“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”

You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?

The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”

You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there. 

You bristle instantly.

“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”

“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”

My love.

His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?

“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”

Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him. 

“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”

You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.

“You should know already,” you hiss.

“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”

You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away. 

You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react. 

They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—

—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband. 

Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.

A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.

It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.

“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”

Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.

“The Lannister girl?”

You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”

To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.

You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”

Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.

You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.

The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently. 

“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”

“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”

You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.

“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”

“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”

You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.

He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache. 

“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”

“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.

“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”

You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.

Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut. 

“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”

“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.

“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”

You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn. 

“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”

“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?

Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall. 

“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”

“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”

“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”

Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”

“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”

“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair. 

“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”

Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”

“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”

Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.

His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.

“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.

You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours. 

“It does not matter.”

“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”

You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood. 

“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.

“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”

You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not. 

Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”

“No one.”

“Who has frightened you, then?”

You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”

Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.” 

His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.

You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.

“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”

“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.

“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”

“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.

“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”

“I did not know that,” you whisper.

“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”

“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.

“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”

Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”

“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”

This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.

“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.

“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.

“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”

Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”

Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”

You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”

“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”

You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.

The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.

Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.

“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”

You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?” 

Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”

“Do not mock me,” you mutter.

“I am trying very hard not to.”

“You are failing.”

“Terribly,” he admits.

You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”

“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”

Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.

“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.

You blink. “Well, yes.”

You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.

“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”

Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”

You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”

“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?” 

You eye him warily. “What?”

“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”

Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.

“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.” 

Something in your chest twists painfully.

“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”

You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.

“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”

“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”

“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.” 

“You are insufferable, is what you are.”

He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”

“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.

“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.

You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.

You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”

He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”

“I will poison you if you do.” 

His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”

You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.

Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.

“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.

Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”

“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”

You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.

“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”

“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.

Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”

“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”

“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”

Your chest aches. Loathsome man.

“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already. 

The Prince is also very fond of being close to you. Where other lords, and certainly some of the Princes, would find it unfitting or childish, Daeron will not shy away from holding your hand, tucking his head against your shoulder, or putting an arm around you. Several times, you’ve had to giggle and step away, playfully chiding him about his public image. He is well aware of how people see him, and if that means he can stand with you pressed against him in a crowd, he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

I had this vision of him that struck me while writing this: Daeron, drunk out of his mind, lost in the dark outside of a tavern, halfway to Ashford with no brother in sight. He’s upset, confused, stumbling around in the woods, and falls against a tree when his legs can no longer keep himself up. He falls into restless sleep, visions of dragons spinning in his head. When he wakes, there’s only a dim light on the horizon, and a warmth pressed against his hip. It's a cat, ragged fur and a notched ear, sleeping soundly against him. He’s extremely confused in his drunk, half-asleep state, but scratches its head as it purrs, and falls back into slumber with a hand protectively on its back. Even when he thinks the worst of himself, others can sense the innate goodness, deep down. 

Maekar: 

Maekar is loyal to a fault. He’s a soldier, trained from a young age to take orders as the youngest son of a King. As an adult, it shows in his dedication to the people he loves. He is Baelor’s shadow, on and off the battlefield. The expendable spare, ready to take a hit for the brother he looks up to so fondly. There's a discipline in him; training, learning, listening to what he’s told and executing it with efficiency and competence. 

It is the same in his marriage; even if there isn’t love right away, he would never think to break an oath. He may not be soft or warm or cuddly but make no mistake, you can feel how much he cares peeking through his incessant need to keep you safe. He feels the need to do things for you himself. Yes you have an escort of guards around you, but he insists on being the one to take a turn with you in the gardens alone. If you’re planning on a ride, he checks your saddle before you mount, ensuring it will not fail. Maekar learns quickly to anticipate your needs; a new gown when you tear a hem, the next volume before you’ve finished a book, his cloak around your shoulders before you even realize you’re chilly. 

He’s not one for poetry or song, often he doesn’t even verbalize his love for you, but you feel it all the same. You know it's hard for him to admit his feelings, years of forcing down opinions in favor of those who give orders has made him unsure of how to open up. And Maekar hates feeling unsure of himself. Instead, he’ll avoid awkward confessions and scrambled musings of love, the unwavering faithfulness all the admission you need to know he feels the same. 

