Dreamer

◌ ◞ I’VE GOT SUNSHINE, ON A CLOUDY DAY !

❛❛ the introduction to snow angel reader !

◌ ◞ I’LL CRAWL HOME TO HER !

❛❛ the introduction to snow angel reader ! and peter prior

◌ ◞ UP ALL NIGHT…

❛❛ keeping your sleepy boyfriend up with your silly questions

◌ ◞ YOU GOT ME LOOKING FOR ATTENTION !

❛❛ I don’t want the worlds attention, yours is enough

◌ ◞ KISSES PLEASE !

❛❛ If the cosmos had a lullaby, it would sound like your shallow breaths against my collarbone…

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Ი𐑼 IT’S FINALLY HERE ₍₍⚞(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾ i have been oh so obsessed with finn and true detective since it came out so i knew i had to make a AU for it because my mind wouldn’t stop thinking about it hehe 🌟this is a interactive au so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !!

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taglist : @minikiiikiii @pixiebratz @cuntibrina @lovings4turn @tartybleedinghearts @jimhalpertldn @aerangi @animegamerfox @sk1nnylikefel1x @userhotd

۶ৎ taglist is open

© carmysdoll | all rights reserved.

The throne room was empty when the last voices faded away. The torches crackled in their iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that climbed the carved stone columns until they vanished into the darkness high above. Valarr remained seated on the Iron Throne, his elbows resting on the arms of fused steel, his chin propped on interlaced fingers while the crown rested on his brow, and he felt its weight grow heavier with every passing hour.

It had been a long day of pleas, of lamentations, of men and women kneeling before him with eyes full of hope and despair. A day of councillors speaking of grain and taxes, of disgruntled lords in the riverlands, of the need to strengthen the defences in the south while winter crept slowly down from the north. Maekar had stood beside him through the whole afternoon, offering counsel that Valarr knew to be wise, yet still it could not silence the voice inside his head that kept asking: what would my father do?

He closed his eyes for a moment, and beneath him the throne creaked faintly, as if the thousand swords that made it up were alive, always ready to remind the one who sat there that this seat had never been made for comfort.

Valarr opened his eyes and looked towards the doors of the hall. They were closed, of course; the guards had withdrawn to the outer corridors when he had ordered that he be left alone. He needed silence, needed to think, but silence, he had discovered, was a luxury a king could rarely enjoy in peace, because silence brought memories.

It was like this every night.

He saw his father in every corner of the hall, walking towards him with a smile that said he knew exactly what to say; saw him tilt his head while listening to the petitions of minor lords, saw him pause for a moment before offering an answer that seemed so natural, so certain, that everyone around simply nodded. Baelor had made it look easy, had made it seem that ruling, even as a prince, was like breathing or walking.

Valarr did not feel that way. He never had.

As a child, he had watched his grandsire on the Iron Throne. Daeron the Good, they called him. A king who had brought peace and prosperity to Westeros, who had unified the kingdoms through marriages and diplomacy. Valarr remembered sitting at the foot of the throne while his grandsire listened to the lords, and he remembered thinking that here was a man who never doubted himself. A man made for the throne.

Afterwards, it seemed that Baelor knew exactly how to balance the weight of the crown with the humanity he carried inside him. He had taught Valarr everything he knew, had sat with him for hours, explaining the intricacies of politics, the subtle games the lords played among themselves, the art of listening more than speaking. Valarr had learned, had listened, had noted it all down in his mind.

But learning and knowing are different things. Knowing and being able to do them, too.

The door of the hall creaked.

Valarr looked up, his body tensing for an instant, but the tension dissolved as quickly as it had come; you were there, in the entrance, wrapped in a dress of pale grey wool that barely hid the curve of your belly. The torchlight danced in your hair, and you were looking at him with that smile he knew so well, the one that came because you were happy to see him.

"You look handsome wearing the crown," you said, and your footsteps echoed softly across the stones of the hall as you drew nearer.

