards her has melted away. You understand that she could have been in your place, or you in hers very easily. Neither of you with an ounce of power to change your life in any meaningful way.

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“The ship leaves at dawn.” The captain tells you, “Be there on time or the ship leaves without you.”

You nod.

“No refunds.”

You nod again.

The ticket had cost you most of your savings so you look around you for the cheapest room and supper you can find for the night. Finally, you manage to find a small inn far from the castle, on the outskirts of the city. The supper is meager and your room is small, but you are grateful to be as far away from Aerion as possible. Even so, you cannot sleep, so after tossing and turning for a while you decide to head back downstairs to the common area.

The hall is filled with busy innkeepers, carrying trays of food and ale to late arrivals. The late arrivals seem rowdy but happy, so they do not trouble you. Even so the room feels stifling with so many people so you step outside for some fresh air thinking that will calm your mind.

You stare up at the sky, the night sky is beautiful. Endless stars, all around you. Suddenly you see a white majestic owl flying above you. You smile up at it, it’s so beautiful. You watch as it flies away wondering if it’s a good omen of things to come.

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“I don’t understand.” You say as you argue with the sailor. “Isn’t there more than one captain that can sail the boat?” It’s early in the day and the sky around you has a dark purple tint.

“I told you. Both the captain and his second in command got bitten.” He says annoyed, as he unpacks boxes from the ship.

“How?” You ask.

“Snakes.” He answers with a huff, putting down a heavy box. “If you ask me it’s a dark omen, we won’t sail for at least another fortnight.”

“But I bought a ticket.” You plead.

“And the ticket will be valid in a fortnight.” He argues back.

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You sit outside the inn, the night becoming colder around you, calculating how many days your coin will last you. You think you can make it a fortnight, barely. You have no choice however, all the other tickets in bigger boats cost far more than you can afford. The innkeeper's rat-catcher cat snuggles up to you, his orange frame fluffy and clean despite the fact that it lives mostly outdoors. You stroke its soft coat comforted by its presence. It hisses as a crow lands close.

You stroke the cat again trying to get it to calm down, as it starts howling meanly at the crow. At least you think it’s a crow, it’s so dark out now that you can hardly make out the bird. You walk closer to it, searching your pockets for any leftover corn you might have carried off with you. The crow stands still as if waiting for you, you reach out to stroke it and it lets you. You smile pleasantly surprised, and toss the small pieces of corn you found in your pocket his way. The crow however does not reach for any of the corn. Instead it stands still watching you, almost with a haughty look. You shiver. A dark crawling sensation creeping over you.

“Aerion?” You ask, in a whisper.

The crow caws loudly, before taking flight right into your face. You cower covering your face and hear the cat mewing angrily as well as the crow also flies into it before flying off.

“It’s all in my head.” You tell yourself as you shiver and toss and turn in your small bed that night, unable to sleep again.

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You awaken with his arms around you. You wonder if you are dreaming as you look into Aerion’s violet eyes, his silver hair iridescent in the morning sun. He picks you up out of the bed, that’s when you know you are not dreaming.

“Aerion?” You ask up at him.

He smiles down at you, then carries you out of the room.

You look around you, there is light around you so you guess it must be early morning. As you pass the hall downstairs the innkeepers avoid your eyes as they stand aside. You notice the coin purses in their hands though.

Aerion places you in the ground as one of his guards brings him his horse. He mounts the ink dark beast easily in one smooth move, then reaches his hand out for you, waiting for you to take it. You don’t move from your spot. Your mind feels heavy and sluggish as you try to comprehend what is happening. You feel almost as if you are outside your own body, looking at yourself standing below him.

You feel one of his guard’s hands on you suddenly as he picks you up easily and places you into Aerion’s saddle. Your body feels frozen, and so does your mind as Aerion grabs on to your stomach with one hand and ushers the horse forward with the other.

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“What are you?” You finally ask, as you both ride through the outskirts of the city in the early morning. The road is empty except for the two guards riding in front of you.

He presses closer to you from behind. His breath hot on your ear.

“I am the blood of the dragon.” He answers, as he drags his nose from the bottom of your neck to your right earlobe, which he then licks.

You shudder. “Are you a man or a beast?” You ask.

“I am a man that should have been a dragon.” He says, as he pulls at your robe. “But the dragons are gone, so I fly on smaller wings.”

“On crows?” You ask. “On owls?”

“Yes, and more.” He answers.

“On snakes?” You ask.

He pulls at your nightgown attempting to bring it up.

“Why me?” You ask. “You could have anyone.”

“But I want you.” He answers as he finally pulls your nightgown high enough that he has access to your cunt. He drags his fingers there, pressing into your warm folds. You can feel the warmth of his cock through his breaches and through your thin nightgown on your back.

“I’m not a Targeryan.” You note.

“I know!” He says angrily, as he presses you even closer to his bulging cock with his free hand. “Do you think I have chosen you on purpose?!”

“My older brother Daerion tells me there is a madness in me.” Aerion says as he grinds his cock onto your back. “He thinks I will lose my mind one day, unable to distinguish between the beast and the man.”

He thrusts two fingers inside you, making you gasp.

“The man in me says you are no good. Dirty blood. Low birth.” He says, as he kisses at your neck, and presses inside of you with his fingers. “The beast though, the beast recognizes your scent everywhere I go. It drives me mad with want. The beast in me has already chosen you. The moment you entered my room that very first day, before I ever saw you, before you ever saw me. I came into my room and I could smell you all around me, like a longing that I could not touch. I wondered what it was. I had never experienced it before. Then I saw you come in, your eyes to the ground, I knew then that my bloodline would be ruined by you. I tried so hard to tame my want of you. But my brother is right, I am often more beast than man, and beasts do not understand what is good for men.”

You slump then against his chest. All the energy has been drained out of you, and you are irrevocably tired.

“So I never stood a chance.” You say, more to yourself than to him.

“Never.” He confirms, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“I did try to let you go.” He says after a while, his fingers trailing the wetness of your hole, up to your sweet spot, where he focuses and presses around and round in circles. “But in my dreams, I would take flight and without knowing I would look for you.”

“Accept your fate.” He says, as he presses harder and faster into your sweet spot, and you do. The ache in you gives into his graceful fingers as you fall into bliss at his hands. Your throbbing cunt rubbing into his fingers until you fall over the threshold of bliss and collapse into his chest.

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Your cunt is throbbing from being fucked for so long. Aerion has been fucking you all day. So much so that you now feel as if your cunt is empty without his cock inside you. You stumble out of his bedchamber though, you need some air.

You stand outside in the courtyard looking up at the night sky and taking deep breaths of the fresh night air, until you notice the kitchen cat staring at you intently from the shadows. You shiver.

You will never be able to escape him, this warg that is more beast than man. His eyes will follow everywhere you go in different forms, in different shapes.

“I just needed some air.” You tell him. He looks at you with glowing feline eyes, before approaching you and rubbing up against your legs. He heads back in the direction of the bedchamber, before looking back at you, waiting for you to follow him.

As you enter his bedchamber, you look at him in the light of the candles. His face peaceful as he sleeps, his lips pull slightly at the corners almost as if he’s smiling. He opens his purple eyes then and truly smiles.

The cat you had been following suddenly looks around and meows as if lost, before slinking away from you and out of the room.

“Come.” Aerion beckons, his hand outstretched towards you from the bed. “I want to see my seed spilling out of your pretty cunt once more.”