#(spicy

🥟,🍲,🥟

🍲,🥟,🍲

🥟,🍲,🥟

🍲,🥟,🍲

🥟,🍲,🥟

🍲,🥟,🍲

🥟,🍲,🥟

🍲,🥟,🍲

🥟,🍲,🥟

The evening in King's Landing was heavy with grief.

The sky hung grey and low over the Great Sept of Baelor, as if the gods themselves had bowed their heads for the death of Baelor Targaryen, the Breakspear. The air smelled of tallow candles, incense, wilted flowers, and the red wine that spilled from the nobles' full cups like blood shed in vain.

You were no noble, no.

Your dress was the kind of faded white belonging to one who washed her clothes in the river and relied on the sun to dry them. The fabric was simple, but it clothed your body as you liked, marking the curve of your breasts and the slenderness of your hips. Your feet were bare, dirtied from the road, and in your hair you had braided a few wildflowers.

In your hand, a cup of wine.

You did not know the name of the man who had served you, nor did you care. You drank slowly, not out of elegance, but because you wanted to taste the farewell on your tongue. The liquid was strong, bitter, burning your throat, as if it were only right that it should hurt. You wanted the last thing you kept of Baelor not to be the smell of death, but the warmth of the wine going down your throat, warm like the smile he had given you the last time you saw him.

You stood there for a few moments, before the body of him who had been the only good man you had ever known.

"Who are you?"

The voice came from behind, deep, suspicious. You turned slowly, balancing the cup with the same skill with which you balanced yourself after a few cups too many.

It was Prince Maekar.

You recognised him by his hard features, by the look that seemed to want to pierce through you, and by the guilt that followed a step behind. He watched you as if you were a mistake, so you inclined your head in a gesture that was not quite a bow.

"Someone who also came to say farewell."

Maekar frowned.

"That is no answer."

"It is the only one I have."

You took a sip of wine, feeling the prince's gaze weigh upon you like a stone. He was not a bad man — so they said — but he was a tired man. And tired men rarely have patience for riddles.

"My brother was buried today," he said, his voice breaking for an instant. "I am in no humour to deal with the likes of you."

You lowered your cup, finally, and looked at him with an honesty that disarmed him.

"Nor am I, my prince. I came from very far to be here. In truth, leaving Flea Bottom without being killed is near enough a miracle."

The name made Maekar raise an eyebrow.

"Flea Bottom?"

"Some years ago, your brother found me in an alley, about to be sold as a slave by merchants who had taken me by force. He did not have to do anything, but he did. He paid for me. Gave me food, a roof, a purpose. Said I deserved more than that. And he deserved more than this."

Your voice trembled now, but you held firm.

"He was the only good man to cross my path in my whole life. The only one who looked at me as if I were a person. So yes, Prince Maekar," you raised your cup, in a silent toast to the air, "I came to say farewell. And there is no force in the world that could have kept me from being here today."

Maekar was silent for a long time. The cold evening wind stirred the flowers in your hair, and when he spoke, his voice came out lower.

"He never told me."

"He did not need anyone to know to do good."

The prince looked away, and you saw, for an instant, the pain he tried to hide behind the armour of a serious man.

"Stay until the end, if you wish," he said, finally. "And then... well, then you decide what to do."

He walked away without waiting for an answer.

You stayed until the end.

The funeral dragged on for hours. Hymns were sung, incense was burned, tears were shed that were not always true. You stayed at the back, leaning against a cold stone column, watching. You did not approach the royal family, did not try to speak to anyone. You merely stayed.

When the last septon fell silent, when the last nobles withdrew to their warmed chambers, when the torches began to crackle lower, you were still there.

The stone floor of the Sept was icy beneath your bare feet, but you no longer felt it. You looked to the place where Baelor's body had lain, and the tears you had held back all day finally came.

"Why did you have to go there?" you whispered, your voice thick. "Why did it have to be you?"

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, sniffling softly. You needed to leave. You needed air.

That was when you saw him.

Outside the Sept, in a secluded corner of the garden, someone sat upon a large stone, covered by the black cloak of House Targaryen. The hood was down, and the dim light of day's end illuminated dark hair — very dark — with a streak of white falling at the side. His eyes were red from weeping, and you did not fail to notice that one was blue and the other, brown.

Valarr.

Baelor's son… the one he had spoken of so often, asking what you saw about the young prince. You had never imagined the meeting would be like this; you had never even imagined you would one day leave Flea Bottom for the sept.

But something inside you — that strange thing that always pulled you where you should not go — made your feet move towards him.

You stumbled a little on the way. The wine still had its effect, and the damp earth of the garden did not help, but you went on, with the flowers in your hair, the white dress staining at the hem, until you stopped beside him.

Valarr lifted his face.

For a moment, he merely looked at you. The mismatched eyes travelled over your face, your dress, the flowers in your hair, your bare feet. There was sadness in them, yes, but also something akin to wonder. As if you were a vision, a strange dream his weariness was conjuring.

"Go away," he said, his voice hoarse.

You tilted your head, a small smile forming at the corner of your mouth.

"No."

He frowned.

"No?"

"No. I would not miss the chance to see someone as prettu as you crying."

The comment caught him off guard. He blinked, and for an instant, the sadness gave way to something confused, almost irritated.

"What are you talking about?"

"You, of course," you said, shrugging, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Today would have been a horrible day if I had not seen you."

Valarr stared at you for a long second. Then, he let out a snort, a sound that could have been laughter or disbelief, you could not tell.

"You are drunk."

"A little, but that does not mean I am wrong."

He looked away, his shoulders tense beneath the cloak.

"You know nothing about me."

"I know more than you think."

You sat on the ground beside his stone, without ceremony, pulling at your dress to keep it from getting dirtier than it already was. You raised the cup — still with a bit of wine — towards him.

"Want some?"

He looked at the cup, then at you.

"Do you always offer wine to princes?"

"Only to those who look like they need a swallow."

This time, he almost smiled. Almost.

Valarr held the cup for a moment, as if it weighed more in his hands than it should. Then, he brought it to his lips and took a long drink. The wine was cheap, of the sort served to the common folk, but he did not seem to mind.

"You were inside," he said, more statement than question. "I saw you. At the back, near the column."

You raised an eyebrow.

"I thought I would go unnoticed. But I was wearing white in a place where everyone dressed in black."

"And I am not blind."

He handed the cup back. His fingers brushed yours for an instant, and you felt a strange warmth where the skin touched, like a spark that dies before you can name it.

"Why did you stay?" he asked. "No nobles stayed until the end, only family… and you."

"I am no noble."

"That I saw."

He did not say it as an insult. He merely stated it, with a disarming honesty.

You shrugged, drawing your knees up towards your chest, hugging your legs.

"He was good to me. That is not paid for with half an hour of mourning. It is paid for by staying until the last moment, even if he does not know. Even if no one sees."

Valarr was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice came out lower.

"He was like that. Good. People speak of the prince, the heir, the knight… but no one speaks of that. Of how he was simply good."

"You know," you said. It was not a question.

He looked at you.

"He was my father."

"And you loved him."

"Yes."

