Say yes to me 🌹 | Valarr Targaryen
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x fem! Tyrell reader
Summary: What begins as quiet, secret exchanges in the library deepens into something far more dangerous when Alysanne finally sees Valarr again, only to choose distance over reality. As courtly expectations close in, unsettling truths about marriage and duty shake her sense of safety. In a moment suspended between fear and longing, everything they’ve tried to deny nearly becomes undeniable, until the night brings a choice neither of them can take back.
Previous chapter an be found here
The library has become something else.
Not merely a place of quiet, not merely a refuge from the suffocating rhythm of court, but something alive, something waiting. Each day you find yourself moving through your lessons more quickly than before, your attention slipping not toward the present, but toward the hour when you can return to that table by the window. To the book, to the margins and to him.
You never see him, not once, yet he is always there. In the ink, in the careful placement of words beside yours and in the way he answers not just what you write, but what you mean.
Days pass like this, quietly and carefully.
A conversation that never rises above the surface, yet somehow runs deeper than anything spoken aloud. You begin to understand his pauses.
The way he avoids certain words and the way he lingers on others. He never writes your name and you never dare to write his, but there’s no need to. Even on paper talking to him was so easy, so light and for this brief moment you didn’t feel watched. You didn’t feel the need to uphold any duties or expectations. You speak of travelers, of duties and court, of choices that are not choices at all and of what it means to belong somewhere with someone, of what it costs to remain. You never speak of the library or of yourself and yet, it’s all about that. All about this moment and all about you. You begin to look forward to it.More than you should and more than is wise, though you push that thought away whenever it arises.
It becomes the quiet center of your days, the one place where something feels understood. You don’t need to come prepared because he doesn’t judge you. He wouldn’t, you think to yourself. He’s simply there to hear you.
This morning is no different or so you think. You move through the corridors with that now-familiar pull in your chest, your steps unconsciously quicker as you near the heavy wooden doors. The castle feels distant again, like something you are passing through rather than inhabiting.
You reach the library, quickly. Your hands push the door open and you stop in the middle of the arched door. For a moment, your mind does not fully register it. You only know that something is different. Something present. Your gaze lifts and finds him. Valarr. He stands near the table by the window, your table, his back half-turned toward the door, a book open in his hands. The light falls across him in soft fragments through the glass, catching in his hair, in the pale streak that shifts as he moves. He is not reading. Not truly at least.
His eyes move across the page, but there is a stillness in him that suggests his thoughts are elsewhere.
You freeze. Instinct should tell you to leave or to enter, to say something. To acknowledge him. Instead, your mind freezes and you remain where you are.
Hidden just beyond the doorway, shielded by the angle of the wall. You don’t mean to watch him, not at first. But something holds you there. Something quiet and undeniable.
He shifts slightly, turning a page that he does not seem to have finished reading.
His brow is faintly drawn, as though something weighs on him, something unspoken or unresolved.
You have never seen him like this, not in the library.Here, he had always been lighter. Now there is something else. You notice the small things. The way his fingers rest along the edge of the page, unmoving. The way he exhales slowly, as though steadying himself. The way he glances, just once, toward the opposite chair, your chair.
He looks away almost immediately, but you saw it and your breath catches almost involuntarily.
You shouldn’t be watching him like this.
And yet, you cannot seem to move.
You feel as though you are standing just outside something fragile, something that would shatter if you stepped too close and spoke.If you made this real. Was this even real? Your thoughts drift in strange, unfamiliar directions. You wonder if he knows you are here, if he can feel your presence.
Would he look up if you moved forward? Would he speak your name? no. You close your eyes briefly. You should leave- will leave. In just a moment. Just one more second, you tell yourself.
“You do realize,” a voice murmurs beside you, far too close, “that standing in doorways like a ghost is generally considered suspicious.”
You nearly jump. Your heart lurches violently as you turn, your breath catching in your throat. “Elinor!”
She stands beside you, entirely composed, though her eyes are bright with unmistakable amusement.
You press a hand to your chest. “Seven hells, do not do that.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she says lightly. “You are the one lurking.”
“I am not lurking.” You cross your arms defensively.
“You are hiding.” Elinor raises an eyebrow. “From behind a wall.”
You straighten slightly, attempting to recover what little dignity you have left. “I simply.. did not wish to interrupt.”
Elinor follows your line of sight and sees Valarr. Her expression shifts. She doesn’t seem surprised, not entirely at least, but she is definitely interested. “Oh,” she says softly.