Valarr felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards, despite everything. You always did that, always found a way to remind him that he was more than just the crown he bore. He lifted his hands and removed it slowly, and the weight seemed to lessen a little.

"It never felt like it belonged to me," he replied, holding the crown before him. "You know that."

You stopped a few paces from the throne, tilting your head.

Your eyes met his, and Valarr felt something unfold in his chest. This was the look you had given him since the day you met, eight years ago, when he was only a prince and you were a young woman who did not seem intimidated by his lineage. You had always seen him — not the prince, not the heir, not the king — just Valarr.

"Do you think anyone is born belonging to a crown?" you asked, stepping forward. "Your grandsire wasn't born with a crown on his head, and you… you are learning. Every day you are learning, my husband."

Valarr took a deep breath.

You were so gentle with him, so patient that there were days when he wondered how he could deserve that patience, that love that seemed so unshakeable. There were days when he felt that everything he did was fail, and yet you remained there, looking at him the same way, as if he were the man you had known at eighteen, before any responsibility to Westeros.

"Come here," he murmured, reaching out his hand.

You approached the throne, but instead of sitting beside him, you stopped before the iron structure, your eyes tracing the blades that made up the seat. Valarr watched as you slowly raised a hand, your fingers brushing one of the swords with curiosity, and he felt his heart quicken.

"Careful," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "These swords cut."

You turned your face to him, and a smile bloomed on your lips.

"Cut?" you repeated, tilting your head. "Does that mean I would be unworthy of being the king's wife? I've heard that the throne cuts those who are not worthy."

Valarr felt concern mingle with a flash of exasperation. He stood, the crown still in his hands, and descended the iron steps until he stood before you.

"This is a throne made of swords," he retorted, gently.

You stared at him, your smile fading gradually as you looked at him. Your hand moved away from the throne and found his, and you laced your fingers together.

"I know," you murmured, smiling genuinely. "I just wanted… I don't know. Maybe I wanted to see if it would cut me too."

Valarr felt something tighten in his chest. He raised his free hand and touched your face, his palm resting against your soft cheek.

"It wouldn't cut you," he said. "Because it's not the throne that decides who is worthy. And even if it meant something, you could never be unworthy of my love."

You closed your eyes for a moment, leaning your head against his hand. When you opened them again, there was something — a softness — that made him remember why he had fallen in love with you, all those years ago.

"You're worried," you observed.

Valarr let out a sigh and allowed his body to relax slightly. You always knew, always noticed, even when he tried to hide it, even when he believed he was being the king everyone expected him to be, you saw right through him.

"I'm always worried," he replied, and the honesty of the words surprised him.

"I know," you said, holding his hand more tightly. "But today seems a little worse, doesn't it?"

Valarr looked at the throne behind you, at the rows of swords that gleamed in the torchlight. He remembered the day he had first sat upon it as king, feeling the hardness of the iron against his back, the cold of the blades against his skin through his clothes. It was as if all those who had occupied that seat before him were watching, waiting, judging.

"I heard petitions today," he said, shifting his gaze from the throne back to you. "A man whose daughter was taken by bandits, a widow whose lands were seized by a neighbouring lord, a merchant who lost everything in a shipwreck. And I stood there, listening, trying to decide what to do. My uncle was beside me, offering counsel. Other councillors too. Each with a different opinion, each telling me what I ought to do, and I stood there, thinking about what my father would say."

You said nothing for a moment, just listened.

"I don't know what he would say," Valarr continued. "Because he isn't here, and I… I don't know if I learned enough. I don't know if I was a good son, a good heir, a good…" He hesitated. "If I am being a good king."

"Valarr," you said, and your name on your lips always sounded so kind. "You are being hard on yourself."

"Someone has to be," he replied, with a bitter smile. "Won't the realm be hard on me? Won't the lords? They look at me and see Baelor's son, King Daeron's grandson, and they expect me to be like them, but I am not. I am not like my father or my grandsire, I am just… me."