The word came out simple, bare, without defences. And in that moment, seeing the way he gripped his cloak tightly, how his chin trembled slightly even as he tried to hide it, you felt something tighten inside you.

"He spoke of you," you said, softly.

Valarr lifted his face.

"He always spoke of me."

"It would be strange if he did not…" you took a sip of wine, moving your hands in gestures. "He said you were too seriou, unlike me, that you lived with your head in books, always learning to be the best, and that you had a good heart. He said that one day I should meet you."

Valarr nodded, absorbing this.

"And why is that?"

"I am not like the noble girls you must have known; I would hate to dress like them too," you said, plucking a flower from beside the stone he sat on and tucking it into his cloak. "But Baelor thought you might trust me more because of it. More than you trusted him."

"Did you see him often? Were you his lover? Half-sister?"

"No! No!… seven hells, Valarr, no!" you scolded him, startling him as if he had asked the most absurd questions. And he had. "I did not see your father as often as I would have liked, but whenever he passed through the city, he found a way to seek me out. He brought food, coins, asked if I was well. He said I reminded him of a sister he never had."

Your voice faltered on the last word. You looked away, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears that threatened to return.

Valarr said nothing, but you felt the movement before you saw his hand reaching out, hesitant, hovering in the air for a moment before landing lightly upon yours.

The touch was timid, almost a request for permission. As if he did not know if he could, if he should, if it was right.

You turned your hand, interlacing your fingers with his.

"What is your name?" he asked, after a long silence.

"No one has asked me that for a long time."

"I am asking."

You smiled, a small, sad smile.

"You may call me whatever you like. Names do not matter much to me."

He frowned, but did not insist.

"Very well. Then… what did you do? Besides receiving visits from my father?"

"Many things, Prince Valarr. I helped the children not go hungry, tended to the sick with herbs I gathered in the fields. Sometimes, when someone was desperate enough, I would look into their future and tell them what I saw."

Valarr looked at you with an expression you could not decipher.

"You have dreams? Like Daeron?"

"No, not dreams. I see things. Pieces. It is not something I control; it happens when I least expect it."

He was silent for a moment. Then, he let out a short, humourless laugh.

"If you could see the future, why did you not warn my father not to go to that damned trial by seven?"

The question hurt more than you expected.

"I did warn him, my prince," you drank again from the wine, trying to hide the thickness in your voice. "I did the best I could, but I cannot control a dragon."

Valarr froze.

"I warned him two years ago, and then again before you all left for Ashford. I faced the royal guards and shouted his name until he came. And when he did, I told him that if he went through with what was right, he would not come home. Not the same way he left."

You felt the knot in your throat tighten.

"I remember how Prince Baelor looked at me, and placed his hand on my shoulder, and said: 'Sometimes, doing what is right costs more than we are willing to pay, but it is still right.' Then he called the guards and had them take me away. He told me not to worry, that everything would be well."

Tears streamed down your face as you smiled in disbelief. Disbelief that you had thought a prince would listen to you; disbelief that you had thought you could change fate.

"Your father knew he was going to die, Valarr. He chose to fight."

The young prince did not move. His hand squeezed yours more tightly, as if you were a support, an anchor in a sea that threatened to sweep him away.

"Why would he do that?" his voice came out rough. "Why would he walk towards death knowing it awaited him?"

"Because he was a good man. Because he thought he could cheat the gods in the trial by seven, where no guard could stand against him. But the gods punish cheats. In their sight, that was not fair."

You wiped your face with your free hand, sniffing.

"And because he knew that if he did not go, another would have to. And he did not want anyone to die in his place. Truth be told, he thought there was no chance he would die. But I warned him."

You were silent again, and perhaps that was for the best. Telling Valarr the truth, knowing the gods would punish him for his fury, or that his own family might change him.

Then, he looked at you, admiring each line of your face, pondering for a moment.

"Did you see my death?"

The question came so low you almost did not hear it. There was fear there, in his eyes, but also a strange courage, like one who would rather know the worst than live in doubt.

"I saw it."

He swallowed hard.

"How?"

"Sickness. You and the king. I do not know what causes it, I do not know when, but I saw flowers… spring. I saw the two of you ill, weak, and Matarys too, then… nothing."

Valarr was silent for a long time. His hand still held yours, but now his fingers trembled slightly.

"How long?" he asked finally. "How long until it happens?"

"I do not know. Visions do not come with dates. But it will be during spring. It could be this one, or the next. It would be hard to know."

He released your hand suddenly, rising in a swift movement. He began to pace back and forth, his steps nervous on the damp earth.

"You must be one of those Pentoshi witches, come to curse my family. I cannot stay here listening to this. You are drunk, I am in mourning, none of this makes sense."

"I am flattered to be called a witch. You are not the first. However, I am quite sure I am not one," you said, clearly. "You should trust me, my prince."

He stopped pacing and turned to you, his eyes brimming with anger and despair.

"And what would you have me do? Flee? Abandon my family, my name, my duty? I am now my grandfather's heir."

"You will not be more than that if you stay in King's Landing, Valarr… you will be a king who never was, just like your father," you answered, rising as well. "If you wish, you may try to change your fate. But I cannot stop you from choosing what you think is right, just as you could not stop your father."

"You are telling me to pretend I am not who I am? To vanish in the night like a coward?"

"Like someone who chose to live."

You took a step towards him, and then another, until you stood face to face. The height difference was great, but you were not intimidated by how much taller he was than you expected. You lifted your face and looked into his eyes.

"I do not know what will kill you, Valarr. I do not know if it is plague, if it is poison, if it is something from within. But I know you have a chance to avoid it if you leave here. If you go far away."

He stared at you for a long moment. The wind blew, stirring the flowers in your hair, and you saw something change in his gaze.

"Why do you care?" he asked, his voice breaking. "You do not even know me."

"I knew your father. And he loved you. That is enough for me."

Valarr looked away, but you saw his chin tremble.

"I cannot simply go," he whispered.

"No one is tying you to the foot of the Iron Throne, my prince."

"And where would I go?"

"Anywhere. We could go together."

The word 'together' hung in the air between you. He looked at you, confused.

"Together? You would come with me?"

"Why not? I am leaving tonight. There is nothing to keep me here, waiting for the same sickness to kill me. The only good man I ever knew in this city is dead now. What is left for me?"

Valarr opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came. He seemed lost, as if the ground were shifting beneath his feet.

"You are asking me to flee with a stranger," he said, finally. "A stranger who saw the future, who knew my father…"

"And who offered you wine," you finished, a small smile appearing. "Do not forget the wine."

He let out a sound that could have been laughter, could have been tears. He ran a hand over his face, weary.

"This is madness."

"I am going to Dorne. Or Winterfell. You have until spring to find me."

You took another step, standing so close you could feel the warmth of his body in the cold evening. You raised your hand and, slowly, touched his face. The skin was damp from recent tears, soft beneath your fingers.

"You are pretty when you cry," you whispered. "But you are more pretty when you smile. I wish I could see that more often, Prince Valarr."

He caught his breath, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and covered yours, which still rested on his cheek. His eyes were fixed on yours, intense, searching for something; perhaps a lie, perhaps confirmation.

"If I go," he said, his voice low, "will it be with you?"

"Yes."

"And if I wish to return one day?"