You immediately step slightly in front of her, as though that might somehow undo what she has already seen. “It is not what you think.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.” Her voice sounds amused, a hint of tease in it.
Elinor’s lips twitch. She looks past you again, toward Valarr, then back at you.
“How long have you been standing here?”
“Not long.” You lie instantly, though you don’t know how long it’s truly been.
“That is not an answer.” She tilts her head slightly, studying you with far too much insight. “You’ve been coming here every day.” It is not a question.
You hesitate. “That is hardly unusual.”
“No,” she agrees. “It is not.” She pauses before the smile on her lips grows wider. “But the way you look at him is.”
Heat rises sharply to your cheeks and for a moment you forget to breathe. “I am not looking at him in any particular way.”
Elinor smiles, slowly and knowingly. “You like him.”
“No.” You protest immediately and you try to convince yourself it’s not a lie.
“That was very quick.” She chuckles.
“Because it is not true.”
She folds her arms, leaning slightly closer. “Then why are you hiding instead of walking in?”
You open your mouth and find you do not have an answer that sounds reasonable. Why don’t you walk in? You don’t wish to avoid him, but.. these past days communicating through books has been easy, has been comfortable. You don’t want to risk that comfort.
“I-” you begin, then stop.
Elinor’s smile softens, though the amusement does not entirely fade. “Oh,” she says quietly. “This is worse than I thought.”
“It is not worse than anything,” you whisper urgently. “It is nothing.”
She glances again toward the table. Valarr has not moved, has not noticed. Still standing there, caught in whatever thoughts have pulled him away from the page.
Elinor looks back at you. “Does he know?”
You hesitate. Surely your cheeks are as red as the richest wine from the Reach. You shake your head slowly.
“And you intend to keep it that way?”
“Because” you stop again, lowering your voice further, “because this is already more than it should be.”
Elinor studies you for a long moment. Then sighs, though there is no real disapproval in it. “Alright.”
“I will not say anything.”
Relief flickers briefly through you. “Thank you.”
“But,” she adds, “I am still allowed to think it.”
You glare at her. “You may think whatever you like. Quietly.”
Elinor smiles again. “I always do.”
You glance once more toward the table, toward him. He’s still unaware and distant, somehow. Something in your chest tightens, not painfully, not sharply, but with a kind of quiet ache that feels far too close to something you do not wish to name.
You take a small step back. “I should go.”
Elinor nods. “Yes,” she says gently. “You probably should.”
You linger for just a moment longer.
One last look. Then you turn away. Leaving him there, unaware that, for a brief moment, you were closer than either of you have allowed yourselves to be.
The morning arrives too early. You lie still beneath the covers, staring up at the canopy above your bed as though it might offer some kind of answer if you look at it long enough. It does not. From the adjoining room, you hear movement, soft and deliberate. Elinor is already awake.Of course she is.
You close your eyes briefly. If you remain still long enough, perhaps she will assume you are still asleep. Perhaps the day will pass without you. Perhaps-
Your eyes open again. Of course it will not.
Elinor appears in the doorway, already dressed, her hair neatly arranged, her expression composed but watchful. “It is time.”
You do not move, lying still as if you’d turned into stone overnight. “I am not going.”
Elinor does not even pause. “Yes, you are.”
You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at her. “I refuse.”
Elinor raises an eyebrow. “That would be very impressive,” she says calmly, “if refusing were an option.”
“It is.” You sit up slowly, the blankets falling into your lap as you fix her with a look you intend to be firm. “I am not riding through the woods with half the court, pretending to enjoy myself while being observed from every possible angle.”
Elinor steps fully into the room now, carrying a neatly folded riding gown over her arm. “That,” she says, “is exactly what you are going to do.”
“I have no desire to be there.” You groan desperately. Only a few things could be worse than even imagining this day ahead.
“That has never been the requirement.”
You exhale sharply and swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet touching the cool stone floor. “It is tedious and it’s torture. Why must I be tortured?”
“It is important, my lady. And expect of you.”
You push yourself to your feet, already irritated, already tired of a day that has barely begun. “Important for whom?”
You laugh faintly. “Hardly.” Why would riding through the woods be of any benefit towards you?
Elinor sets the gown down carefully on the chair near the hearth. “For your future.”
“I am well aware of my future.” Aerion.
