It was not his fault, not really. You two got married too young, too soon, it was what his father expected and so did yours. So you two obeyed and married. Barely had the time to exchange a word before you were standing in the Sept of Baelor under the prying eyes of the court.

You made a sound he prayed to the Gods that it wasn’t a laugh. He pulled back so fast you swore to hear his neck crack. His pale face, already flushed from too much wedding wine, had turned the color of a ripe tomato.

He had been kissed before, but briefly. Nothing more than a little peck in the lips from a pretty wench Aerion had brought for him. He rejected any other suggestions from her because his father taught him to maintain decorum and to be a good prince.

"I'm sorry” he said. Then, louder: "I'm so sorry."

The Sept was empty now. The guests had dispersed about an hour ago, retreating to the Red Keep for the feast in the carriages. You were supposed to follow behind, but Prince Baelor insisted that you two needed some ‘alone time before the eyes of the Gods’ and nothing could’ve made you more nervous. The candles had burned low, guttering in their holders, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Somewhere outside, a servant was humming as they walked by.

And here you were. Husband and wife. Alone for the first time.

"That was—" you started.

"Awful” he finished miserably. "It was awful. You don't have to be kind. I've read the histories, I know what's expected of a husband on his wedding night, and I just—"

He made a vague, helpless gesture at his own face. "My nose. I think it’s too big. I've always suspected it. Now I have proof."

You stared at him.

The Prince of Dragonstone was muttering about the size of his nose and you started to laugh.

Not a delicate, lady-like giggle. A real laugh.

Valarr lowered his hands. His hair was falling into his eyes, and his expression shifted from mortification to confusion to something that looked almost like hurt.

"You're laughing at me” he said.

"Yes” you agreed, still laughing. "I'm so sorry. I am. I truly am." You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. "But you bit my lip, my prince."

"I know." His voice was small.

"And you said your nose was too big."

"It is too big."

"It's a perfectly normal nose."

"It’s a genes thing" he said miserably. "All my ancestors had them. My grandsire has one. My father has one. I've just never—I've never done this before. Kissed someone. Properly. And now I've ruined it."

He sat down heavily on the edge of the statue of The Mother, looking for all the world like a man awaiting execution. "You probably want to go back to your own chamber. I wouldn't blame you. I'll tell everyone it was my fault. I'll tell them I snore. I do snore, actually. So that wouldn't even be a lie."

You looked at him, this strange, solemn, earnest boy-man who was your husband now. The songs had promised you fire and passion, a kiss that would make your knees weak. They had promised you a dragonlord, fierce and bold. Instead, you had gotten a flustered prince.

And somehow, you found that much better. You wouldn’t change him for some bad-tempered Targaryen with the seed of madness. This was much warmer, much tender. He was.

You crossed the room and sat down beside him.

"My prince” you said quietly.

“Please—just Valarr. I’m your husband now.”

“Valarr” you moved closer "Look at me."

He turned his head. His mismatched eyes were wary, braced for rejection. You reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold. You laced yours through them anyway.

"You’re right, you're my husband. But didn’t know what I was agreeing to when I said my vows. And neither did you"

“What i did know is that husband and wife learn together.”

A pause. "Although, to be fair, I didn't know your kissing skills were quite so memorable.”

He almost smiled. "That's cruel” he said, but there was no heat in it. "You're being cruel to me on our wedding night, my lady.”

"I'm being honest on our wedding night. There's a difference." You squeezed his hand.

"The songs are wrong, you know. About all of it. About love at first sight, about perfect kisses, about everything being easy and beautiful and right the moment you look into someone's eyes."

His brow furrowed. "They are?"

"They are” you said firmly. "My mother told me. This morning she said that the first kiss would probably be terrible. That it almost always is. That it takes practice, like everything else.“

Valarr was quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly: "Your mother sounds wise."

"She is." You leaned your shoulder against his. "And I think, maybe, we should practice. If you want."

He turned to look at you. His face was still flushed, but something in his expression had shifted, less like a miserable man and more like a man who had just been offered a plate of lemon cakes.

"Practice” he repeated.

"Practice."

"You're not going to laugh at me again?"

"I make no promises” you said solemnly. "But I'll try very hard not to."

He considered this. Then, slowly, he raised his free hand and touched your cheek. His palm was warm now, or perhaps your skin was just cold. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think, suddenly, with him looking at you like that.

"I should warn you” he said quietly, "I'm still not very good at this."

"Good thing we have the rest of our lives, then."

He smiled.

It was the first real smile you had seen from him, not the tight, polite smile when you first met, it was small and a little bit shy, and it made his whole face change. Made him look even younger.

"All right” he said. "Practice."

This time, when he leaned in, he was careful. Slow. You closed your eyes and felt the soft brush of his nose against yours and the whisper of his breath on your lips. He hesitated for just a moment, as if asking silent permission.

You gave it.

The kiss was nothing like the songs.

It was clumsy in a different way, too much pressure, then not enough, a brief moment where you both seemed to forget which way to tilt heads. You felt him smile against your mouth, felt your own lips twitch in response, and broke apart laughing, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the space between you.

"That was still not very good” he admitted.

"No” you agreed. "But it was better."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were bright, almost teasing now, the solemn mask well and truly discarded.

"Again?" he asked. “Please?”

You reached up and cupped the back of his neck, drawing him down.

"Again”

And the third time with his hand finding the small of your back and your fingers tangling in his hair, the third time was not perfect either. But his lips brushed so softly against yours that you melted. And so did he.