"You return, when you feel you must. When it is your time to sit the throne."

"And if I never wish to return?"

You smiled, a sweet, sad smile.

"Then we will find a new place to live."

He was silent for a long time, just looking at you. The grey day bathed his face in silver, highlighting the white streak in his dark hair, the eyes of different colours, the mouth slightly open like one who still does not believe what he is about to say.

"What shall I call you?" he asked, finally. "If we are to spend the rest of our lives together, I need a name."

"Choose something to call me. After all, I shall not walk the Seven Kingdoms calling you 'prince'."

He thought for a moment. Then, a small smile — the first you had seen on him — appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"My maid."

You raised your eyebrows, and pushed him hard by the shoulder, heading towards the road.

"If you think I will serve you just because you are a pretty-faced little prince, I had best go to Dorne alone."

"My wife."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

"Your wife?"

"Yes. We do not know what sort of folk, or what sort of men, we shall meet upon the road. And Dorne lies at the other end."

You laughed, disbelieving, and set your hand on your hip, narrowing your eyes.

"Very well, 'husband'."

He walked to you and held your hand more firmly, and this time it was not timid. It was firm, like one who had already made his choice and would not turn back.

You did not know if you could handle Valarr's grief, for it would be only the two of you, and your whole life had been just you and no one else. You were both suffering, but Baelor was his father, and his pain ran deeper. Leaving his life behind would not be easy, and everything would become a whirlwind for him. You feared it might make him ill.

"And if you fall ill?" you asked, suddenly. "Do I bring you back?"

"I cannot fall ill. Or else I would condemn you to die with me," he said, a sad smile on his lips. "We shall need horses. But first, I will fetch what I can."

"Are you sure about this?" you asked, holding his hand. "About wanting to come with me?"

"My choice is the right one, wife. I do not wish to die."

The moon was already high when you heard the hoofbeats of a horse on the dirt road.

You were leaning against a tree, on the outskirts of the city, where you had promised to wait. The night was cold, and you had pulled the white dress over your knees, your feet still bare, the flowers in your hair already wilting. For a moment, you feared he would not come. That reason had won out, that duty had spoken louder.

But then the silhouette emerged from the darkness.

Valarr came riding a magnificent horse — a warhorse, large and dark as the night, with head held high and the steady step of one who knew its worth. He himself now wore simpler clothes, nothing that shouted "prince", but still there was something about him he could not hide: the bearing, the look, the white streak the moon insisted upon lighting.

He stopped before you and dismounted without a word. For a long moment, they merely looked at each other. Then, he extended his hand.

"I came."

You smiled, a small smile, and let him pull you up.

"I know."

He mounted behind you in the saddle, and for an instant there was the awkwardness of strange bodies adjusting, hands that did not know where to rest. But then his arms encircled your waist to reach the reins, and the warmth of his chest against your back warmed something inside you.

"South?" his voice sounded close to your ear.

"South."

He pressed his legs to the horse, and you rode towards where the wind was warmer.

The first night was the hardest.

They stopped at a simple inn by the roadside, the sort that asked no names nor origins, so long as you paid in silver. Valarr arranged for two separate chambers — he insisted on it, with a formality almost funny coming from someone who had just abandoned his own life to flee with a stranger.

"You are my wife now," he said, his eyes looking away. "But that does not mean that… I mean to say, I shall not…"

"Take liberties?" you finished, a smile playing on your lips. "What a gentleman."

He blushed. He actually blushed. A Targaryen prince, heir to the throne, blushing like a boy.

"Sleep well, my wife."

"Sleep well, my husband."

You parted at the door, each to their own side, but you did not sleep well. You woke in the middle of the night to a strange sound coming from the chamber next door. It was muffled, like a groan of pain, or perhaps quiet weeping. You lay still for a moment, listening, your heart tight.

Then, without much thought, you rose.

His chamber door was not locked, and you entered slowly. Valarr was thrashing in the bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, his face contorted in agony. His brow shone with sweat, and he murmured senseless things — scattered words, names.

"Father… father, no… do not go…"

You crossed the chamber and sat on the edge of the bed. You hesitated for an instant, then reached out and touched his face. It was warm. Too warm.

"Valarr," you called, softly. "Valarr, wake up."

He did not wake. He continued to struggle, his eyes moving beneath his lids, his breath short and quick. You passed your hand over his brow, then his neck, searching for signs. Fever. He had a fever.

"No, no, no," you whispered, panic rising. "Not now. It cannot be now."

With trembling hands, you rose and went to the water basin in the corner of the chamber. You wet a cloth and returned to his side, dabbing gently at his face, his chest, trying to lower the fever.

"You will not die," you said, your voice breaking. "You will not die, Valarr. I will not let you abandon me too."

The words came out unthinking, and only afterwards did you realise what you had said. You swallowed the tears and continued passing the cloth.

At some point, between one movement and another, you lay down beside him on the bed. You had not thought about it; it simply happened, your body finding his, your arm draping over his chest, your head finding a place on his shoulder.

And you began to sing. It was an old song, the sort your mother used to sing to you before she died, before Flea Bottom, before everything. A song about the sea, about sailing far away, about finding peace after the storm. You did not know if the words made sense, did not know if he could hear, but you kept singing, softly, while his hand found yours and squeezed — weakly, but squeezed.

"Stay," he murmured, still asleep. "Do not go."

"I will not," you answered, pushing the hair from his brow. "I am here."

When you woke, the morning light was coming through the crack in the window.

The first thing you felt was the warmth. Not Valarr's fever, but the warmth of a living body, breathing, beside you. The second thing you felt were his fingers moving slowly through your hair, parting the strands with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

You lifted your face.

Valarr was awake, his mismatched eyes fixed on you with an expression you could not decipher. The fever had broken — or perhaps it had only been a nightmare, a scare — but he still looked fragile, vulnerable in a way you had not imagined a prince could be.

"You sang to me," he said, his voice hoarse with sleep.

You looked away, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

"You had a fever and nightmares. I did not know what else to do. I thought you were falling ill."

"I am not ill."

"I truly hope not."

He was silent for a moment, but his hand kept moving through your hair, and you closed your eyes, letting it happen.

"No one has ever done that for me," he said, so low you almost did not hear. "No one has ever stayed when I asked."

You opened your eyes and looked at him.

"Well, I stayed. But I could have gone."

The smile that appeared on his face was small, fragile, but it was a smile. And in that soft morning light, with his dark hair tousled and the white streak falling across his face, he was exactly what you had said in the sept.

Handsome. Too handsome.

"Your fever broke," you said, changing the subject before the silence grew too heavy. "It was only a scare, I think."

"My nightmares have always been like that," he admitted. "Since I was a child. My mother used to say I would cry in my sleep."

"And you cry awake too."

He laughed, a low, surprised sound, as if he had forgotten how.

"You are terrible."

"You like it."

His gaze met yours, and for a moment the air seemed to leave the room.

"I do," he confessed.

You stayed like that for a while longer, lying in the small inn bed. Then you sat up, pulling at the white dress that had rumpled overnight.

"We need to eat something and be on our way. Dorne does not come closer while we sit here idle."

Valarr watched you rise, and when you turned to leave, he called out:

"Wait."