“Then you should also be aware that disappearing from the first major celebration of the king’s name day would not reflect well on you.”
You turn away from her, crossing the room toward the window. “I do not particularly care how it reflects.”
Elinor watches you for a moment. Then, more gently, she says. “You should.”
You say nothing. Outside, the castle is already stirring. You can hear distant voices in the courtyard below, the movement of horses, the clatter of preparation. The hunt will begin soon. The entire court will be there. You close your eyes briefly. “I do not want to see him.”
The words leave you quietly, barely more than a breath, but Elinor hears them. “ Aerion will be there,” she says, not unkindly.
“And so will everyone else.” She adds.
“That does not improve the situation.”
“No,” she agrees. “But it does make it unavoidable.”
You turn back toward her, your expression tightening. “I am tired of unavoidable things.”
Elinor does not argue with that. Instead, she steps closer, her voice softer now. “I know.”
The simplicity of it makes something in your chest shift. “I know,” she repeats. “But avoiding this will not make it go away. It will only make it worse.”
You look down at your hands. “I do not think I can pretend today.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” she says.
You glance up at her. “Then what am I meant to do?”
The word settles heavily between you. It’s not hopeful nor comforting, but honest. One thing you’ve always liked about Elinor was her honesty, but right in this moment you wish that, even for a small moment, she’d lie.
You let out a slow breath. “That is a very poor alternative.”
“It is the only one we have.” Elinor reaches for the gown again, holding it out toward you. “Just for today,” she says. “You do not have to enjoy it. You do not have to be anything more than present.”
Your gaze lingers on the fabric- dark green, practical, made for riding rather than display. It feels less like armor than the dresses they have been fitting you for.
Still, it is part of the same performance. You take the gown from her hands slowly.
“I would rather stay here,” you admit.
You look down at the gown again, at the weight of it in your hands and at everything it represents. Duty. Expectation. A future you are still struggling to accept.
You swallow. “Very well.”
Elinor’s shoulders ease slightly, though she does not show relief too openly. “Good.”
She moves to help you dress, her hands steady and efficient as always, fastening buttons, smoothing fabric, adjusting the fit with practiced care.When she finishes, she steps back, studying you. “There,” she says. “You look exactly as you should.”
“Yes,” you say quietly. “I suppose I do.”
The courtyard is already alive with movement by the time you arrive. Horses shift restlessly against their reins, their breath visible in the cool morning air. Servants hurry between riders, adjusting saddles, fastening cloaks, checking straps with practiced efficiency. The sound of hooves against stone echoes sharply beneath the high walls of the Red Keep, mingling with the low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter from those who seem to be enjoying the spectacle.
You are not among them. Elinor lingers just behind you as you step forward, her presence quiet but steady, as though she can sense how little you wish to be here.
“Just for today,” she murmurs.
You nod faintly. Just for today.
A stable hand leads your horse forward- a calm, well-trained mare with a dark coat that gleams faintly in the morning light. You reach out, resting your hand briefly against her neck, grounding yourself in the simple familiarity of it. This, at least, you understand. Riding. Something that does not require performance. You gather your skirts carefully and place your foot in the stirrup, lifting yourself into the saddle with practiced ease. The motion is smooth, automatic, something your body remembers even when your mind feels distant.
You settle into place, adjusting your grip on the reins.
“Prince Valarr,” a voice calls, far too sweet to be sincere. You do not turn immediately.
Still, your gaze drifts slightly to the side.
Lucinda. Of course. She stands beside her horse, one gloved hand resting delicately against the saddle as though the mere act of mounting it presents an insurmountable challenge. Her expression is composed into something carefully helpless, her posture just uncertain enough to invite attention.
Valarr stands nearby, getting on his own horse. You feel it before you fully register it, the quiet shift in yourself, the way your attention sharpens despite your best efforts. He looks as he always does in the morning light. Composed and distant, in that careful way he has learned to be.
Lucinda tilts her head slightly, offering him a small, practiced smile. “I seem to be having some difficulty,” she says lightly. “Would you assist me?”
Oh for the love of the seven, you think to yourself. Surely everyone must recognize the performance she’s acting out.
Valarr glances at the horse, then at her. His voice very calm as he speaks. “There are servants for that.”
The words are not unkind and yet they are firm. They carry a message that you wish do desperately to hear in them but don’t dare to.
Lucinda’s smile flickers. Only for a moment, but you see it. A servant steps forward almost immediately, bowing slightly as he offers his hand. “My lady.”