You pulled him closer, and Valarr let you guide him. You were shorter than him, your pregnant belly preventing him from embracing you fully, but even so he wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on top of your head.

"I knew you before you were king," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "I knew the man you are, not the king, the Valarr who laughed when I said something foolish, who got embarrassed when he caught him off guard. The Valarr who wept with me when we lost our first child."

Valarr squeezed his eyes shut.

The mention of the boy still hurt, even after all those months. The firstborn who had been born with a strong, healthy cry, who had grown too quickly, who had learned to walk too early, who had run through the castle after his grandsire Baelor; and then the illness, the fever, the small body that grew cold in his arms. He still saw the boy sometimes, in dreams, and afterwards he would wake with a tight heart and a guilt that never seemed to fade.

"I know," he murmured against your hair. "I know."

You pulled back slightly, enough to look at his face. Your eyes were damp, but you did not cry. You were stronger than him in that way. You always had been.

"You don't have to be your father," you said. "You don't have to be your grandsire. You don't have to be anyone but yourself, and if the realm expects something else… well, they'll have to learn. Because I know you, Valarr. I know you're a good man, that you love your children, that you try, every single day, to do the best you can. And that… that is more than many kings have done."

Valarr kissed you then, a soft, brief kiss. You always knew what to say, found the words he needed to hear, even when he did not know he needed them.

"You're too good for me," he said, resting his forehead against yours.

"Maybe," you replied, with a small smile. "But you're the king, and I'm stuck with you. What can I do?"

He let out a laugh, a short and genuine one that seemed to surprise him. You always managed to make him laugh, even on the hardest of days for both of you, and that was one of the many reasons he loved you.

"Come," you said, tugging at his hand. "The children are waiting for you. When I left, they were playing and saying they wanted their father to put them to bed tonight, that I don't know how to tell dragon stories."

Valarr felt the guilt stir again in his chest.

He spent so little time with them, whole days would pass without him seeing the boys, trapped in meetings and audiences, and when he finally returned to their chambers, it was already night. The little ones were asleep, their toys scattered across the floor, and Valarr would sit beside their beds and watch them, wondering if they knew he loved them, if they understood why their father was always absent.

"How are they?" he asked, as they walked side by side towards the doors of the hall.

"Well," you said, your hand still in his. "Aethan asked today if you're the most important king who ever lived. I said yes, of course."

Valarr shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

"You shouldn't say things like that, he'll grow up thinking his father is a god."

"He'll grow up knowing his father is the man he should admire," you corrected, and there was something in the way you said it that made Valarr look away. You saw him in a way he could never see himself.

You walked through the torchlit corridors, Valarr's footsteps echoing against the stones alongside yours, lighter. The guards nodded to them as they passed, but Valarr barely noticed; he was focused on you, on the sway of your body as you walked, on the way your hand rested on your belly.

You were a few months along now, enough that the baby could be felt moving, enough that your dress curved around your growing shape.

"How's the baby?" he asked, gently.

You smiled, and your smile lit up your whole face. You always smiled like that when you spoke of the baby, even after so many pregnancies.

"Clever," you said. "Hasn't stopped moving for hours. I think he's impatient to be born. Or maybe it's a girl. Girls are more restless, aren't they?"

"Do you think it's a girl?" Valarr asked, stopping in the middle of the corridor.

The question caught him off guard, because the three previous births had all been boys. Three sons, all healthy, all strong, the loss of the eldest still hurt, but the other two were alive, growing, filling the castle with their games.

You tilted your head, considering the question.

"I don't know," you admitted. "But perhaps the gods will decide to give us something different this time."

Valarr touched your belly with one hand, feeling the soft curve beneath the fabric. There was no movement at that moment, but he knew that he — or she — was there, growing, waiting for the time to come into the world.

"If it's a girl, I'd like to call her Alysanne," he said, and the word came out more easily than he had expected.

He had thought about it, of course. Thought about many names, many possibilities, but he had never said it aloud.

"Alysanne," you repeated, pleased. "That's beautiful. Like Jaehaerys's queen."