You stopped.

He rose too, crossed the room in long strides, and stopped before you. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then he raised his hand and touched your face with the same gentleness with which he had run his fingers through your hair.

"Thank you," he said. "For last night. For today. For… everything."

You covered his hand with yours.

"That is what wives are for, is it not?"

He smiled again, and this time the smile lit up his whole face.

The following days were like that.

They rode during the day, stopping at inns or, when there were none, camping by the roadside. Valarr had brought money — more than you had imagined — and food, and even clothes for you. Simple dresses, but of good fabric, and a pair of boots you took time getting used to after so long barefoot.

"How did you know my size?" you asked, when he handed you the boots.

He blushed, that lovely colour rising from his cheeks to his ears.

"I… looked. When you slept, that first night. Your feet were sticking out of the bed, and I…"

"You measured my feet while I slept?"

"It was only a quick look!"

You laughed, a warm laugh that echoed on the empty road, and he joined you, embarrassed but clearly pleased to have got it right.

The nights were harder.

Valarr's grief came in waves. Sometimes he would be quiet for hours, his eyes lost on the horizon. Other times, in the middle of the night, you would wake to the sound of his crying muffled in the pillow of the next chamber. And always — always — you went to him.

You did not ask if you could; you did not wait for him to call you. You merely entered, sat on the bed, and stayed. Sometimes you sang. Sometimes you only held his hand. Sometimes you let him bury his face in your shoulder and cry until he could cry no more. And slowly, between one tear and another, between one smile and another, something was changing.

On the fifth night of travel, you did not sleep in separate chambers.

It had rained all day, and you arrived at an inn soaked through, shivering with cold. There was only one chamber free, with a single bed far too small for two.

"I shall sleep on the floor," Valarr offered at once.

"You will not."

"But…"

"Valarr." You set your hands on your hips, looking at him. "We are to spend the rest of our lives together, according to you. Will you sleep on the floor every single night?"

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"When you speak like that, it seems so simple."

"Because it is simple."

And simple it was.

That night, you lay side by side in the small bed, bodies touching because there was no room not to touch. You felt his warmth at your back, his breath in your hair, and for the first time in days, the silence between you was not difficult.

"May I ask you something?" his voice sounded in the dark.

"Yes."

"Why did you go to the sept?"

The question was simple, but you felt its weight.

"I told you. Your father…"

"No. I know that. But why did you stay? After everyone had left. After it was over. Why were you still there?"

You thought for a moment.

"Because when someone goes, a void remains. And I wanted to fill that void with my presence, even if he could no longer feel it. Even if no one saw, I needed him to know, somehow, that he was not alone in death. Just as he was not alone in life."

The silence that followed was long. Then, you felt his arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you close.

"You are the kindest person I have ever known," he whispered near your ear. "After my father."

The tears came warm and silent. You did not wipe them away; you only let them fall as his hands held yours.

"We shall be alright," you said, more to yourself than to him. "We shall."

"We shall," he confirmed. "because we have each other."

The next morning, the sun rose golden over the road.

You woke with the warmth of his body still wrapped around yours, and for a moment you merely lay there, feeling. His chest rising and falling against your back. His arm heavy on your waist. The calm breathing of one who slept in peace.

And for the first time since leaving King's Landing, you felt that perhaps, just perhaps, everything might turn out well.

The road to Dorne was long, and winter insisted on showing its teeth through the trees. You had discovered, in the first days of travel, that Valarr Targaryen did not know how to light a fire.

"How can a man of twenty seven years not know how to light a fire?" you asked, incredulous, watching him rub two stones together with the determination of one who expected the fire to appear by miracle.

"I was a prince," he answered, his shoulders tense with shame. "I had people for that."

"And now?"

He lifted his face, the white streak smudged with ash, his mismatched eyes flashing.

"Now I have you."

You laughed, a pleasant sound you were growing used to hearing from yourself, and knelt beside him. With the patience of one who had taught Flea Bottom children to survive, you covered his hands with yours.

"It is not strength, it is skill. You strike the stone like this, at an angle, letting the spark fall on the dry straw. Then you blow slowly, as if you were seducing the fire."

He looked at you sideways, a small smile forming.

"Seducing the fire?"

"Fire is like a woman, Valarr. It needs patience, gentleness, and at the right moment, a warm breath."

His laughter echoed in the clearing, and you felt your chest warm in a way you were beginning to know well.

Two weeks on the road and Valarr was still, undeniably, a prince.

He rode as if born on a horse's back, yes, and had an impressive aim with the bow they bought in the first village. But he also tried to pay with gold coins at inns where no one had seen gold for generations, greeted people with the formality of one raised to rule, and looked at chickens as if they were mythical creatures.

"It will peck you if you keep staring," you warned, one afternoon when you stopped to rest at a farm.

Valarr stepped back, alarmed.

"Peck?"

"Yes. They do that. They have beaks. They peck. Did your books teach you nothing?"

"My books did not speak of chickens."

You held back your laughter and reached out your hand to him.

"Come. I shall introduce you."

And so you spent the afternoon teaching a Targaryen prince how to milk a goat (disaster), how to recognise edible herbs (he mistook parsley for a poisonous plant and you only noticed in time because the horse refused to eat it), and how to walk barefoot.

"This is disgusting," he said, when you made him remove his boots on a dirt path.

"Your feet need to feel the ground, Valarr. To know if it is warm or cold, if there is stone or sand. How will you rule a people if you do not know what they feel?"

He looked at you with a strange expression, as if you had said something far deeper than it seemed.

"You think much on these things," he observed, as his feet sank into the soft earth.

"I lived long with little. One learns."

He did not answer, but that day, he walked barefoot all the way to camp.

The river appeared at dusk, when the sun was already beginning to set behind the mountains.

It was a beautiful place, hidden among trees, with crystal water and a small waterfall forming a natural pool. You stopped the horse and sighed.

"I need a bath."

Valarr dismounted behind you, looking at the river with an expression you could not identify.

"Is it deep?"

"I do not know, but it does not matter. It has been days since we found an inn with hot water, and I smell worse than the horse."

He laughed, but there was something different in the laugh. You did not think much on it, too busy removing the new boots he had given you, your toes eager to feel the cold water.

It was when you began to lift your dress that you noticed. Valarr had his back turned. Completely turned, his shoulders tense, staring fixedly at the trees on the other side of the river as if expecting them to do something interesting.

"Valarr?"

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping watch."

"For what?"

He did not turn, and his voice came out a little higher than usual.

"To make sure no one appears. You are going to bathe, are you not? So, I am keeping watch."

You smiled a smile he could not see.

"And if someone does appear?"

"I shall send them away."

"And if it is a band of armed merchants?"

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see his profile, his jaw set tight.

"I have a sword."

"And if they have bows?"

"I…" he hesitated. "I won the joust at Ashford. I can handle myself."

The laugh escaped before you could hold it.

"Valarr Targaryen, you are the most endearing thing I have ever met."

He muttered something you did not understand, but his shoulders relaxed a little.

The river was cold, but good.

The water washed away days of road, of dust, of sweat. You dipped your head, feeling your hair loosen from the wilted flowers that still stubbornly clung, and for a moment you simply floated, looking at the darkening sky.