I touched on this in the other post, but he does secretly love attention and affection, especially physical. If you ask him to snuggle up to you in bed, he’ll grumble about how undignified it is for a prince to do something so silly, but he pulls you against his chest and tucks you under his chin. Part of it is a protection aspect: where would you be safer than in his arms? He also just loves the feeling of your hand holding his head or rubbing his back. 

Despite most of his life being an exercise in strength, brutality, and honing the ability to turn off emotions, Maekar loves hard. It doesn’t really look like it to people who don’t know him well, and that’s by design. For the first time in his life, he does not care what anyone but the person he loves thinks of him. He’s stern and grouchy, tough and crass, but he would follow you to hell and back if you asked him. 

Aerion:

For all his faults, and there are many, Aerion is extremely protective over what he deems as his. This can be toxic, at times, possessive, but there is a fierceness in which he would defend anyone or anything that he loves. He takes pride in the feeling of keeping someone safe, a true dragon defending his hoard. There are no lengths he would not go to defend someone if he truly loves them. He’s easily the most skilled warrior of his brothers, something else he takes pride in, spending hours training and dedicating himself to the task. He’s strong, wiry and tough, and able to stand up to men much bigger than himself without hesitation. Of course, it gets him into trouble.

He cares, very deeply, about a great many things; what you think of him, if he’s strong enough to warrant a reputation,  his own standing in the dragon house, but he has an ability to mask any insecurity, and turn it into confidence. It frightens most, lords and commonfolk alike keeping their distance. He revels in the fear, but he also knows it keeps you safe. He’s obsessive: a word spoken in jest about you, an eye staring too long at your neck, a hand offered to help you to your seat, and he’s losing it. It's his job to help you, to leer at your decolletage and to tease you mercilessly. Gods help any man who tries, they’ll suddenly find themselves at his mercy, and we’ve all seen where that leads. Bloody knuckles, broken bones, bruised eyes and egos. He’ll fight and fight until he feels like whatever wrongdoing has been fully paid back. Aerion doesn’t care how injured he gets, his eyes see red and feeling leaves his body as the adrenaline rushes. After, as long as you’re safe in his arms, kissing his face and cleaning his wounds, he’s content to keep fighting. 

Dunk:

Dunk is the very truest of knights. Honor, integrity, truth, these are the traits he knows are baked into the oath every knight swears, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t follow them. He’s chivalrous, but not in a way where it feels condescending. You know when he offers to carry your basket, he’s doing it to be kind, not because he thinks you can’t do it yourself. When he wraps his cloak around your shoulders, it's because he wants you to be warm, not because he expects anything in return. When he steps in front of you at the sight of danger, it's because the thought of you hurt makes him so angry that his body moves before his brain has fully formed the thought. He wants to help people, to be useful, needed. Helping old ladies up stairs, teaching a young squire a sword trick, giving the crust of his bread to a curious bird. It's purely out of the goodness of his heart. 

He’s the most lovesick puppy of a man. Following close behind you, dopey grin on his face, while you go about your day. He preens when you ask him to get something down from a high shelf, his shoulders shift back and his spine straightens when you thank him for helping you. Helping you up on a horse, tying your boot laces, giving you the warmer blanket, he’s just so pleased to have someone to take care of, and the way he knows how to show his love is to help. He does the same for Egg, though he does try to be sterner with the boy. His sweet, brotherly affection he shows for the child is heartwarming. There’s no end to threats of clouts on the ear, bed without supper, tending to the horses alone, but you, Egg, and even Dunk himself knows it's all in vain. The fond look on his face when the little Prince disarms him gives him away instantly. 

Dunk is well aware of how large he is, how if someone didn't know his kind heart, they might find him daunting. He goes out of his way to be smaller and softer, to move slowly so as not to spook people. I’ve mentioned it before, but Gwin Ashford picks at him, gets in his face, and feels no fear. She’s literally a tween girl, but immediately senses that he won’t retaliate if she jabs at him. It takes a lot to provoke him to real anger, and anything less means he tries hard to be unintimidating. 