"Exactly," said Valarr. "She was a great queen. It would be a good name for a daughter."

You smiled and kept walking, and Valarr followed, his hand still resting on your belly, as if he could feel the baby through the fabric, through the skin, through everything that separated them.

He wondered if the boy they had lost would have grown up to be like him, if he would have inherited his grandsire's smile, that calm way of observing the world. Valarr would never know. That hurt more than he was willing to admit.

When they reached the children's chambers, the door was ajar. A candle flickered inside, and Valarr heard a low voice — the nursemaid, probably — humming a song he recognised from his own childhood. A song about winter coming, about wolves and snowflakes, about a hero who never came home.

He pushed the door open slowly, and the two boys were sitting on the floor, surrounded by painted wooden blocks, but their eyes lifted immediately when they saw their father. The older one now, who was five, jumped up.

"Father!" he shouted, running towards him.

Valarr knelt to receive him, opening his arms as the boy threw himself against his chest. He hugged his son tight, feeling the small, warm body against his own.

"I heard you were waiting for me," he said, his voice muffled against the boy's hair.

"Yes!" the boy exclaimed, pulling back to look at him with his mismatched eyes. "I wanted to show you the dragon I built with the blocks. He's enormous! As big as the Red one Uncle Aerion told us about."

Valarr looked past his son and saw the block structure on the floor. It was, indeed, an impressive attempt at a dragon, with wings made of flatter blocks and a tail that snaked across the floor.

"It's magnificent," he said, letting out a genuine smile. "Did you build that all by yourself?"

"We helped," said the second boy, who was three, approaching shyly. He held a block in each hand and looked at Valarr uncertain whether he should feel proud or embarrassed.

Valarr reached out to the younger one, pulling him close too. Both boys were against him now, and Valarr felt that this went beyond guilt, beyond the feeling of failure. Something that felt like love, simple and unquestionable.

"Are you ready for bed?" he asked.

"No!" they said in unison.

The nursemaid, who was leaning against the wall with a tired smile on her lips, shook her head.

"They haven't stopped since sunset, Your Grace," she said. "I knew they were waiting for you."

Valarr looked at the nursemaid and nodded. She was an older woman, with greying hair and kind eyes, who had cared for the children since the eldest was born. He trusted her more than he trusted many of his councillors.

"We can stay a little longer," he said, looking at the boys. "But afterwards you need to sleep, because Mummy needs rest too. Promise?"

"We promise!" they both said, and Valarr knew they were lying, but he let it pass. It was so rare to have these moments with them that he didn't want to spoil them with discipline.

He sat on the floor with them, helping them build a castle around the block dragon. You sat in a nearby armchair, watching them with a smile on your lips. Valarr could see you in his peripheral vision, your hand resting on your belly, your eyes following him as he played with the children.

"You need another block here," he said, pointing to a gap in the castle structure. "Otherwise the dragon will knock it all down."

"But dragons are like that," said the older one, with all the seriousness of a five-year-old. "They knock down castles."

Valarr laughed, and it was a free laugh, without the weight of his worries. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, his father was watching. Perhaps Baelor was proud to see him like this, kneeling on the floor with his children, laughing as if there were no kingdom to rule.

After a while longer, the nursemaid led them to bed, and Valarr picked up each of them, one at a time, and placed them in their beds. The older one was already heavy-eyed, the younger one completely asleep before his head even touched the pillow.

Valarr watched them for a moment, the two small bodies nestled under the blankets, their chests rising and falling serenely. He thought of all the nights he had arrived too late, when they were already asleep by the time he returned to the chambers. He thought of the times he had promised to spend more time with them and hadn't managed to keep his word.

"I'm a terrible father," he murmured to himself, but you were there, standing beside him, and you heard.

"Don't say that," you said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're here now, and they know you love them. That's what matters, and they understand."

Valarr looked at you, and there was something in your eyes that made him want to believe you.

"Come," you said, tugging his hand gently. "Let's go rest."