When you emerged, Valarr was still there. With his back turned, yes, but now sitting on a stone by the riverbank, his sword in his lap, his eyes fixed on the forest. His posture was that of a guard, of a protector, and something in that made your chest tighten in a good way.

"You may turn," you called. "I am decent now."

He turned slowly, as if afraid of what he might see, and when his eyes met yours — your wet hair dripping water, your damp dress clinging to your body, your weary smile — something changed in his face.

"What?" you asked, tilting your head.

"Nothing." He looked away too quickly. "Only… you seem happy."

"Clean water does that to a person."

He did not answer, but when you left the river and sat beside him on the stone, you felt his body relax towards you, as if by instinct.

That night, you camped near the river.

Valarr lit the fire alone for the first time. It took nearly an hour, and he cursed in High Valyrian on at least three separate occasions, but when the flame finally appeared, the smile on his face shone brighter than the fire.

"I did it!" he exclaimed, turning to you like a child who had just received a gift.

"My husband is a man of many talents," you teased, but you were smiling.

He sat beside you, close enough that your arms touched. The night was cold, and the warmth of the fire was not enough, but the warmth of his body… that was.

"Teach me more things," he asked, after a while.

"What sort of things?"

"Things of… common folk. Things I ought to know."

You thought for a moment.

"Tomorrow I shall teach you to fish without a rod. With your hands."

His eyes widened.

"Fish? With my hands?"

"It is easier than it seems. And harder than it seems too, but if you manage it, you shall never go hungry again."

"I have never gone hungry."

"I know, but now you might. So learn."

He was quiet for a moment, processing.

"You treat me as if I were your equal," he said, softly.

"Because you are."

"I am a prince."

"Were. Now you are only Valarr. My Valarr."

He swallowed hard.

"Your Valarr?"

"My husband, are you not? So. Mine."

You felt his gaze on your face, burning, and when you turned to face him, he was closer than you expected.

"May I ask you something?" his voice came out hoarse.

"Yes."

"Do you… do you feel it too?"

"Feel what?"

He hesitated. His hand found yours in the dark, fingers interlacing.

"This strange thing in my chest when you smile. This tightness when you move away. This fear that one day you will wake and decide it was a mistake to come with me."

"Valarr…"

"I know it seems madness. We have known each other but a few weeks. Yet when I am with you, the grief hurts less. When you sing, I can sleep. When you laugh, I forget my father died. And that is…" his voice faltered. "That is frightening. Because if you leave, I do not know what would be left of me."

You did not answer with words. You only released his hand, raised your arm, and pulled his face to yours.

The kiss was slow.

There was no hurry, no desperation. It was merely the most natural thing in the world, as if you had done it a thousand times before. His lips were soft, a little tremulous, and the taste held a hint of salt — tears you had not seen him shed.

When you parted, his forehead rested against yours.

"I shall not leave," you whispered. "Not while you want me to stay."

Days later, Valarr caught his first fish with his bare hands.

It took three tries, and he fell in the river twice, and you laughed so hard your belly ached. But when he emerged with the silver fish thrashing between his fingers, his victory cry startled the birds in the entire forest.

"LOOK! LOOK WHAT I DID!"

"I am looking, Valarr!"

"I AM THE KING OF FISH!"

"You are ridiculous, that is what you are!"

He came out of the river soaking wet, his dark hair plastered to his face, the white streak like a wet feather. The fish still thrashed, and he held it away from his body, clearly unsure what to do now that he had succeeded.

"And… and now?" he asked.

"Now we kill it, clean it, and eat it."

The look of horror on his face was so pure you almost felt sorry for him.

"Kill it?"

"Valarr, it is a fish."

"I know it is a fish, but… kill it?"

You rose, went to him, and took the fish with a firm hand. In a swift, precise movement, you killed it with a stone, and began cleaning it right there, with the knife he had given you.

He watched it all with an expression of fascination and horror mingled.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"Flea Bottom. We had no cooks."

"And you never… never felt sickened by it?"

"I did. At first. But hunger teaches you to overcome disgust."

He was silent for a long time, watching you work. Then, without a word, he sat beside you on the river sand and extended his hand.

"Teach me."

You looked at him.

"Are you sure?"

"If we are to spend the rest of our lives together, I must learn this too. I cannot leave everything to you."

The smile that appeared on your face was so wide it hurt.

That afternoon, Valarr Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, learned to clean a fish. He got his hands covered in blood and entrails, made faces of disgust at several moments, and in the end, when the fish was ready to be roasted, he looked at you with such genuine pride that your heart nearly stopped.

"Did I do it right?"

"Perfectly."

His smile was worth more than all the gold in King's Landing.

That night, the fish was the best you had eaten in weeks.

And afterwards, lying under the stars, with the warmth of the fire warming your feet and his body warming your back, you thought that perhaps, just perhaps, the gods had got one thing right in life.

"Valarr?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming."

His arm tightened around your waist.

"Thank you for giving me a reason to come."

You smiled in the dark and closed your eyes. For the first time in many years, you did not dream of the future.

The Dornish frontier was three days away when the storm caught them.

It had been building on the horizon since afternoon, dark clouds swallowing the blue sky, and you had smelled the rain in the air long before the first drop fell. Valarr smelled it too, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he assessed the land around them.

"We need to find shelter."

"There," you pointed to a rock formation further ahead, a rise of stone that looked as though the winds had carved it. "There should be a cave."

It was not quite a cave. More a cleft in the rock, deep enough for two bodies to shelter, wide enough to spread their cloaks upon the ground. But when the rain came down, thick and violent as only southern storms can be, that hole in the stone seemed the finest place in all the world.

The horse stood beneath a nearby overhang, grumbling but safe. The two of you squeezed into the cleft, soaked, breathless, laughing like children who had just escaped a scolding.

"We are soaked through," Valarr said, frustrated.

"We are."

"And no dry wood for a fire."

"No."

"And it will rain the whole night."

"Likely."

He looked at you.

"And you are laughing."

"Because it is funny."

"What is?"

"Us. Fleeing a storm into a hole in the rock, soaked, no fire, no hot food, and yet…" you gestured, searching for words. "Yet it is better than any night I spent in Flea Bottom."

His look changed. That look you were beginning to know, deeper, more intense.

"Did you have many bad nights?" he asked softly.

"Some."

"Tell me."

You hesitated, but there, in the dark of the cleft, with the rain falling outside and the warmth of his body so near, the words came easier.

"Hungry nights. Cold nights. Nights when drunken men tried to force their way into where I slept. Nights when I saw things in the future and did not know whether to tell or to keep silent."

He listened in silence, and when you finished, his hand found yours in the dark.

"You will never spend another night like that," he said, as if it were a promise, an oath. "As long as I live, you will never have a life like that again."

"Valarr…"

"I swear it by the old gods and the new. By my father. By my name. You will never be alone again."

Emotion tightened your throat. You blinked quickly, but some tears escaped all the same.

"You are so good," you whispered. "So good, and you do not even see it."

He raised his free hand and wiped your face with his fingers, slowly.

Night fell in earnest, and the rain did not relent.

