#daeron

How long had he been in here? hours? days? who knows. who cares. the fact that he can even think about that means he is not drunk enough.

he is never truly drunk enough. he always ends up remembering. remembering the visions, the meanings, the doom. he doesn't want to remember but he's forced to he's bound to. he's cursed to.

this power, only written about in those history books he was forced to read as a child, is a curse. Its a curse on his life on his soul on his body every waking moment is misery. maybe he should go to the whore house? no he's certainly not drunk enough for that.

he hears the barkeep place a new jug next to his head. he lifts his head slowly, his hands moving to grasp the large cup with both of his hands and raises it to his lips and quickly chugs it all down. its bitter and gross. his head slams back down onto the counter and the jug falls to the ground. he can feel liquid running down his chin, down his chest. his eyes begin to droop and he feels that familiar dread fill his stomach. he does not want to sleep because he does not want to dream what if he see's something, anything. he does not want it.

yet he cannot fight it, the drowsiness takes over his body like a plague seeps into ones soul. so he sleeps.

he hasn't had a dream like this since he was a young young boy. back then he had dreamed of a woman, the most beautiful women he had ever seen. she and him were together in a comfy cozy home he did not recognize. or at least that is how he wanted to interpret it. his chest had filled with a warmth he had never experienced before. he remembers waking up with his chest pounding but a smile on his face. he hadn't had a happy dream since then. he believed he had gone mad and made up some grand paradise future for himself and quickly rid himself of that memory.

but for the first time in many years he finds himself dreaming of the same face. its the very same woman. shes as gorgeous as the day he first saw her. this time she is at the place he recognizes, summerhall, and she is pressing a dragon egg against her stomach. his signet ring lays on her ring finger. shes grinning with the brightest most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

his eyes burn as he forces them open. the barkeep gives him an odd look as he sits up quickly, his body sways side to side as he tries to ground himself back in reality for the first time in years.

he knows what it means. the woman is to be his wife and to bear his child. maybe the child's egg will hatch? no he is thinking too hard about it, he should try to focus on what he knows to be true. she had the most pleasant smile on her face, the rush of happiness he felt seeing seeing it left him feeling rather strange.

"would you like another drink?"

the barkeep is speaking to him, clearly put off by how odd the prince was acting. he opens his mouth, his throat his hoarse and dry.

"water."

if he was looking at the barkeeps face he would have seen the look of shock and horror given to him. he had never asked for water, if he needed water he would just chug down more wine until he didn't need it anymore. he was staring off into space, what was he to do if he ever saw this woman, go up to her and proclaim her to be his wife? that would be ridiculous. he did not even know if she was of right birth, what if she was a whore from the house maybe he should go there later today to check it out.

he barely registers the scratching of the stool near him scrapping along the ground as some sits down. he takes a small sip of the water placed in front of him.

"whatever's cheapest." the woman's voice is unfamiliar to him so he pays it no mind. he hears the barkeep grunt and the sloshing around of liquid filling into a cup but his gaze stayed fixed on the wall in front of him. what was he going to do? maybe he should go on some wild goose hunt to find her, it could be a good excuse to get him away from home for awhile. he should just leave it alone. he has never sought out his dreams before, he was definitely not going to start with this one.

he groans and lets his head fall back on the table. his hands come up to cradle his head to try and soothe the aching of his head.

what he does not expect is to hear a what was possibly the rudest scoff he had ever heard in his whole life followed quickly with a, "this is unbelievable."

was she talking to him? a scowl grows on his face, he's not in the mood to talk to anyone especially not some rude woman. he slowly tilts his head towards her until one of his eyes peeks out from his arm. he lets out the loudest gasp, standing up so quick the stool he had been sitting on goes flying backwards. he steps as far away from her as he can, his heart pounding in his chest as he blinks his dry eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

it was her. the woman from his dreams sitting on the bar stool of some shitty bar with the nastiest glare on her face directed right towards him.

"oh so you do know what i look like."

his ears could barely register what you were saying he was still too shocked you were actually there in person since he was just dreaming about you. his breath was short as his brain tried to catch up with the sight in front of him.

"….what?"

a loud slam filled the air as she slammed the now empty jug on the counter and stood up. "you are the worst man in all of westeros. i have been trying to call on you and i sit through these stupid marriage meets so i can finally meet my supposed betrothed and now i find him covered in his own spit and shit in some shitty-"

"i dreamed of you."

there's an odd silence that fills the air. the scowl she's had this whole time falls for a moment. just a moment but he almost smiles at the sight before it twists back up again.

"fuck off."

she turns quickly, her hand on the table for a moment where he can hear the clinking of metal coins before she storms out without another word. he stands motionless as he rethinks the entire conversation.

marriage? husband?

he can vaguely recall his father summoning him and telling him of some marriage alliance with a girl from the free cities. that was about him? maekar had probably said it was but he was barely paying any attention. he was asked to attend a couple meetings in the same conversation. he can barely believe it.

he hisses and grips his head. its pounding louder than his heart his.

he's let himself get too sober. he's not drunk enough.