He let you guide him out of the room, closing the door carefully behind them so as not to wake the boys. The corridor was silent, and your hand was in his, and he followed you without thinking, letting you lead him back to their chambers.

Your room was large, as expected for a king and his queen, but it was not ostentatious. There was a big bed with red velvet curtains, a bronze bathtub that they filled with hot water brought from the kitchens, and a window that looked out onto the sea. Valarr liked to look through that window on nights when he couldn't sleep, watching the waves break against the rocks below, thinking of everything he should have done differently.

You stopped before him and began to undo the fastenings of his cloak. Valarr watched you, your nimble fingers working at the leather knots, your gaze focused on the task.

"You don't have to do that," he said.

"I know," you replied, without stopping. "But I've missed my husband, and I'm making the most of him while I can."

The cloak fell to the floor, and you reached for the crown, which he still held in one hand, and took it gently, placing it on the table by the window. Valarr felt the immediate relief, as if part of the weight he carried had been lifted.

"You look so beautiful," he said, admiring your face. "As beautiful as the day I met you."

You looked up at him, a smile playing on your lips.

"I was wearing a hideous yellow dress. You said I looked like a chicken."

"I was nervous," he admitted, feeling his cheeks warm. "I didn't know what to say, so I said the first thing that came to mind."

"You called a lady a chicken, and yet she still married you."

"She must have had terrible taste."

"She must have seen something no one else saw," you said, placing your hand over his heart. "Perhaps something you still don't see in yourself."

Valarr closed his eyes for a moment, letting your words wash over him. He didn't believe them, not completely, but hearing them from you made them feel more true than anything anyone else could say.

You continued to undress him, removing his tunic with gentle, practical movements. The clothes fell to the floor as you worked, until he was left in only the light breeches he wore beneath; you guided him to the bronze bathtub, where the water still steamed. The heat rose to meet him as he climbed into the bath, the hot water enveloping his tired body.

You sat in the chair by the window, your hand resting on your belly, and watched him relax into the water. Valarr closed his eyes, feeling the tension in his muscles slowly dissolve.

"What did you think about today?" you asked, after a long silence. "About the petitions."

Valarr opened his eyes and looked at you. You were leaning forward, your elbows resting on your knees, your chin propped on one hand.

"I thought about how complicated everything is," he replied, after a moment. "A man loses his daughter to bandits, and I have to decide whether to send soldiers to hunt them, knowing I might be leaving another village unprotected. A widow loses her lands to a neighbouring lord, and I have to decide whether to intervene, knowing I might anger other lords who are watching. Every decision has consequences beyond what I can see."

"Your father felt that too," you said. "He told me once that ruling was like playing cyvasse. You can never see all the pieces, and even the ones you see can be moved by someone you don't expect."

Valarr remembered that conversation, many years ago. His father sitting with him on a damp night on Dragonstone, explaining the complexities of Westerosi politics. He remembered how confident his father had seemed back then.

"I'm not as good as he was," Valarr said, and the confession escaped before he could stop it.

"No," you agreed, and the honesty of the answer made him look away. "You're different, and that's not a bad thing, Valarr. You may not be your father, but you are you. And the realm needs you, not a ghost."

Valarr was silent for a moment, the hot water swirling around him. You were right, of course. You always were, but accepting that was difficult.

"I love you," he said, and his voice was barely audible. "I've always loved you."

"I know," you said, and your eyes were damp. "I love you too."

The silence between you stretched, and Valarr could hear the wind outside, the waves breaking against the rocks. He could hear your breathing, calm and steady, and he felt his own heart settle.

"Come," he said, reaching a hand out to you. "Get in with me."

You smiled and shook your head.

"I can't," you replied, touching your belly. "I don't fit in the bathtub anymore."

Valarr laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, that vibrated in his chest and echoed off the walls of the room.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

"You've already said that today," you replied, with a smile.

"And I'll say it again tomorrow, my wife."