You spread your cloaks upon the floor of the cleft as best you could, and lay side by side to keep warm. Your bodies came together out of need at first — sharing warmth was a matter of survival — but slowly, need became something else.

You felt his breath in your hair. His hand resting on your waist, light, as if waiting for permission to stay. His legs against yours, and even through the damp clothes, the warmth was nearly unbearable.

"Valarr?"

"Hm?"

"Are you awake?"

"I am."

"I cannot sleep," you confessed.

"Nor I."

"Why?"

He took a long time to answer.

"Because you are too close."

The air caught in your lungs.

"Do you want me to move away?"

"No." The answer came quickly, almost urgent. "I do not."

You turned your body in the darkness, facing him. You could not see much, only the gleam of his eyes, one lighter than the other, reflecting the scant light that entered the cleft.

"What do you want, husband?"

He swallowed. You felt the movement in his body, the tension in his muscles.

"You," he confessed. "I want you in a way that… that I cannot explain."

Your hand found his face in the dark. The skin was warm, soft, and you felt when he closed his eyes beneath your touch.

"Then have me," you whispered.

"Are you certain? Because if it is only because we are here, alone, if it is only because…"

"Valarr." You interrupted, your thumb passing over his lips. "I was certain the moment you appeared in the night with a horse and a note for your uncle. I was certain when you gave up the notion of calling me your maid. I was certain when you caught a fish with your bare hands and shouted that you were the king of fish." A smile trembled in your voice. "I was certain long before today."

He laughed, a low sound, almost a sob, and then the kiss came differently this time.

His hands found your face, your hair, the nape of your neck, pulling you closer as if it were possible to disappear into each other. The damp clothes were in the way, and you both realised at the same moment. His fingers fumbled with the ties of your dress, clumsy, and you laughed against his mouth.

"Let me," you whispered. "Let me take it off."

"No." His voice was firm, even as rough as it was. "Let me do it… let me know you too."

Your heart raced.

"The dress opens at the back. There is a tie."

His fingers found the tie, pulled slowly, and you felt the fabric loosen on your shoulders. He kissed your shoulder when it appeared, bare in the dim light, and the warmth of his mouth on your skin made you tremble.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured against your skin. "So beautiful it hurts."

"You can hardly see me."

"I can feel you. It is better."

The dress slipped away, and you were left in only your smallclothes, thin, damp, nearly transparent. His eyes travelled over your body even in the dark, and you saw the way he caught his breath.

"May I touch you?"

The question was so polite, so Valarr, that you felt your eyes grow wet again.

"Yes."

His hand found your waist first, slowly, as if learning the way. Then it rose, tracing your ribs, the curve of your breast, and when his fingers brushed your skin, you arched your back in an instinctive movement.

"Like this?" he asked, his voice uncertain.

"Yes. Like this. Perfect."

He gained confidence. His mouth found yours again while his hands explored, and you felt each touch as if it were fire, as if he were marking your skin forever. His clothes came off next — you took them off, with more practice, but with the same urgency. He touched you with wonder, with respect, but also with a poorly hidden hunger that made your blood boil.

"Here?" he asked, when his hand brushed the side of your breast.

"Yes."

"And here?"

His fingers slid forward, covering your breast fully, and you arched your back with a low moan.

"Valarr…"

"It is so soft," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "So perfect."

He lowered his head and kissed where his hand had been, his mouth hot and damp on your skin. The kiss became a lick, the lick became a gentle nibble, and you buried your fingers in his hair, pulling.

"More," you begged.

He did not stop.

His mouth travelled down, finding your other breast, while his hand continued to caress the first. His fingers brushed your nipple, and you moaned louder, the sound muffled by the rain outside.

"Like this?" he asked, his lips still on your skin.

"Yes. Gods, yes."

He repeated the movement, learning what made you moan, what made you arch, what made your fingers tighten in his hair. And when he finally brought mouth and hand to both breasts at once, you lost your breath for an instant.

"Valarr," you gasped. "Valarr, I need…"

"Need what?"

"You."

You pulled him on top of you, feeling his weight, his warmth, skin against skin. And then you felt him, hard, hot, pressing against your thigh, and the air left your lungs.

"Do you feel that?" he asked. "What you do to me?"

"I feel it. Because you do the same to me."

He kissed you, deep, and his hand travelled down between your bodies. His fingers found your most sensitive place, and you moaned into his mouth when he began to touch.

"Like this?" he asked against your lips.

"Yes. Slower. Like that."

He learned quickly. His fingers circled, pressed, explored, and you felt the pleasure building low in your belly, hot, urgent.

"Valarr, I am going to…"

He did not stop, and when the pleasure came, you bit his lip to keep from crying out, your body arching against his, your legs tightening around his waist in an instinctive movement. Valarr positioned himself between your legs, and you felt his cock teasing you, sliding, asking without words.

"Do you want it?" he asked anyway. "Are you certain?"

"Valarr, if you ask again, I swear…"

He entered you without ceremony. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. You felt every inch, every moment of the delicious invasion, and when he was fully sheathed, you both stopped, gasping, just feeling.

"You are so tight," he murmured, his forehead against yours. "So warm."

"You are so big," you answered, and he laughed, a trembling sound.

"Is that good?"

"It is perfect."

He moved.

At first, the movements were slow, deep, drawing soft moans from you both. He looked into your eyes as he moved, as if he needed to see your reaction, as if every expression on your face were a map to his pleasure.

"Like this?" he would ask, and you would answer with moans, with squeezes, with your nails digging into his back.

The rhythm quickened, and the cleft in the stone filled with the sounds of you, bodies meeting, breathless gasps, muffled groans. The rain outside competed in volume, but it lost.

"You are so handsome," you whispered, running your hand over his face, his lips, his eyes. "My handsome prince."

"Yours," he answered, his voice breaking. "Only yours."

He changed the angle, and suddenly the pleasure grew more intense, deeper. You moaned louder, and he seemed to understand, repeating the movement once, twice, three times. One of his hands found your clit, touching in rhythm with his thrusts, and the pleasure that had already been good became almost unbearable. You felt your release approaching like a wave, growing, about to break.

"I am going to come," you warned, your voice high. "I am going to come, Valarr, I am going to…"

"Come. Come with me."

He buried his face in your neck, his movements growing more ragged, more urgent, and when you finally shattered, he followed a second later, a muffled groan into your skin, his whole body trembling.

You stayed like that for a long time. His hand still touched your face, his fingers tracing your jaw as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

Then he turned you onto your back in a swift movement.

You felt the cold air of the cleft on your bare back for a second before the warmth of his body covered you completely. His weight pressed you against the ground, and you moaned, your fingers digging into the earth and the cloaks beneath you.

"You do not know," his voice sounded near your ear, warm. "What you do to me."

"I did not know," you managed to say, your voice failing as his hands gripped your hips.

"You did know. You did. You saw me weeping and decided you would have me. And I let you. I let you because I could not say no to you even if I tried."

The truth in his words warmed something deep in your chest. You turned your head, trying to reach his mouth, and he let you, but it was a different kiss, crooked, desperate, more teeth than lip.

"I want you again," he confessed against your mouth.

"Then have me."

He did not wait.