—

it had taken you at least a moon cycle to get to kings landing. you had now been in kings landing for yet another moon cycle.

you had not seen the man you were promised to a single time. it was humiliating. you had never been so humiliated in your whole life. you would sit during your marriage talks and stare at the empty seat a rage burning deep inside your stomach. you had asked for him, requested his presence more times than you can remember and not once had he shown himself.

you finally had enough and decided to go search for him on your own. it was rather easy with enough coin you found out where he regularly frequents and simply watched him for awhile. now that you had finally seen him you were so embarrassed you had even been calling on him at all. he was a wreck through and through. you had heard things, that he was a drunk who spent all his time drinking, a man whore who spent all his time in a whore house. both seemed to be completely true, you were sick to your stomach.

when you saw your father again you were going to kill him. was he purposefully trying to piss you off? was it because you had rejected the proposal from that old slave master from volantis? you remember he was very unhappy about that. you were going to kill him.

when you got back to the palace you stormed into the library and sat against the window. you knew if you went to your room your mother would likely be there waiting for you, wanting to talk about about the wedding and the marriage.

you were so frustrated you ripped the cloak you were wearing off and tossed it far away from you.

"you should watch where you throw things."

the voice is meek but mighty. your head turns to look and immediately stand up in horror.

"prince aegon i am so sorry please forgive me."

you lowed yourself to a deep bow. the cloak had just barely missed him, pooled up in a ball right next to where he was sitting. you didn't dare raise your head until you hear him laugh.

"its fine. it would have been funnier if it hit me."

you and aegon had formed a sort of weird friendship. neither of you had anyone in the palace you got along with, you being a foreigner with only your mother and two maids you had no other connections out here. then there was aegon who had his brother he was closest with taken away from him, he cant connect with his oldest brother who 'lives in his own world,' and the second oldest who he stays away from at all costs. his sisters were no better he tended to just stick to himself most of the time.

aegon had decided he liked you after you cursed aerion under your breath after he made an off comment about aegon in front of you. now the young prince liked to hang around you whenever he saw you and aerion tended to stay away.

so the two of you stuck together, he requested to eat meals with you basically every day and since your mother couldn't dare refuse a request of the prince he always ate with you. whenever he wasn't in lessons he would find you where ever you happened to be and would spend the day together out with you.

people thought it was strange. your mother especially. you had almost slapped her after she tried to suggest you married him instead. he was nice and cute when he wasn't trying to deliberately piss you off, he also was the only person who had been even remotely friendly towards you so you two decided to stick together.

you glare at the young boy who shrugged before going back to his book. you dragged your body over to him and sat down on a free cushion next to him.

"your brother is awful."

"which one?"

"my betrothed."

"he's not that bad."

"he's awful."

"you can't come up with a different word?"

"i would hit you if i could."

he giggles, hiding his face in his book before he glances at you, his eyes more serious than before. his tone lost his usual sass as his eyes filled with worry.

"did he do something?"

you shook your head and he immediately relaxed, you ignore quiet sigh of relief he lets out from what he's alluded to you can imagine he probably thought the worst even if it was the better brother.

"i just cant believe hes a drunk slob."

"you already knew that."

"i know! i just can't believe i saw it with my own two eyes."

he rolls his eyes as you bang your head against the table. this was the worst. you would be doomed to a life of misery with a whore for a husband. you never thought this would be a marriage of love maybe one of mutual respect but that seemed to be too much to hope for now that you knew what you did.

your voice is muffled as you speak again, not even bothering to lift up your head.

"i mean what nerve he has. the first thing he says to me is that he dreams of me. what does that even mean?"

there's a loud slam as aegon shuts the book he had been pretending to read as he shakes you urgently. he tells you to sit up with an urgency in his voice you had never heard before. you glare at him as do as he asked. the look on his face makes you nervous.

"what did you just say?"

"i said he has some nerve."

"no the thing after that!"

you face twists in confusion as he seems like what you had just said is the most important thing in all of the seven kingdoms. he had grabbed your arms and was leaning in close to you, eager to hear the words that would escape your mouth. he had never looked more like the young boy he was than he did right this second. his eyes shined with that childlike wonder. you had almost forgotten the boy was not even ten yet.

"he said he dreams of me?"

"yes that part! did he say anything else?"

"i stormed out before he could."

aegon deflates, letting go of you as he sighs. he places a hand on his forehead like a father disappointed in his son would. despite all this he has a big grin on his face. if he wasn't so cute and if he wasn't a prince you would slap him.

"what has gotten into you?"

"all my brothers dreams come true."

he stands up leaving you lost as he looks along the big wall of books, searching for something. he ends up having to jump up to pick a book off the shelf before he brings it back over to you. the book is rather old, it looks heavy you're shocked he can even pick it up.

"have you ever read the story of the doom of valyria?"