Lucinda hesitates, just long enough for it to feel deliberate. Then she places her hand in his and allows herself to be helped into the saddle, her movements suddenly far more certain now that the attention has shifted.
When she is seated, she adjusts her posture carefully, smoothing her skirts as though nothing at all has happened, but her gaze slides toward you.
You meet it calmly. Her smile returns- brighter now, sharper at the edges. “How fortunate,” she says lightly, her voice carrying just enough to be heard, “that some ladies find riding so effortless.”
You say nothing. Don’t even interact with her or give her the time of day.
Lucinda tilts her head slightly. “I suppose it comes from practice,” she continues. “Or perhaps from being less concerned with propriety.”
A few nearby riders glance in your direction and you can feel the unwanted attention.
Lucinda’s gaze flicks briefly to the way you sit your horse, steady, confident, entirely at ease. “Of course,” she adds sweetly, “not everyone is trained to be as delicate.”
There it is. You keep your posture straight and your hands still. You did not wish to indulge in bickering in front of everyone this morning. “I find it useful,” you say calmly, “to know how to stay on a horse.”
A faint ripple of amusement passes through one of the nearby knights. Lucinda’s smile tightens. “How practical,” she says. “Though I suppose that explains a great deal.”
You lift a brow slightly. “Does it?”
“Yes,” she replies, her tone bright with something sharper beneath it. “It must be difficult to excel at courtly lessons when one is more accustomed to less refined pursuits.”
Who does she think she is? Calm down, you tell yourself. You could answer. You could push back, you should, you-
“Perhaps Mistress Alerys knows how to ride ,” you say quietly, “I assume you’d find her lessons much more useful then.”
Lucinda’s expression flickers again, but before she can respond, a horn sounds at the far end of the courtyard. The signal to depart.
You gather your reins, guiding your horse forward with the others and the courtyard opens before you, carrying you out toward the day you never wanted.
The field stretches wide and golden beneath the late morning sun.Beyond it, the woods rise dark and dense, their edges alive with movement as riders disappear one by one into the trees, horns echoing faintly through the distance as the hunt begins in earnest. The men ride with noise and purpose, laughter and challenge carried easily across the open air.
The pavilions have been arranged with careful precision along the edge of the field, their silken canopies billowing softly in the breeze. Cushioned chairs and low tables sit beneath them, shaded from the sun, attended by servants who move silently with trays of wine and fruit.
You sit among them now, among the women. You had hoped, foolishly, perhaps, that the distance from the castle might bring some relief. That the open air might feel less suffocating than the stone walls of the Red Keep. It does not. You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your posture composed, your expression carefully neutral as the conversation flows around you.
Lady Harte speaks first. She is older, perhaps by ten or fifteen years, with a voice that carries easily and a manner that suggests she is accustomed to being listened to. “My husband nearly broke his arm on last year’s hunt,” she says, shaking her head with fond exasperation. “Though he insisted it was nothing more than a bruise.”
A few of the women laugh softly. “They always do,” another replies. “Mine once rode for three days with a fever simply to avoid admitting he was ill.”
You nod faintly, though you have nothing to add. The conversation moves easily between them, comfortable in a way that suggests long familiarity, not necessarily with one another, but with the roles they occupy. Wives. Mothers. Women who have already lived the life that is being prepared for you.
“And yours, lady Alysanne?” one of them turns toward you suddenly, her tone polite but curious. “Your betrothed is Prince Aerion, is he not?”
Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap. “Yes.”
“And how do you find him?”
There is a pause. What even were you meant to say? You longed to speak the truth but you could not. Never.
You choose your words carefully. “I have not had much opportunity to know him.”
A small murmur passes through the group. “Well, you shall have ample opportunity soon enough.”
Lady Harte smiles at you, not unkindly, but knowingly. “It is always a transition.”
You incline your head slightly. “I imagine so.”
The conversation shifts then, subtly but unmistakably. From men to marriage.
“To be wed into the royal family,” another lady says thoughtfully, “that is no small thing.”
“You must be prepared for the responsibilities.”
“I am being prepared,” you say quietly.
“Yes, of course,” she replies. “Though no amount of instruction truly prepares you for the reality of it.”
There is a small ripple of agreement.
“And the first night” someone adds lightly.
A few of the women nod knowingly. “Ah, yes.”
“That is always memorable.”
You had not expected the conversation to turn this way, you shift slightly in your seat.
