A Sad Soul Is Always Up Past Midnight

“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 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.

ynmakar

♫ kali uchis - melting

liked by trevorzegras, jamie.drysdale, calemakar_, and others

ynmakar go flyers ! 🧡

calemakar_: never getting tickets to an avs game again

-> ynmakar: no please go avs

-> trevorzegras: traitor

jamie.drysdale: who’s the cutie on slide 3

-> trevorzegras: 😍

-> ynmakar: hop off 💔

trevorzegras: cute outfit babe 💕

-> ynmakar: aw thanks

-> flyers4life: new it hockey couple!!

trevorzegras

♫ zach bryan - oklahoma smokeshow

liked by ynmakar, philadelphiaflyers, jamie.drysdale, nhl, and others

trevorzegras: philly is pretty fun

ynmakar: cutie

liked by creator

jamie.drysdale: replacing me already

-> trevorzegras: could never replace you

-> ynmakar: he gets a reply and i get a like 💔

flyerscommunity: is this our year!

phillysports: is this girl makar’s sister?

-> ynmakar: yes ☺️

calemakar_

liked by coloradoavalanche, nhl, ynmakar, mackinnon29, tracymakar_ and others

calemakar_: i love my job

mackinnon29: 🔥 🔥

ynmakar: my brother is so tuff

-> calemakar_: traitor

-> ynmakar: sigh we’re still talking about that

coloradoavalanche: best defenseman in the world!

tracymakar_: handsome boy ! 💕

-> calemakar_: i love you tracy ❤️

-> ynmakar: aw cute

hockeyinsights

liked by flyerscommunity, dameliosfan, ducks24, and others

hockeyinsights: trevor zegras seen at a party with ex girlfriend dixie damelio, could him and yn makar have broken up?

dameliosfan: so wtf

flyerscommunity: noooo 💔💔

ducks24: come back to the ducks z!

-> hockeygoat: yeah so… not the time

-> dameliosfan: i feel so bad for yn they legit just posted each other 2 days ago….

texts between cale and yn

ynmakar uploaded a story!

trevorzegras has replied to your story!

trevorzegras: please baby we can talk about this

trevorzegras: it meant nothing i was drunk

ynmakar: you made your choice, now i make mine

ynmakar: we’re done

ynmakar has blocked trevorzegras!

ynmakar

♫ olivia rodrigo - the cure

liked by coloradoavalanche, calemakar_, tracymakar_, mackinnon29, and others

ynmakar: denver 📍

yourbestfriend: they say you get better hair when you dump a trash man!

-> ynmakar: i know that’s right

coloradoavalanche: so happy to have you at a game!

-> ynmakar: loving denver!

tracymakar_: love you so much yn!

-> calemakar_: getting replaced by my sister

-> ynmakar: i’m better ❤️❤️

avalanchefanclub: are we ignoring nathan mackinnon in the likes of cale makar’s younger sisters post 😭

liked by creator

-> yourbestfriend: apparently yn isn’t

mackinnon29

liked by ynmakar, coloradoavalanche, calemakar_, landeskog.92, and others

mackinnon29: hat trick 🎩

coloradoavalanche: that’s our mackinnon!

landeskog.92: doing what he does best

-> mackinnon29: thanks cap

calemakar_: best teammate i could ask for!!

-> mackinnon29: thanks for the passes

ynmakar: yes your tuff 🔥

liked by creator

avalanchefanclub: please get with cales sister!

-> avsfan: show why canada is better 🇨🇦 🔥

-> mackinnonmygoat: you guys realize yn is 26 right 💔

-> avsfan: i mean 4 years ain’t that much 🤷‍♀️

more texts between cale and yn