"do you think me stupid?"

he rolls his eyes, his mouth opening to say something in retort but he closes his mouth, flipping through the book until he lands on the page he's looking for.

"well then you must know of daenys."

of course you know of her. daenys. the one who foresaw the destruction of valyria and got the targaryen family out of valyria to westeros where they survived. your father called her a madwoman who simply had a 'woman's temper tantrum' and forced her father to relocate after some 'silly dream.' your father hates the targaryen's but it is too beneficial of a marriage for him to refuse and for you, a third daughter with an older sister and an older brother who were already married your mother called it a stroke of luck.

"the one who predicted the doom yes of course."

"she did not predict it. she knew it was going to happen. she saw it. she dreamt it. just like my brother has dreamt of you."

you did not like the sound of this in the slightest. did that mean you were going to do something bad? did the targaryen's only dream of doom? were you going to bring doom? no. you were just a normal girl, maybe you had a poor temper but did that mean you would bring terror?

"did he point a knife at you?"

"no."

"then it couldn't have been a bad dream."

there's a silence in the air. what were you even supposed to say to that. all this talk of dragon dreams, doom, and the future made your head spin. what had your father gotten you into? maybe you should try to convince them to send you back so you never have to think about any of this ever again.

"my prince."

the both of you turn to see a servant, there's too many of them too many names to remember but you certainly had seen him before, he bows his head before he speaks again.

"its time for your evening bath sir."

aegon groans but stands dutifully. he wipes his hands on the front of his cloak before he goes to put back his books.

"where will the young prince be taking his dinner?"

"with the lady of course she already invited me."

you certainly did not but you did not refuse. you smile at the servant who bows back at you before leading aegon out the room, you wave at his retreating form only once he is out of view do you finally let the smile fall and hit your head on the table.

this whole thing was turning into a bigger mess than you had ever planned it to be. maybe you should not have sought him out and just let nature take its course. the pit in your stomach grew large as you remembered the look on the eldest son of maekar's face. it was not anger or sadness. it was shock, disbelief. worst of all, there was warmth.

—

the chair is empty once again and for the first time this whole time you have been in kings landing you have never been more thankful for it.

you didn't even hear whatever excuse maekar tried to give this time. you simply smiled and let your mother control the conversation like you usually did. these talks bored you, if you were simply just going to sit here you wondered why you even be invited at all. maybe it was the proper lady like thing to simply sit around.

what you did not expect is for the door to open and for footsteps to approach the table.

"daeron!"

the three of you stand and stare. maekar seemed the most shocked out of you all, exclaiming his name like he was seeing a ghost.

"sorry I'm late."

he offers no excuse, simply bows for a moment before standing to his full height. his eyes immediately locking onto you, not looking away for a single second. he had cleaned up rather well after the mess you had seen him in before. his hair was neat, his outfit was red it stood out remarkably from the clothes the three of you were wearing. he swayed where he stood and his eyes were a little red that told you he was not completely sober. he was still sober enough to come. it was far too early for him to even be awake yet based on what you knew. what in the hells was he doing here?

maekar introduces him, forcing a smile on his face as he grabs daeron and leads him towards the table where you and your mother stood. you did not want him to come anywhere near you. that same pit of doom returning to your stomach. what could he possibly have dreamed about? you need to know but you would also rather die before finding out.

you step towards him to greet him. your mother tells him your name and he whispers it lightly as if hes trying it out on his tongue. you dip into a deep bow. as much as he might irritate you he is a prince nonetheless. when you stand up you expect that to be that, you move to go back to your seat before his wordless actions stop you.

he holds out a singular hand out to you, the palm up. you stare at it for a moment confused before you realize he wants you to give him your hand. your hand twitches as you lift it up. you should slap his hand away, what his he grabs your hand and calls for the guards for your arrest then you are public ally hung in the street for being a terror?

you place your palm in his as a deep breath fills your lungs. your free hand clenches at your side as you try to come up with what he could possibly want.

he slowly drops to rest on one knee, his eyes still locked onto your face as he brings your hand towards him. his lips press against the back of your hand, they're chapped and hard but there's something soft in the way he lets his lips linger for a moment too long, the way an exhale tickles against your skin. his head had dropped so his forehead was practically pressed against your forearm. your breath his caught in your chest, it feels like you heart has suddenly stopped pounding.

after what feels like a lifetime stuck in that singular moment he finally looks up.

"my lady."

you gulp. your mouth suddenly feels rather dry. had it been dry this whole time? your eyes stay locked as he stands, your hand still in his. the moment lingers for far too long before he slips his hand out of yours. your fingers twitch as if they miss the warmth, its unintentional.

it felt like there was a fire between the two of you. it burned. it was so warm. your chest had begun to pound in a way it had never before. there was something about the way he was looking at you. the intensity of his stare burned into you like he was trying to see beyond your flesh and peek into your soul.

as he's finally stood all the way up you take a large step back and manage to rip your eyes away from him, staring down at your hands which you had cupped to lay in front of you. the hand he had touched was burning. you fought the urge to clench your hands together in the hopes it will hide how affected you are by him. why were you acting this way? was it because you knew you were in his future one way or another? there was something about him. something you wished to stay away from.

he greeted your mother too. albeit much faster than he had greeted you, he barely had bowed his head and despite the fact he lifted her hand his lips had not even grazed the back of it before he dropped it back down and turned back towards you.