“And always so much pressure placed upon it,” Lady Harte continues, sipping her wine. “As though everything must be decided in a single evening.”
“Men do like their symbolism.”
“And their expectations.”
Another woman leans forward slightly, lowering her voice in a way that somehow makes it more audible. “It is not so terrible, once you understand what is required.”
Your gaze lifts. “What is required?”
The question slips out before you can stop it. A few of them glance at you. Not unkindly, but with a flicker of recognition.
Lady Harte studies you for a moment, then sets her cup aside. “You have not been told?”
Your cheeks warm faintly. “I understand that a wife is to fulfill her duty.” Your mother had always told you that a husband will seek his wife’s duty after their marriage vows and that it was your duty not to disobey him.
One of the younger women, though still older than you, lets out a soft laugh. “Yes,” she says. “That is certainly how it is phrased.”
Another adds, “A very polite phrasing.”
You feel something tighten in your chest. “I assumed..” you begin, then falter, “that it meant obedience.”
A glance passes between them, not mockingly though. Lady Harte’s expression softens slightly. “It means more than that, my dear.”
She leans back slightly, considering how best to explain it. “It means that your husband will come to you,” she says, her tone measured, careful but not evasive. “And you are expected to receive him.”
Another woman speaks now, more directly. “He will share your bed.”
You nod faintly. “Yes.” You’ve been told before that husband and wife to sleep in a shared bed if the husband wishes to.
“That is not all he will share.”
The words land differently, heavier. You feel it immediately, a flicker of unease rising within you. “I don’t-“
“He will expect you to lie with him,” she continues. “Properly. As husband and wife are meant to.”
Your breath stills. There is something in her tone that suggests more than you have understood. Something you have not been taught.
Lady Harte watches your expression carefully. “You truly do not know,” she says softly.
“Well,” she says, “it is not uncommon. Many young ladies are not told the full truth before their wedding.”
“Because it would frighten them away entirely,” another adds dryly.
A few of them laugh again, but you do not.
Your hands feel colder now. “What” you begin, your voice quieter than before, “what does it involve?”
The words feel difficult to say. As though speaking them makes something real that you would rather leave undefined.
The women exchange another glance.
Then one of them, kind-faced, though frank, leans slightly closer. “It means,” she says, “that your husband will take you to bed not only to sleep, but to join with you.”
Your heart begins to beat faster. “Join?”
“In ways that are not casual.”
Something in your chest tightens sharply.
“And you are expected to allow it.”
The words echo. Allow it. Aerion. No.
Another woman adds, more softly now, “It is how children are made.”
The world seems to tilt, just slightly. Not visibly, but enough that you feel it. Your gaze drops to your hands. To the way your fingers have curled tightly against one another. You think of Aerion. The coldness in his eyes. The control. The violence you have already glimpsed.
And suddenly, the idea of him, of that..
You feel your stomach turn.
“It is not always unpleasant,” someone offers gently, noticing the shift in your expression. “Not for everyone.”
“Some even grow to enjoy it.”
“But the first time” another says with a small, knowing smile, “is rarely comfortable.”
You barely hear them now. Your thoughts have narrowed. Aerion. The wedding. The night that will follow.
The expectation that you will.. that you must..no.
Your breath comes a little faster. You force it to steady, force your expression not to betray what is happening beneath it.
“I see,” you say quietly.
Your voice does not sound like your own. Lady Harte watches you for a moment longer. Then reaches for her cup again, allowing the conversation to shift gently away from you. “You will manage,” she says, not unkindly. “We all do.”
The others nod. The topic drifts and moves on, but you remain very still in your seat, the sounds of their voices blurring into something distant and indistinct.
Because now you understand and you wish, with a sudden and overwhelming clarity that you did not.
The sound of horns carries across the field long before the riders emerge. A signal. The hunt is over. The pavilions stir to life again, ladies rising from their seats, servants moving quickly to prepare for the return. Voices lift with renewed energy as attention turns back toward the edge of the woods.
You rise with them because you must, but your mind is not here. It has not been here for some time.
You press your hands together lightly, willing your thoughts to still. They do not. The words echo.
Your husband will come to you.
You are expected to receive him.
It is how children are made.
You swallow hard. Around you, the first riders begin to emerge from the trees, their cloaks darkened with dust and movement, their voices loud with the thrill of the chase. Laughter carries easily as they recount small victories, near misses, the familiar boasting that seems to follow any hunt.