You stood, your movements slow and careful, and walked to the edge of the bathtub. He saw the happiness in your eyes, that happiness he had seen so many times before, and felt his heart quicken. You leaned down and kissed him, your soft lips against his, and Valarr felt warmth spread through his whole body.

"You need to rest," you murmured, pulling away. "Tomorrow is another day."

"But I don't want to rest," he said. "I want to stay with you."

You laughed, stroking the white streak at the side of his hair.

"You have a whole kingdom that needs you, and I'll be here, waiting for you. As always."

Valarr watched you as you moved about the room, your graceful, familiar gestures. You had been with him through everything, through the grief for his father and his brother, through the grief for the lost child, through the endless days when he felt the world was caving in on him. And you were still there, still loved him, still looked at him as if he were something precious.

He climbed out of the bath and wrapped himself in a robe, the water still dripping from his body. You were in bed, the velvet curtains partially drawn, and he went to you, his bare feet cold against the stone floor.

"Do you think," he said, lying down beside you, "that the gods chose me for this? To be king?"

You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light.

"I think," you said, "that the gods don't choose anything. It's people who make the choices, and you chose to be a good man, and you chose to love your family. That's more important than any choice the gods might have made."

Valarr smiled, a small one, and he pulled you close, your bodies meeting in the darkness.

The kiss came slow and deep, a kiss that spoke of years of love, of shared losses, of a connection that transcended the weight of any crown. You were warm against him, your belly a constant reminder of the life growing inside you, and Valarr touched you with the reverence of one who understands the miracle you represented.

His fingers traced your soft skin, learning every curve and contour as if for the first time. There was no hurry in that moment, no urgency beyond the desire to be closer, to feel you against him, to remember that despite everything, there was still this. There was still you.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, and the word seemed so small beside everything he felt, but it was the only one he had. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you replied, and your voice was full of everything he needed to hear. "I love you too, Valarr."

His hands found yours, lacing fingers together as he moved over you with a slowness that bordered on devotion.

The room was dark, lit only by the trembling light of the candles, and Valarr felt as if he were somewhere between dream and reality. You were there, beneath him, your eyes meeting his with an intimacy that no throne could offer. And in that moment, he was not king, he was your husband, the father of your children. The man you had chosen to love, against all expectations, against all conventions, against the whole world.

His fingers traced your soft skin, learning every curve and contour as if for the first time. Valarr moved over you, positioning himself carefully, his body hovering above yours. He supported his weight on his elbows, ensuring no pressure fell upon your belly.

His mismatched eyes found yours in the half-light, and for a moment he just looked at you, the trembling candlelight dancing in your hair spread across the pillow.

"Are you sure?" he asked, but it wasn't about desire, he knew you desired him, just as he desired you. It was about care, about making sure you were well, that the body carrying their life was not being pressed beyond what it could bear. "I don't want to hurt you."

You raised a hand and touched his face, your fingers sliding along his jaw, tracing the outline of his mouth.

"I'm fine," you said, serenely. "I'm always fine with you."

Valarr tilted his head and kissed the palm of your hand before lowering himself slowly, his lips finding yours again. The kiss was sweet, almost shy, as if it were the first time you had ever kissed; he felt your body relax beneath him, felt your hands slide across his back, pulling him closer.

He positioned himself between your legs and entered you calmly, always careful, his eyes never leaving yours, watching every change in your expression, every small sigh that escaped your lips.

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your belly, and he caressed it with his open palm.

"Is it uncomfortable?" he whispered, pausing for a moment, his forehead resting against yours.

You shook your head, a smile forming on your lips.

"No," you said, slightly breathless. "Don't stop."

He continued, his movements slow and deep, and he felt the warmth of you around him, felt every small tremor that ran through your body, felt the tightening of your hands on his back, but above all, he felt the love that seemed to fill every inch of the room, thick and warm like honey.

You arched your back slightly, a low moan escaping your lips, and Valarr slowed even more, concerned, but the smile on your face dispelled his anxiety.

"It's good," you whispered. "So good."