"i have something for you my lady."

'i do not want it.' you bite your tongue. you watch as he reaches into his pocket and presents you want had to be the most beautiful clip you had ever seen. it was an intricate golden flower design. the flower's were made out of some sort of pink crystal. it was beautiful.

"a matching necklace and earrings will be done soon. this was all i could have prepared for today i apologize."

your mother cups her heart against her chest like this was the most romantic thing in the whole world while maekar stared at his son like he had grown a second head. you reach out to grab the clip from him and once your hand his close enough his fingers reach to graze against your hand as you grab it. even though you pull your hand away as quickly as possible it does not feel quick enough. your hand continues to burn.

"this is very kind. thank you."

you don't dare look up at him, keeping your eyes firmly on the clip as you can still feel his eyes on you. maekar grants you a blessing as he insists we all sit down and continue the meeting. your mother catches daeron up to speed. you were to get married come the summer, which was in a fair few moon cycles from now as winter had just begun. the two of you would return to summerhall along with the rest of his family within the next cycle or so, only truly having come so you could receive the kings approval and for your mother to do some courtly things you had no clue about.

your mother will be returning back to lys to get your side of the family prepared for the wedding. she will return a good while before the wedding to help you prepare, bringing your family with her. you would make periodic trips back to lys to meet with your family and conduct business. you would get married in the one of the septs in the city..

quite frankly you had stopped paying attention at some point, you had heard this information countless times now that you could recite it word for word. the only reason you had even been listening at this point is to try and distract yourself from the fact he is still looking at you.

he didn't contribute much to the meeting. simply agreeing with what his father said before drinking from a flask and continuing to stare at you. he should go rot in a hole and die. fall down a well. why was he terrorizing you like this? why was it bothering you so much.

you instead chose to admire the clip he had given you. it was very nice, you tried to imagine how it would look with the matching necklace and earrings he was going to gift you and found a light smile resting on your face. it would look beautiful. the surface is cold as you run your finger tips along it. you wonder what it's made of, where it was made. did he have this custom made? no that wasn't possible you said seen him yesterday mid afternoon and it was now early morning there was no time.

you raise your head from your lap and smile at your mother before you dare to look across from you.

he's still staring.

you had never actually gotten take take a good look at him. he was very handsome, he looked exactly how you imagined a westeros prince to look. sure he did not bare the targaryen white hair but if anything you preferred him that way. it reminded you more of home strangely. he had noticeable stubble on his face but that many women in back home would definitely find repulsive but if anything you think it makes him more handsome. he has an odd expression on his face one you're not able to make out. is he happy? upset? confused? you don't know.

the meeting both flies by and feels like it goes on forever until you are dismissed. you remain in the room until maekar leaves, your mother had said it would be rude to leave before him. your mother tells you she has other affairs to attend to and she'll see you later until its just you are your betrothed.

"well, good day my prince."

you bow your head and swiftly move to leave the room not wanting to spend a single second more in his presence. the swift footsteps that follow after you tell you its not going to be easy to lose him. a familiar scowl twists off your usual put together expression.

"can i join you my lady?"

"i have prior plans my prince good day."

"what plans?"

"nothing you should be concerned with my prince."

"you are to be my wife it should be my concern."

you freeze in the hallway. his steps cease as well. he's like a well trained dog. you spin around to face him. he has an small smile on his face. you are so tired of this of him.

"may i ask you a question?"

"you may."

"what are you doing my prince?"

he laughs. he actually laughs at your question. you find yourself consumed with the need to slap him or spit on him or do anything to get rid of that delightful sight on his face.

"you were calling on me before and now i am answering. i simply wish to spend some time with you."

he knew you were calling on him and now he wants to answer what a dick.

you force your jaw from opening, your mouth ready to spit some ridiculous retort back at him. what nonsense was he talking about. he had spent a whole month probably not even thinking about you and suddenly he meets you once where you said somethings to him you should not have said and now he wants to spend time with you. there is something terribly wrong with him.

was the dream a good thing then? if he's trying to seek you out and wishes to see you that must mean it is a good thing. or maybe he's just playing the long game and he's trying to catch you in some nefarious act. either way looking at him pisses you off.

you swallow down what you truly wish to say and dip into a bow.

"i apologize my prince but i have prior plans. good day"

you spin around and continue on your way as if you had not even spoken to him before you do something to his pretty face. his footsteps trail after you despite your deceleration.