You try to focus, but everything feels distant. Unreal.
Aerion rides near the front. There is something in the way he sits his horse, controlled, composed, entirely self-possessed, that draws the eye whether you wish it or not.
You look away before the thought can fully form. Before the image of him, of what you now understand he will expect of you, can take hold again. Your breath feels too tight, too shallow. You cannot remain here.
Not like this. Not with all of them. Not with the noise and the expectations and the weight of everything pressing in from all sides.
Before you fully decide to, you step back and turn. No one noticed or if they do, they do not stop you.
The field gives way to softer ground as you near the edge of the woods.The air changes here, cooler, quieter, the noise of the hunt fading behind you until it becomes nothing more than a distant echo. The trees rise tall around you, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze, offering a kind of shelter the open field could not. You keep walking, until the sound of water reaches you. Soft and steady. You follow it and when the trees finally part, you find it there, winding gently through the landscape, its surface catching the light in shifting patterns. A river.
You stop and lower yourself to the grass at the river’s edge. The ground is cool beneath you. The world, for once, feels still. You draw in a breath, trying to quiet the thoughts that refuse to settle. They do not.
So instead, you remove your boots. One, then the other, before setting them carefully beside you.
The water glints softly in the light as you rise. It looks calm and harmless, peaceful almost. You lower your foot into it. The water is very cold and sharp, but it feels real at the same time. You inhale at the sensation, but do not pull away. Instead, you step further in. The hem of your gown darkens as it meets the water, the fabric growing heavy around your ankles. For a moment, you focus only on that. The cold. The way it pulls you back into your body, into something tangible and immediate.
“You know,” a voice says behind you, calm and far too close, “most people test the depth of a river before stepping into it.”
You gasp. The sound tears from you before you can stop it, your heart lurching violently as you spin around. “Seven hells!”
Valarr stands a few steps behind you. Entirely at ease, though slightly amused at your cursing.
You clutch at your chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“I was not aware I possessed that ability.”
“Were you watching me?” You accuse.
“You were standing there.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You could have said something sooner.”
“And ruin the moment?” he replies mildly.
You stare at him, then turn back toward the river, your heart still beating too fast.
“You should not go further,” he adds after a moment. “The current is stronger than it appears.”
“No,” he agrees, “but you are standing in a river without knowing how deep it is.”
You step another inch forward anyway.
“Also,” he continues, “if you drown, I am obliged to jump in after you.”
You glance back at him. “You sound very concerned.”
“I am,” he says. “I would prefer not to get wet.”
Despite yourself, you almost smile. You shake your head faintly and step a little further into the water. “I will try not to inconvenience you.”
“That would be appreciated.”
A small silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, but different. You are aware of him, of the space between you and of the way his presence shifts the air around you without him needing to say anything more.
You look down at the water instead. “At least you survived the hunt,” you say, your voice quieter now.
You glance back at him. “Was it successful?”
He shrugs lightly. “There was a great deal of running. A great deal of shouting and eventually something unfortunate for the deer.”
“That sounds about right.”
He studies you for a moment. “You left.”
It is not a question. You nod faintly. “It was loud.”
“That is one way of describing it.”
You hesitate. “I needed a moment of silence.”
His expression shifts slightly. “I see.”
You do not elaborate, you cannot. Even if you wanted to you could not tell the truth, not even to him. Instead, you turn your attention back to the water, taking another careful step- Your foot slips. The rock beneath it shifts unexpectedly, slick with algae, and before you can catch yourself your balance gives way entirely.
You gasp as the world tilts. Cold water rushes up around you as you fall, the river swallowing you in a sudden, sharp shock.
For a moment, everything is disoriented.
Sound, light, movement. You push yourself upright quickly, breath catching as you find your footing again. The water is not deep, only to your thighs, but your gown is soaked, clinging heavily to your legs.
You suck in a breath. “I’m-“ You stop.
Because Valarr is already in the water. He must have moved the moment you slipped, there is no hesitation in it, no calculation. He stands only a step away now, his boots submerged, his hand half-extended as though he had meant to catch you before you fell.
His expression is different. It’s not the calmness you are used to, neither is it the distance. There is something else there. Something in his eyes that seems like.. concern?
“Are you hurt?” he asks. The question comes quickly as you’re still trying to read his face. You blink at him, momentarily thrown. “No- I..” you steady yourself, brushing wet strands of hair back from your face, “I’m fine.”