This time, there was no care, no slowness. There was only the urgency of two bodies that had spent too long wanting each other in silence. He entered you in one movement, and the moan you both let out mingled in the damp air of the cleft.

He began to move, and there was nothing merciful in the rhythm. It was pure hunger, need, as if he were trying to make up for all the nights you had slept side by side without touching, all the river baths he had watched with his back turned, all the moments he had wanted and not had.

His hand buried itself in your hair, pulling your head back, arching your spine at an angle that made you moan louder.

"You are mine," he said, his voice breaking. "My wife. Mine. And no one will take you from me. Not the gods. Not the sickness. Not the bloody future."

"I am yours," you confirmed, the words coming out broken by moans. "I am. Always."

His rhythm quickened, lost composure, and you felt when he began to tremble. But before he could finish, he stopped.

"No," he growled. "Not like this. I want to see you."

He turned you again, now facing him, and when his eyes met yours in the half-dark, you saw everything. The desire, yes, but also the fear, the hope, the immense and terrifying love that had grown too quickly between you.

"Look at me," he asked, his voice lower now. "Look at me while we do this. I want to see you."

His legs fitted between yours, and when he entered again, slower this time, deeper, you did not look away. You stayed like that, gazing at each other in the dark, while your bodies moved in a rhythm that was yours, only yours.

His hands held your face as if you were too precious to exist. His thumbs passed over your cheeks, your lips, while the rest of his body asked for more, asked for everything.

"I love you," he said, and his voice was full of tears. "I love you so much that sometimes it hurts. That sometimes I wake in the night afraid I dreamed you."

"It is no dream," you answered, the words coming out difficult, broken by moans and emotion. "I am here. I am not leaving."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He kissed you then, and the kiss was everything, despair and hope, hunger and devotion, the beginning and the end of all things. When Valarr's hand descended to stroke your cunt, you felt your skin burn with fire. Desire swelled in your throat as he ran his hand over your neck, through your hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to control you. His touch was possessive and thrilling.

He slid inside once more, and you arched your back, moaning with pleasure as he filled you completely. Your hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring yourself as he sank deeper into your cunt. Flames of pleasure licked at your walls. Ecstasy ran through your veins like milk of the poppy, numbing and delirious, as Valarr slid in and out of you. The hot pressure expanded, and your eyes rolled back, hearing the prince's moans echo your own.

You hissed through your teeth. The heat, like a branding iron burning flesh, intensified as Valarr's face rested on your shoulder and you could hold him tighter. Valarr bit your shoulder, and you dug your nails into his back. Yet, before you could be more cautious with your touches, Valarr became even more merciless and sank even deeper.

Seven Hells, you thought.

Valarr's body was covered in sweat, and each time he went deeper, you felt as if you were being consumed by fire. The sensation of being filled by him was almost superhuman, a mix of pleasure and pain that seemed without end.

Valarr let out small moans as he pressed his forehead to yours. When he saw you part your lips and dig your nails into his skin, he knew you were again close to your peak. He kept a steady rhythm, feeling your release crest and soak him completely with your desire.

"Can you ride a dragon?" he asked, leaning over you and pushing back the hair stuck to your face. You nodded.

Valarr wet his lips, descended to yours and kissed you before lying down beside you. He sat up and reached out his hand for you to come to him. You crawled to him, placed your hands on his collarbones and positioned your legs on either side of the prince's hips, aligning your soaked cunt with the head of his cock.

The position made your toes curl, and the way you sank down and rose repeatedly drew heavy moans from Valarr. He gripped your waist, quickening the movements as he watched you give yourself over to pleasure. He felt your hands tighten on his shoulders and your moans increase when he saw your brows furrow. Valarr held your hips firmly and thrust hard, unable to contain himself.

Your lips met his briefly before you felt the hot spill inside you, running down the walls of your tight core. Valarr smiled, pushing the hair from your face once more, admiring your flushed, exhausted face. You were completely spent, your body light and slow.

You lay down upon Valarr, who stroked the back of your neck, while his other hand slid over your waist, his fingers tracing a gentle, soothing path on your skin. His eyes, still glistening from the recent experience. You stayed like that for a long time, until his breathing calmed, until his body relaxed upon yours. And when you thought he had fallen asleep, his voice sounded again, softly:

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"When you saw the future... did you see me? Us? This?"

You thought for a moment.

"No. I never saw this. But I think it is because the future changes. We changed it. You chose to come, I chose to stay, and now... now everything is new."

He lifted his head.

"There were no more visions?"

"A few," you murmured. "But they were not about us."

The next morning, the sun rose golden over the mountains.

You woke with the warmth of his body still wrapped around yours, and for a moment you just lay there, feeling it. His calm breathing against your back. His heavy arm around your waist. The peace.

"Awake?" his voice came, rough with sleep.

"Awake."

He tightened his embrace, pulling you closer.

"You could pretend you were not."

"Why?"

"Because I want to stay like this forever."

You smiled and turned your head to kiss his chin.

"We have a whole lifetime to stay like this. Get up, my prince."

"I am no longer a prince, as I have told you, my wife," he grumbled, but he was already smiling. "I am only Valarr."

The Dornish frontier was crossed on a morning of open sky, when the sun no longer burned as it did in the lands of the marches, but warmed generously. You felt the difference in the air first, drier, more fragrant, laden with spices and flowers you did not know. Then you saw the landscape change, the greens giving way to shades of red earth and golden stone, the trees becoming sparser, more twisted, more beautiful in their endurance.

Valarr said nothing during the crossing, merely rode at your side, his mismatched eyes fixed on the horizon, and when you finally stopped atop a hill to gaze upon what lay ahead — the first Dornish dwellings, the clay roofs, the olive groves — his hand found yours and squeezed.

The months passed like water through fingers.

You found a small place, far from the great cities, close enough to a village for food and trade, but isolated enough that no one would ask where you came from or why the dark-haired man had a streak of white that stubbornly betrayed his origin.

The house was simple, with whitewashed stone walls, a clay roof, a small garden at the back which you tended with hands that had once merely survived in Flea Bottom. Valarr built a pen for chickens, and this time no one needed to teach him how to handle them. He had learned. There was a stream nearby, where you still bathed on warm days, and he still kept watch, now seated on a stone with a book in hand — one of the few he had brought in his pack — his eyes lifting now and then towards you.

The nights were long and good. The love between you had deepened, transformed, ceased being that urgent flame of the first weeks to become a constant fire, one that warmed without burning. He still had nightmares, sometimes, and would wake calling for his father. But now you were always there, and the warmth of your body was enough for him to fall back asleep.

You had changed too. The visions came more rarely, as if the gods had decided to grant you a respite. When they came, they were small — the harvest that would be good, the neighbour who would have a child, the rain that would arrive earlier than expected. Nothing of deaths, nothing of tragedies. Nothing of sickly springs.

And you both knew, without ever saying it aloud, that perhaps it was because you had fled the path that was laid out.

But it was on an ordinary afternoon that you looked at him and decided. The white streak would always give him away. No matter how he tried to hide, that single strand of silver hair amidst the dark screamed Targaryen to anyone who understood such things. And though you were in Dorne, though the Dornish had their own reasons for not loving dragons, you could not take risks.