"you continuing to say good day is not going to make me go away my lady."

your eye twitches. you don't even dignify him with a response as you hurry along you way. you do actually have plans despite what he may think. you're probably already late. not that you have a set time for your meeting but it would be better for you to hurry there in case he gets swept up by someone else.

the library is a far too familiar sight at this point in your visit. the maesters and others who linger about look at you in shock, not necessarily directed at you but the dog trailing behind you. your head bows in a greeting as you continue to walk along until you stumble into your usual meeting area.

the young prince smiles upon hearing you say his name, looking up from his textbook his face falls in shock.

"brother?"

"you would rather spend the day with my nine year old brother than with me?"

you ignore him sitting down in your usual spot with aegon with a smile on your face.

"can you get him to leave?"

you can see aegon fight a laugh from his throat as he looks between the two of you. you had leaned closer to aegon to whisper to him while daeron remained standing, looking almost bewildered at the sight before him. aegon, who was no help, simply shrugged with a smug look. you wish you could hit him.

"what are you two even doing?"

you take one of the textbooks from the table and flip it open, not even glancing in daeron's direction.

"he is currently studying the free cities. who could be a better tutor than i?"

"are we actually going to study?"

you shoot aegon a very pointed look and he shuts his mouth. it was a good excuse to spend the day locked up in the library with aegon. he tended to have a secluded part all to himself so you two would usually just sit and chat until someone came to fetch him. but since daeron was here you might actually need to teach him some stuff.

you open up a map and push it towards aegon.

"point to me where every free city is on the map and name them."

aegon gave you a hopeless expression. he did not want to study, at least not about the free cities. he liked to spend his time reading about knights and war history. you would tell him stories about the 'knights' you have back at home and he would stare at you with that starry eyed look, hooked on to each and every single word you said. these stories were few and far in between however and he would get very mad when you said you had none to tell. truthfully it took you awhile to remember those stories in which it was appropriate to tell someone his age, the people of the free cities can get very violent.

he stared at you for a minute as if hes trying to get you to take it back but you hold your ground despite how cute he looked. his eyes trail to his older brother for a moment in a silent glare before he looks down at the map. the older brother in question still stood with his arms crossed watching you.

its only for a moment. only until he leaves, until he gets bored aegon I'm sorry. he can't hear your thoughts of course but you stare so hard at him trying to push the message into his mind.

he points an uncertain finger at a spot on the map.

"volantis?"

"not even close."

aegon huffs, his lips poking out into a pout as he stares hard into the map. as he's lost in thought you stupidly let your eyes wander to the older prince. he was looking at you. as he seemed to always be at this point. you suddenly found it a little harder to breath. there was something so intense about his gaze. it burned. maybe it was just a targaryen trait.

his eyes were so dark. his hair was so yellow. it was strange to think that if the two of you stood side by side you would look much more targaryen than he does. the purple eyes and white hair were a regular sight for you, many of the other noble ladies and men sharing similar features, but here many of them did not even have white hair. you wonder if he likes the way he looks, maybe there's something comforting about it.

"lys?"

you rip your gaze away from him and look back to aegon who's still staring hard at the map. you shake yourself before you lean over to glance at where his finger laid.

"you're right."

"don't sound so shocked."

daeron much to both you and aegons dismay chooses this moment to make himself comfortable sitting next to you, pulling out a flask from his person before sipping on it. you shoot aegon an apologetic look. looks like the two of you would actually be studying after all. in the hopes of saving aegon some headache and saving you from having to sit there all day you change the task.

"tell me everything you know about lys."

"its where you're from."

you frown at the grin he shoots you. daeron must think you are the worst tutor in all of westeros.

"do you know anything else?"

he sits quiet for a moment before shrugging. why did you even ask. the boy knows nothing but knight and swords.

"well then lets go even further back then. following the doom of valyria came the century of blood."

for the next couple hours you beat information about the century of blood and the founding of lys. aegon looked miserable as he tried to remember everything you were saying as you would periodically ask him questions about something you had told him earlier.

and daeron sat there the whole time. sometimes he would stare out the window or he would stare at his flask before he took a long chug out of it but most of the time he would be staring at you.

you tried your best to ignore him but sometimes you looked over while aegon was writing something and look back at him. you almost wanted to say something to him, the silence between you two was not awkward but it was strange. he seemed like had no interest in even starting a conversation despite his staring. so you decided to do it for him.

"can i ask you something my prince?"

you had kept your voice low in order to try not to distract aegon from the task you had just given him, listing all the free cities and what type of government they had, but the young boy still looked up anyway.

"of course my lady."

"when you said you dream of me…" your throat clogs up at the sight of him flinching at the mention of dreams. you muster your courage to push on and the words manage to escape your throat. "what did you mean by that?"

"oh i want to know too."

"focus on your work."

aegon grumbles as he looks back down at his paper but its not subtle the way he looks back up and glances between the two of you.

"you know of the curse then."

curse. its an odd word to use. many people would call it a gift. he was blessed by the gods your mother would likely say. a curse is a terrible thing. a burden. you don't have enough time to dwell on it.