He does not move, does not step back. His gaze lingers, searching your face as though to be certain. “You slipped.”
“That could have been worse.”
“It wasn’t.” Your voice grows more quiet as neither of you moves. The water ripples softly around you, the current brushing against your skirts, tugging faintly at the fabric. You are standing too close. Close enough now that you can see the shift in his breathing. The way his hand remains just slightly raised, as though he has not yet fully decided to let the moment pass.
“You shouldn’t have come in after me,” you say quietly.
“I told you,” he replies, just as quietly, “I was obliged.”
“That didn’t sound like obligation.”
You shake your head faintly. “No.”
Another pause, longer this time and something shifts between you. Something subtle but undeniable. The distance he has kept, so carefully, so deliberately, falters, just for a moment. And in that moment, you see him again. Not the distant prince of House Targaryen. Not the careful restraint.
But the version of him that had sat across from you in the library. The version that had listened and seen you. The version that understands.
His gaze softens, only slightly, but enough for you to get lost in his eyes again. You had wondered many times how a pair of eyes could be so perfect.
“You frightened me,” he says. The words are quiet, almost reluctant.
You inhale softly. “I didn’t mean to.”
The current moves around you again, brushing against your legs, pulling lightly at the fabric of your gown. Neither of you steps away.
“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he adds, though the words lack their usual firmness.
“That is true.” A faint smile touches his lips.
You feel something shift in your chest.
You glance at his hand, which is still half-raised and still close enough to a point where you could swear you feel your skin starting to burn.
Your gaze lifts again and meets his.
And for a moment everything else falls away.
The field. The court. The expectations. The future.
There is only this. The space between you that no longer feels like distance, but something else entirely.
His hand lowers, slowly. Though not away, but closer. Your breath catches and you don’t dare to move. You should, but you cannot. Neither does he.
His voice is quieter now. “Lady Alysanne”
Your name lingers between you. Soft. Unfinished, as if he wishes to say more.
You feel it in the way your pulse quickens. In the way the air shifts and everything seems to narrow to this single moment. He is close enough now that you can see the uncertainty in his expression.
The restraint. The conflict.
And something beneath it, something that mirrors what you feel.
Your breath falters. His gaze drops. Not to the water, but to you.
And for a heartbeat, it feels as though the world has stopped.
A horn sounds. Loud and too close.
The moment shatters. You both step back at once, as though something fragile has broken between you. The world rushes back in.
Valarr exhales slowly, the expression on his face shifting—closing—pulling back into something more controlled. “They’ll be looking for us,” he says.
You nod, unable to trust your voice. The water feels colder now. He steps back toward the bank. This time, he does not look at you again. And yet, the space between you still holds what almost was, as though the river itself remembers it.
The corridors of the Red Keep feel longer at night. Perhaps they always have, but tonight, after the long hours of the hunt, the conversations, the watchful eyes, the weight of expectation pressing in from every direction, they seem to stretch endlessly beneath your feet.
By the time you reach your chambers, you are exhausted in a way that has little to do with physical strain.
Elinor notices it at once. She says very little, only helps you out of your riding gown, her hands gentle and quiet, her usual chatter subdued as she brushes the last tangles from your hair.
“You should sleep,” she murmurs softly.
You nod, though you are not certain sleep will come easily. “I will try.”
She studies you for a moment longer, as though she might say something more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she bids you goodnight and disappears into the adjoining room, leaving you alone in the soft quiet of your chamber.
The silence settles around you. You change into your nightgown slowly, the fabric light against your skin after the weight of the day’s attire. Your hair falls loose down your back, still faintly damp at the ends from the river.
The river. The memory rises too quickly.
Your fingers still on the ties at your sleeve and for a moment, you are there again.
Your breath catches faintly. You move toward the bed, sitting at its edge, your hands folding loosely in your lap as you try, very deliberately, to think of something else.
They do not stay. They always drift back to the river. To the way he looked at you, not as a prince, not as someone bound by duty, but as though, for a fleeting moment, none of that mattered at all. You close your eyes briefly.
This is foolish. You know it is. You know exactly what this is. What it cannot be.
And yet your lips press together faintly as warmth rises to your cheeks despite yourself. You stand abruptly, crossing the room in a restless motion, as though movement might quiet the thoughts that refuse to settle. It does not. You return to the bed eventually, pulling back the covers, slipping beneath them with a quiet exhale.