You prepared the dye with herbs and clay, as the village women had taught you, and asked him to sit on the bench near the window. He obeyed without question. He no longer questioned when you did such things. He trusted. Your hands dipped into the dark paste and began to work, separating strand by strand, covering the white with the brown that would make him like all other men. He closed his eyes beneath your fingers, letting you do what was needed, and the silence between you was so full of love it almost hurt.

When you finished, you led him to the small mirror you had bought in the village. He looked for a long time. Touched his hair, now all dark, and for a moment you feared he would miss it, that that streak was the last thing connecting him to who he had been.

But then he turned, and the smile on his face was so pure, so grateful, that you forgot to breathe.

"Now I am only yours," he said, or you imagined he said, because there was no sound, only the movement of his lips and his eyes shining.

You pulled him into a kiss, and it was answer enough.

The wedding took place at winter's end (which for you in Dorne felt like summer). There was no sept, no maester, no important witnesses, only an old travelling septon passing through the village, two simple rings Valarr had bought from a local smith, and the stars as witnesses.

You wore a new dress, not white, for that was for maidens and you had never been one, but blue like the Dornish sky at dusk. He wore the best clothes he had, simple but clean, his hair now completely dark falling over his eyes. The septon spoke the words, you repeated them, and when it was done, Valarr held your face in both hands and kissed you as if it were the first time.

Afterwards, there was a small feast in the village. The neighbours brought food and wine, played music on instruments you did not know, danced until the moon set. And in the midst of those simple folk who would never know they were celebrating the wedding of a Targaryen prince, you danced with him, and laughed, and felt that finally, after so many years, you had found a home.

Spring came and went. Then came another, and another.

You lived. Simply lived. He planted, you harvested. He mended the roof, you baked bread. He still wept, sometimes, when the memory of his father pressed upon him, and you still sang to him, the same songs as always. At night, love still found you, now calm as a river, now a storm, but always true. The children came, in time. First a boy, with eyes like his father, whom he named Baelor; then a girl, with hair so light you had to dye it from a young age, whom you called Alyssa. And life expanded, filled the small house, brought laughter and tears and worries and joys you had never imagined possible.

And the years passed, and King's Landing grew distant.

The news arrived on an ordinary day, brought by a merchant coming from the city. He spoke of a plague, a terrible sickness that had swept the capital years ago, called the Great Spring Sickness. He spoke of deaths, of mourning, of a king who had wasted away, of princes who had succumbed one after another. He spoke of silence across the whole continent, stricken by that illness which killed men who were strong at dawn and dead by dusk.

You listened with a heavy heart, your fingers finding Valarr's beneath the table. When the merchant left, you sat in silence for a long time. He was the first to break it.

"My grandsire?"

"Dead. They said it was the sickness."

"My brother?"

"Also, my prince."

He did not ask about his uncle Maekar. You knew he feared the answer.

"Aerys," he said, finally. "Daeron's son. He..."

"Lives. But they still search for you, Valarr."

He nodded slowly. His gaze was lost somewhere in the distance, and you knew what he was thinking. It could have been him. He could have been there. He could be dead. But he was not.

"I escaped," he whispered, more to himself than to you.

"We escaped," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "We fled, we changed, we lived."

He turned his face to you, and his eyes were brimming.

"Do you think I should return?" he asked, but his eyes strayed to the children playing with wooden dragons he had learned to carve. "What was your last vision of us?"

The question caught you off guard.

You closed your eyes, searching. It had been so long since the visions had quieted. At first, you thought it was fear, exhaustion. Later, you began to suspect it was peace. That the gods, or fate, or whatever governed such things, had finally left you in peace.

"That we were well here," you murmured, staring fixedly at the table, at the marks in the wood, at his hands still holding yours. "It was the last thing I saw in years."

He did not answer immediately.

He merely sat there, listening to the children playing outside. The boy shouted something about dragons. The girl laughed, that high-pitched little laugh that always made you smile.

"When I was small," he began, "my father used to take me to see the dragons. The skulls, I mean. There were no real dragons left, only the bones. He would put me on his shoulder and point to the largest of them all. He would say: 'That one was Balerion. His fear was so great that enemies fled at the mere sound of his name.'"

He paused.

"I would ask if we would ever have dragons again. He would laugh and say no, that the eggs had turned to stone, that the magic had gone away. But in his eyes... in his eyes I could see that he wished for it. Wished for it greatly."

His voice faltered.

"He wished so much that I might see a real dragon."

You said nothing, only squeezed his hand.

"Now our children play with wooden dragons," he continued. "They do not know what a real dragon is. They do not know what the Iron Throne is. They do not know that their father could have been king."

He finally turned his face to you.

"And I look at them and think: is it selfish? Is it cowardice? To stay here, hidden, while my name is given to some dead man..."

"While you live," you finished.

"While I live," he agreed.

The silence returned, but it was different now. Heavier, fuller with things unsaid.

You could have lied. You could have said yes, that he should return, that the throne awaited him, that his blood demanded it. But you knew Valarr. You knew every part of him, every shadow, every fear. And you knew that, deep down, he was not asking what he should do.

He was asking permission to stay.

"You asked me what my last vision was," you said, finally. "But it was not the last."

He frowned.

"I had one yesterday. While I was dyeing the little one's hair."

"And what did you see?"

You smiled, a small, wet smile.

"I saw her. Many years from now. Old, with wrinkles on her face and grandchildren in her lap. I saw her telling stories to little children, stories about a prince who gave up a throne to live for love, because of a woman who saw the future. I saw the children asking if the story was true, and her laughing and saying: 'Of course it is. He was my father.'"

Valarr caught his breath.

"I saw our son. Grown, strong, with a sword in his hand. Your sword, defending this house, this land, this life we built. I saw him teaching his own children to fish with their hands, just as you taught him."

Your voice faltered, but you continued.

"I saw you. Old, grey-haired, sitting at this same table, with me beside you. I saw your hands holding mine, and I saw that you still looked at me the same way you looked at me that night in the sept. As if I were the most precious thing in the world."

Tears were streaming now, but you did not wipe them away.

"That was the last thing I saw. And it was the most beautiful."

He was still for a long time. Then, slowly, he raised his free hand and wiped your face with his fingers, the same way he had done on that first night, in the shelter of the stone, when the rain fell outside and the world was only the two of you.

"Then we stay," he said.

"We stay," you confirmed.

He pulled you into an embrace, long, tight, and you remained like that for a long time, listening to the children squabble in the yard, feeling the Dornish sun warm your skin, living.

Outside, somewhere far away, Aerys Targaryen sat the throne that could have been his. Counsellors whispered of the lost uncle, of rumours that Prince Valarr yet lived, of the need to find and eliminate any threat to the new king.

But here, in this simple whitewashed house, with the smell of bread in the oven and the sound of children's laughter, the only kingdom that mattered was this one. The kingdom of two bodies that loved each other. Of four hands that built a life. Of children who would never know the weight of a crown.

And when night fell, and the children slept, he drew you close in bed and whispered in the dark:

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For going to the sept that day. For seeing me cry. For giving me wine. For giving me a reason to live."

You smiled in the darkness and nestled your head against his chest.

"Thank you for living, Valarr."