"you were at summerhall wearing my signet ring. you were holding a dragon egg."

you had almost expected him to dodge the question but he answered it without even a second thought, as if it had already been on his mind. he had a serene look on his face like the idea didn't bother him at all.

his eyes widen as the huge sigh of relief you let out. you felt a whole lot of pressure exit your body. you laugh actually, covering your mouth as you try to keep it down.

"sorry sorry gods im so relieved. i had thought i would do something horrid."

daeron watches you fully turn to face him, his heart pounds out of his chest as you take your hand away from your mouth a give him a huge grin. just like the one from his dreams.

"im so glad."

he was done for. you were going to ruin him.

he watches your face fall as it seems like something occurs to you and it instead turns into a look of annoyance and you look away from him. he feels a rush of joy flow through his body. you are just as beautiful as he dreamed you.

"is something wrong my lady?"

"do not think you have my favor my prince you are still…. not up to standard."

his smile only grew. his hands clenched to press down the pure need to grab you to hold you. he's never felt like this before. he had never felt such comfort such warmth he wanted to cling to it desperately like a mad man. he did not care if he seemed crazy, maybe he had actually gone mad. but he needed to cling to this feeling even if it killed him. if this was some foolish trick the gods were playing on him then he would happily fall into their grasp. he was so desperate for anything to take him out of his misery he clung to you put of desperation.

Each young prince of House Targaryen was known by their defining trait.

Valarr was honourable, Matarys was troublesome, Aerion was cruel, Aegon was clever, Aemon was sweet, and Daeron was lazy. That and drunk, they were rather interchangeable, despite the changes he has been trying to make.

Maekar preferred to combine the two, regardless.

Moral of the story; Daeron was the family disappointment. He was unimpressive, unschooled, undisciplined and uninteresting.

"A waste of resources", according to father during a conversation with uncle Baelor. He had thought his son was gone from the chamber, but clearly not far enough away to be free from his criticism.

The prince's worries were always brushed off, his dreams denied as child's play when they plagued him to the edge of madness. And they wondered why he craved oblivion so.

Daeron was your brother, not even a year older. You were two halves of the same whole; attached at the hip, never apart. You had always loved one another.

Since childhood, he crawled often into your embrace after a minor inconvenience, seeking your presence to aid his shaky resolve.

No one understood him as you did, no one cared as you did.

It was not a difficult decision when your father offered you the choice of nuptials between he and Aerion.

The marriage you fostered was a love affair. Gentle, considerate, and true. A net of safety within the sly keep, a bubble of peace within your mad family.

The sheets were crisp yet warm, the air the same as Autumn slowly gathered outside of the thick castle walls.

Your husband's golden hair was tousled gently by your practiced fingers, his head laid in your lap desperately.

"I had a dream last night." He murmured quietly — sounding like a guilty child, fiddling with the plain white cotton of your shift. The tension in his neck released slightly as he tilted his head, burying his nose into your thigh.

The prince was sober tonight, something he had tried fervently to be since your marriage just a year ago. He didn't wish for you to go to sleep in sweaty arms as he saw stars; he had to make a change for your safety and comfort.

Though his awareness only made his visions more clear.

The tone of his voice was low and whispered. "Much blood… Valarr's armour."

Heavy eyelids fluttered, beginning to rub your fingertips along his scalp. Daeron's visions always came true; but not usually as plainly as he saw them. While you had no doubt they were genuine, you never made too much of a fuss. Not wishing to make your brother feel prisoner within his own head.

"I am sure our cousin just won his tilt." You said softly, curling your back uncomfortably to kiss his head, then straightening up once again, scratching at his nape.

The prince shut his eyes at your kiss, and nodded against your leg, gripping the flesh tightly at first but letting his fingers relax.

"Yes.."

There was stiffness in his body, you could see it in just the way he laid, legs tucked up as if they would be snatched. Your father had called him for a word.

"What did he want of you?" You asked, knowing he would catch your meaning.

A sigh left the man in your lap as you looked down at him, letting your free hand trail and trace along his bare back.

"Aerion and Egg fought last night." His position suddenly grew uncomfortable.

"The sister jape again?"

"Yes." He huffed sharply, pushing himself to sit up with arms that felt heavier than iron. Those same arms gripped your shoulders to push you back against the down-filled pillows, and your husband accommodated himself by laying his ear over your heart, nuzzling his face into your breast.

The action was not unwelcome, you simply let it happen and resumed your caresses of his tresses. "He wanted you to resolve it, then?"

"I know not. Regardless, I was no help." He muttered weakly, fingers occupying themselves with the nervous habit of twisting your chemise's chest tie around them.

You nodded 'no' despite the fact that he could not see your face. "Nonsense… you brought Aegon comfort."

"Aegon looked at me like I was the one who threatened to slice off his cock, not fucking 'Brightflame'." He mocked — both himself and your younger disease of a sibling — bitterly, winding an arm around you and intertwining your legs to trap you beneath him.