The chamber is dim now. Only a single candle burns beside the bed, its light flickering softly against the walls.
You turn onto your side. Close your eyes and try to sleep.
A knock. Soft, but unmistakable.
Your eyes open at once. For a moment you lie still, disoriented, uncertain if you imagined it.
Again. A quiet knock at the door.
Your heart begins to beat faster.
At this hour, there are very few people who would come to your chamber. You push yourself upright slowly, drawing your robe around your shoulders before crossing the room.
“Who is it?” you call softly.
“It’s me.” Your breath catches. Valarr.
The sound of his voice, low, careful, sends something sharp and sudden through your chest. You hesitate, but only for a second.
Then you reach for the latch and open the door. He stands there in the dim corridor, the torchlight catching faintly along the edges of his features.
He looks different. Not composed. Not entirely steady. There is something unsettled in the set of his shoulders, something restrained but strained in the way he holds himself, as though whatever brought him here was not easily decided.
“My prince” you begin softly, startled more by his presence than your voice reveals.
“May I come in?” The question is quiet, almost formal. And yet, there is urgency beneath it.
You step aside without thinking. “Yes. Of course.”
He enters quickly, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seems far louder than it should in the stillness of the room.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The air feels different. Charged.
You turn toward him slowly. “Is something wrong?”
He does not answer immediately. Instead, he runs a hand briefly through his hair, a small, uncharacteristically restless gesture that you have never seen from him before.
Then he exhales. “I shouldn’t be here.”
You blink.“Then why are you?”
His gaze lifts to yours. And whatever distance he has kept, whatever careful restraint he has tried to maintain, it falters.
“I couldn’t rest,” he says.
The honesty of it catches you off guard.
“I tried,” he continues, his voice steadier now but no less intense, “but every time I closed my eyes, I-” He stops, as though the words ahead of him are too much.
Your heart beats faster. “Valarr-”
“I thought I could ignore it,” he says quickly, as though he must finish before he loses the courage to speak at all. “I thought I could keep my distance, that it would be easier that way.”
You feel something tighten in your chest.
“But it isn’t,” he adds, more quietly now.
The room feels smaller. The space between you.. too narrow.
“I know what this is supposed to be,” he continues, his voice dropping slightly. “I know what is expected. Of you. Of me. Of all of this.”
“But today” he stops again, his gaze flickering briefly, searching your face as though trying to find something there, “when you fell-” The memory rises between you. “I thought” he exhales, shaking his head faintly, as though the thought itself is something he does not wish to name, “it doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” you say softly.
He looks at you again. Really looks this time and whatever he sees there seems to undo something in him.
“Forgive me,” he says. The words are barely more than a breath. “But I cannot pretend this isn’t..” He stops and steps closer. The distance disappears entirely. Your heart stumbles in your chest.
“real,” he finishes quietly.
You don’t move. You can’t. You know you should but you can’t. Your legs won’t move an inch as if you were locked in this moment. The air between you feels too thin, too fragile, as though even the smallest movement might shatter something neither of you fully understands.
His hand lifts, he hesitates, then gently, carefully, brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face. The touch is light. Barely there and yet it sends a sharp, immediate warmth through you that makes your breath catch.
“Alysanne,” he says softly.
Your name, like that.. not formal. Not distant. Yours.
You look up at him. And for a moment there is no Red Keep. No future waiting beyond this room. Only this. Only him.
His gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. A question, unspoken.
You don’t answer it with words. You don’t need to. Something in your expression must be enough because the next moment he closes the distance.
The kiss is not rushed. It is hesitant at first, almost uncertain, as though he expects you to pull away, to remind him of everything that stands between you, but you don’t.
And when you don’t, something shifts.
His hand comes to rest lightly at your waist, steady but not demanding, as though he is still holding himself back even now, even here. The kiss deepens, not into urgency, but into something softer, something more searching, as though he is trying to understand this moment even as it happens. The taste of his lips engraved itself into your very bones.
Your fingers curl faintly into the fabric of his sleeve, grounding yourself in something real as your heart races far too fast.
For a moment, just a moment, everything else falls away. The world narrows to the warmth of him, the quiet of the room, the fragile, impossible thing unfolding between you. And then he pulls back. Not abruptly, but carefully. As though it costs him something to do so.
His forehead rests briefly against yours, his breath uneven. “We shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in it. Not really.
aaaahhh waited so long for this!!! 💗
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