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, as he kept up the gentle rhythm. His hand never left your belly, stroking it with the same tenderness with which he stroked your face. With every movement he asked: are you all right? is this good? can I continue? And each answer came in the tightening of your hands, in the parting of your lips, in the happiness in your eyes.

The pleasure grew slowly between you, and Valarr felt his body begin to tremble, felt the limits of his self-control approaching, but he did not speed up. He wanted this to last, wanted to stay there, wrapped in you, feeling you, loving you, for as long as possible.

"Valarr," you murmured, his name escaping your lips like a prayer. "Please."

He didn't need to ask what you wanted. He knew. And he moved a little faster, a little deeper, his lips finding yours as you came undone beneath him, your body trembling, your moan muffled against his mouth. He followed you moments later, a hoarse sigh escaping his lips as he lost himself in you, in the warmth, in the love, in the certainty that this moment was sacred.

For a long time, you lay in silence, your bodies still intertwined, your breathing gradually calming. Valarr rested his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rhythm of your heart slow beneath his cheek.

His hand rested on your belly, and he felt the weak movement of the baby against his palm, little kicks.

"He's strong," Valarr murmured, a smile forming on his lips.

"She," you corrected, with a tired smile. "Alysanne."

Valarr laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your body, and you were quiet for a moment, your hand finding his on your belly.

"Valarr," you began. "What would happen if you weren't perfect?"

The question caught him off guard, and he hesitated, thinking about the answer.

"The realm needs a king who knows what he's doing," he replied finally. "It can't afford an imperfect king."

"But all kings are imperfect," you reflected, your voice a whisper in the darkness. "Your grandsire was imperfect, many others were, and yet they are remembered as great kings. Why? Because they tried, and they loved their kingdoms and their families."

Valarr didn't answer immediately.

"Perhaps," he said finally. "Perhaps you're right."

"I'm always right," you said, and he could hear the smile in your voice. "You should know that by now, after all these years."

He laughed again, and the laugh seemed to dissolve the last traces of tension still lingering in his body.

"Come," you said, pulling him closer to you. "Sleep. Tomorrow is another day."

He closed his eyes, feeling your breath against his chest, feeling the warmth of your body, feeling the peace that only you seemed able to offer him. The realm was still there, waiting for him, the councillors, the petitions, the problems that seemed never-ending. But that night, at least, he was not carrying it all alone.

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✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … who deeply cares about her family and her histories, she usually buries her nose in dusty pages and guiltily runs away from her Septa with a handful of books to read in her chambers.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … sneaks out into the stables, towards her favourite mare, and takes a short ride to the Dragonpit to visit her dragon, not caring about the scoldings she was going to receive once she came home.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … is the one who greedily takes the lemons from her beloved lemon cakes, leaving none for the rest.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … who would lovingly stitch dragons that were beyond her family histories in hopes that they will come into fruition. 

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … wakes him up in the middle of the night whenever something frightens her, and they end up staying awake all night, never fully realising the sun’s rays hit the windows at dawn. 

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … is the one who always urges Gwayne to walk with her through the gardens, wistfully thinking of what is beyond King’s Landing and asking him what Oldtown is like during the time he had spent there.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … loves to hear stories of old, especially from Gwayne, hearing his voice and wisdom would never fail to fill her days full of boredom—making these castle walls more bearable to live in. 

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … draws Gwayne warm baths after a rough day in court or in training, she will always welcome him with gossip and a lavender-infused bath.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … who is scared of every little thing but always overcomes her obstacles … scared, Gwayne taught her to be brave and strong, especially during times that he is not there. 

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … is always proud to wear her house colours, especially when she has a hand in the embroidery, she happily shows them all off to Gwayne whenever there are upcoming feasts, namedays, and tourneys. 

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … cares for Gwayne whenever he is sick, tired, and distressed—regardless of what the situation calls for, she will always be there by his side, no matter what. 