The prince often found himself oddly jealous of his brother. Aerion was so mad that his dreams had little effect but inflate his ego.

It was funny how the gods dispersed characteristics amongst family. Dragon dreams made Daeron spiral, Aerion hope, Aegon befuddle, and Aemon smile.

It seemed that you were the only one who had been lucky enough to escape the curse.

The warmth of his body made yours react with a hum of contentment, allowing your nose to press into his blonde strands, inhaling both his scent and your own, from the oils you rub into his hair after you bathe together.

This year had been the most visceral of his lifetime. One truly misses emotion when the senses are dulled by drink.

Three moons ago, your daughter was born. His decision of sobriety was only made more final by that fact.

Little Vaella, the light of his life, looked just like her mother and even giggled the same.

"Thank you." You smiled at her nursemaid, taking the squirming babe from her arms and letting her depart, laying the sweet thing on your chest beside her father's head.

Daeron's somber expression turned to a smile, his hand raising to rub her back, eye to eye with her. He pulled a funny face and she laughed, wide eyes looking at her father like he were the sun.

Such innocence, he thought. Such blind love, even when he was undeserving.

A lazy grin was on your lips, holding your world in both of your arms, yawning contentedly.

Your husband straightened up at that sound, not wanting to get in the way of your rest. He sat back against the heavy head of the bed and scooped the babe into his arms instead.

The sheets rustled as you lay on your side, pressing your cheek against his middle as sleep began to take you.

The man beside you still had a fond smile, and kissed his palm before cupping your head with that same hand.

Simultaneously, the babe cooed, rooting her head around her father's chest in search of milk, despite being fed.

He huffed in amusement, and looked down at her, rubbing her back gently, his large hand covering the entirety of it.

Vaella continued to grunt and mewl, making sounds like a kitten would.

"What is it, princess?" He asked in a whisper, chin squished against his collarbone to look into her eyes.

Once again, she made a bubbly sound, the corners of her mouth wet with spit. Her head lifted for a moment, and her arms flailed.

"Strong girl, well done." He praised tenderly, leaning his head closer to hers, uncaring to the risk of being spit up on.

Chubby fingers reached up to his face, muffled raspberry noises leaving her mouth as she tapped his lips.

A low chuckle left him, and he gently guided her hand to his cheek instead.

Soon after, she got bored and sleepy, and found rest on his chest.

There were not many things that made Daeron feel worth or purpose. All his life he had endeavoured to become something, even if the effort had not been there.

Finally, in the comfort of your bedchamber, he realised that he had a role. Husband to his beautiful sister, father to his sweet daughter.

More powerful, more miserable men could have throne, he did not need it.

He had all the happiness and love any man could need within an arm's reach, something he would never take for granted.

Daeron Targaryen m.list

i HATE this - i'm genuinely so sorry exams are frying my brain and i cannot write to save my life. also pls forgive me for any typos/general nonsense.

i hope you enjoy it tho <3 requests open x

ps. i love maekar and only pushed the bad dad narrative for the angst

House Targaryen taglist

At least he did.

"Prince Daeron" You say with a smile, making a polite bow, not thinking beforehand how the parasol hits his head slightly "Ow, sorry!"

"No it is.. fine" he says, a hand moving to where you accidentally hit him. "I have been hurt worse"

You knew that after the Ashford Tourney, and the infamous Trial of Seven, Daeron had lost part of his ear. It was not as grotesque as it had been, and after a moon, it looked less painful. 

"Oh, well, I have been hurt too" you say animatedly. "My mother used to drag me by the ear when I misbehaved" you say with a cheerful smile, the weight of your words and your behaviour confused him.

He knew you were rather clumsy, as you had accidentally stepped on the curtains of the main ball, making a scene when they fell. Your father had apologised, while he saw how your mother scolded you in front of everyone. 

That’s the first time he noticed you, and since then, he was head over heels for you. He tried not to make it obvious, since he was pretty sure he would be a shitty husband for you, and he dared not ask his father for permission, even if you were a proper lady. He had seen you from a distance, curious about why you were away from court, as he always tried to search you in these events to appreciate you from a distance. You were a comely girl, and he did find you beautiful, delicate and so different from the rest. 

He had spoken to you before, amused by how you did not have a filter with your thoughts. It was cute, and he could hear you speak all day. How he wishes to hold you close, and let you yap about anything.

“Sorry. It was rude to say” You say quickly, a soft smile with apologies. 

Daeron remains a bit quiet, unsure what to say.

“In this season, frogs start jumping and playing” You point out at the pond. “And there are golden fish in there too, but the beauties are the turtles, they move incredibly slow, and it is mesmerising to see”

Daeron had never taken a second look at the frogs, turtles or fish, and he had been found passed out drunk in the pond more than once. 

“I never noticed,” he says quietly, drinking from his cup. He was not drunk yet, barely starting drinking. “It comes naturally for you to notice those things?”