He almost dies from happiness when you give the same attention back to him. Mending holes in his clothes, chatting with the horses as you feed them, gently pulling his giant form out of the way so he doesn't trip over tree roots. It's the simplest things, but he covets the attention you give him. Dunk adores you, and shows you by acts of service, so when you do something for him, it tells him how much you love him back. 

Baelor:

Despite being raised in King’s Landing, years of heavy strength and swordsmanship training, and countless bouts on the battlefield, Baelor remains gentle and kind in a way so few men in Westeros are. It's not weakness by any means, rather he fights all his instincts; the lessons engrained in him, his hot Targaryen dragon blood. For the realm, it means an even-headed, calm, intelligent man ruling with both compassion and tenacity. 

For you, it means a man who will listen to you speak for hours so that he can better understand every part of you. A man who will take a deep breath and apologize instead of escalating an argument. A man who, in spite of his status, treats you as an equal and insists on you calling him Baelor; not my Prince, or eventually my King, just the name he was given. Of course duty is important to him, he works himself to the bone to try and live up to his own standards, but he also yearns for a connection with you and to know you wholly, and for you to know him. 

Baelor works diligently on any task. Whether it's planning logistics for grain distribution, or helping you clip a necklace, he treats any duty like a chance to prove himself, and to execute said task with completeness. He does not not understand when you giggle to yourself in the mirror when he braids your hair with the same concentration he plans battle strategy, both are equally important to get right for him. 

He is also remarkably bright, focusing on his political and historical intelligence to better prepare himself when he ascends the throne. Baelor never makes you feel stupid, however. Intellect is something he covets, and he is more than interested in hearing what you know, and explaining what you ask him in a way that shows he thinks of you as academically equal. 

He’s not a show-off type, rather he knows his strengths, and is content to let them speak for themselves. Not one to brag, confident but with the poise of someone who knows his worth. You wouldn’t often see him on a tourney field, not only would it be unsafe for the heir, but he doesn't find he needs the satisfaction of winning. Why risk an injury, or frightening you, to knock some fresh boy off his horse? Baelor would much rather use that energy to practice and perfect his skill in a yard, sparring with experts he could actually learn something from. He’s not the proud sort. Rather, he’s a good man, with a good heart, who longs to take care of someone. 

Lyonel:

Lyonel is the type of man who never really cared about marriage; didn’t want a tidy wife to have to look after, and he certainly didn’t want to end his gallivanting and carnality. So when he does marry, he’s not the type to force a wife into the strict standards of a noblewoman. That doesn’t necessarily mean he needs someone who will get up and dance on a table with him (though he would certainly enjoy it), but he would never understand why some men want silence and subservience from a partner. 

Instead, he’s excited to hear you talk about your interests; he may cut in and ask questions or add his own commentary, but he’ll also sit and listen with his chin in his hand while you tell him about a book you read or a bit of gossip you heard. When you laugh loudly at a crude joke he makes, or make an even cruder one yourself, he’s grinning ear to ear. If you eagerly tell him how much you love dancing, he’s finding the nearest tavern to spin you in immediately. Lyonel has a way of making friends with anyone, and you are no exception. If the two of you will be living together, expected to make heirs and rule the Stormlands, he is determined to make you like him. He’s too busy trying to make you laugh with his antics, or impress you with a hunt, or regale you with stories of adventure, to realize he’s fallen head over heels, deeply, wildly in love. 

He’s not a serious person, and while that can have its faults, his lust for adventure and intense need for companionship mean that he wants to be around you constantly, and is in desperate desire for your pleasure. If you like to read, he’s sitting beside you in the gardens, fidgeting in his seat but trying to pay attention to the story. If you like to ride, he’s lifting you up onto a horse and following you out into the glen. You get the picture. It's not so much about the activity, as it is about getting to make you happy. 

At his core, Lyonel would do anything for the people he loves. I know I’ve said this before, but he literally joins a fight to the death for Dunk after knowing him for like a day. He is fiercely loyal, would step in front of an arrow for someone he cares for. It borders on crazy, certainly, but you cannot deny his devotion.