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … would spend her free days with Gwayne outside of the Keep, maybe in the forests, maybe in his chambers, maybe in hers—to cut it short, she’s always with Gwayne if time permits it.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … happily welcomes him whenever he seeks solace in her chambers during big events in the Red Keep, even in your shared silence, your lack of boredom spoke volumes about how completely comfortable you both are in each other’s presence.

✿ Gwayne’s sweetling … would listen to his woes and his secrets and be his secret oasis in a desert of traitors and enemies, he is yours, and you are his … his sweetling.

You’ve known one another for years, passing in corridors, teasing and knowing words given to his cousin while you were offered but a warm smile as your arm linked around his. But in Gwayne’s absence it’s different.

Now, it was different. War had broken the realm into two sides, green and black banners thrown over every seat in the kingdoms. And you, without your husband. Every passing day, every journey further from your home, the man you once barely remembered the face of, lingers everywhere around you.

He stands at your side. Demands guards around the perimeter of your tent at all costs. He doesn’t speak much for the first few weeks, every time you move across rolling fields in the rickety old carriage and him in the leading garrison, you don’t do much as see him. But he makes a point to show his face, to allow himself a closeness to you.

And it begins at Tumbleton. With tensions growing higher and Rhaenyra taken King’s Landing, he acts as their lord, and in turn you as their lady. You are still dressed in fineries much too delicate for the dire times you are in, jewellery and perfumes sent to your assigned chambers.

And as ravens from your husband grow less and less, presumably lost, Ormund finds more excuses to keep you close, and he starts looking at you less like his cousin’s wife and more like something he believes should be sought after, to be properly treated, to have been his all along.

Across the Crownlands, Gwayne fights a war, never realising another one is unfolding behind the safety of his own men’s camp. Ormund becomes more than just a commander, power isn’t just about battles and successes anymore, it is about what he can give to you. Your comfort, your safety, what you need even if you state otherwise.

Ormund who starts insisting you dine with him because “it’s safer.” Ordering his men around you like wildfire before your eyes, and tending to your every need. Though he won’t speak on it longer than that, he simply turns the other way, the smugness in his face hidden from view.

Ormund who escorts you everywhere because the streets are “Far too dangerous for a lady.” and yet Daeron eyes you expectantly from across the room, just as confused at his sudden chivalry.

Ormund who’s begins finishing your sentences and speaking for you in the room full of lords and ladies with you near enough on his arm because “It’s easier.” But it doesn’t change the fact his eyes don’t leave your own, much less they linger when you look away. Always watching, lurking, calculating the next move.

Ormund who has pride in his chest for the way you look after Daeron, his prodigy, his creation of sorts. He looks up to you as a mother figure, and something about that stirs even more want in his chest.

And truly it is for your comfort and safety, yours and the Prince’s, he tells himself. But his sense of responsibility is lost between getting what he wants and control more than he’ll admit. None of the men question it, why their commander will stand by another man’s wife so closely or ask after her whereabouts so often. Or why he even cares? But he does.

Except Daeron does notice after a while.

He begins noticing the way Ormund’s eyes always find you in a crowded room, the way his voice softens only when speaking to you and not even for him anymore. Even when he loses his temper, his jaw ticks tighter with you in the room. How when letters arrive he takes longer to look at them, not allowing anyone else to see, no names, no addresses, not even any signs of life.

And yet he still holds you as you cry from no word of your husband, unknowing that the last words weeks before we’re settled in ash in the hearth.

Your fears and confusion are only heightened the moment the young Prince nudges the door gently to your private chambers in the late evening, stone walls flickering with the orange glow of the candles at your desk.

Daeron hangs his head low, offering you a soft smile as he ducks his way in. And you usher him in, because he had always done it, ever since he was a small boy, the one you had known to be your own since he was just a babe in Oldtown.

Your fingers tangle around the braids of his hair as he rests into your lap, Valyrian silver hidden beneath ashen red. He huffs quietly, so deeply that you stop. A longing one, a sadness that he attempts not to speak of.

“When is my uncle coming?”