“Oh, yeah, my mother says it is the most obnoxious thing” You say without a second thought. “She says I am silly and notice unimportant things, and when I was little, she would make me count all the birds in our backyard while she tried to get suitors for my sister”

"Oh" He says, unsure what to say. How does one can comfort a lady when she says that? "How bad"

He wanted to drown himself in the pond by how lame he was.

"Yeah, I do know that! It was very mean"

Daeron frowns “Why she asked you to do that?”

You turn to see him with a smile, and say “Because I would scare any suitors away. I am very chatty, and my father says that no one wants to know about my weird dreams”

Daeron pauses for a second, speechless at that comment, as if getting a deja vu all at once. “I do have weird dreams too”

“Really? Last night I dreamt that I was so small I fell into my chamberpot, and then I travelled to the far land of the Summer Islands. Did you know they have a lot of butterflies there?”

Gods, you were chatty. Daeron thinks, trying not to grin like a fool. It made his heart go crazy for you.

“I did not know”

“What are your dreams about?”

He pauses for a second, finishing his second glass of wine before answering. It was not something pleasant to remember, and when questioned about it by the lady he fancies, his mind panics “I… I dream about… many things”

“I was looking forward to meeting you, because my sister says you do have weird dreams”

“Ah… I suppose I have that fame…” Daeron says, scratching his head. He really does not wish to speak about the matter, and before he can finish a sentence -or a thought- you speak once again.

“Do not worry. I think that weird dreams are great, and more so if you learn how to control them”

Daeron frowns “Control your dreams?”

“Yeah. Like when you know that you are dreaming and you can do whatever you like”

He had never heard of such things. Daeron tried many things before to suppress his dreams, and so far, wine was his only option. If he passed out drunk, no dreams would torment him. 

“How do you do that?” 

“I am not sure. I have a book about it” 

“Another wine” He says to a servant who walked past them with a bottle full of wine. “Leave it here.”

You look at him, holding your parasol as you see him pour himself another cup. It was most indecorous for a prince to serve his own cup, but you do not mind.

“Does your father truly despise me? For ripping his curtains?”

“He despises everyone. Do not feel bad” He consoles you, watching your curious face. 

“Oh, that’s good. My mother said he would send me to be a silent sister, but then she said he might as well just cut my tongue out because I never shut up”

As he drinks up, Daeron cannot help but to sigh at how horrible he is at courting a lady. He hears your wild stories as you speak like a chatterbox, yapping any thought in your pretty head. He liked it, as it helped him to think of something else rather than his misery. 

He knew you were different, he knew everyone found you obnoxious and strange, but he liked that about you; people found him strange as well, more so because he was drunk all the time, calling him a rake more than once. But it wasn’t just for the pleasure, it was the relief. 

“Do you…” He tries to speak, trying to think how to ask without being improper. “Have any suitors?”

“Mmm, not really” You say, looking at him. “And you?”

He frowns slightly “If I have suitors?”

“Yeah”

“...No”

As silence falls between you both, only filled by the sound of the birds chipping and the faint sound of the bard playing for ladies at court. Daeron sucks at courting ladies, he always knew that, hoping that his father would simply marry him off with a lady, and be done with it. 

Whores were easier, as he simply gave a bag of coins, and he had company for the night. But he could not pay a highborn lady, and he isn’t a fool to try to compromise one. But he had no idea how to interact with one. Less more with one as strange as you.

“Would you like to… ehm, well…” he says, pouring himself another cup trying to not panic as you watch him with those big, curious eyes. “Fuck!”

He says, as he tilted the bottle too much, staining his velvet doublet, and making a mess on his breeches as well, feeling the fabric getting damp and sticky. His father would kill him for making a mess, much more for being a drunkward. 

“Oh, do not worry!” You say to him, as he steps back. “Surely, we can ask the maids…”

He gulps the wine on his cup as he simply turns away, in shame, going inside the castle without saying goodbye. 

What an idiot! To think that he came to you with intentions to court you, to make you see how charming he could be when he was not drunk, just to make a fool of himself. 

Daeron has dreamed of you. 

In his dreams, you were full of life and wonder, still chatting and yapping to him about anything in your way, but he could not make the words. He saw you in your pink dress, in your silver one, yellow one… Always glowing with a smile and a giddy, warm personality. 

In the spring, you fell asleep. In a field full of flowers, he finds you in your chemise, alongside his cousins, both Valarr and Matarys. 

He avoids you like the plague, then. He knows one thing about his dreams: always dreaming of someone meant something bad. If court is taking place, he simply wanders the other way. If he knows you’ll be at the gardens, he stays in the library. In days he mostly stayed inside, getting drunk for the night and for when he went to the taverns near the castle. 

But how he saw you from the distance, hearing your chatting and giggles in every corner of Summerhall. He dared not to get close, afraid that his proximity might cause your doom, but he was allowed to stare from afar, and sigh as he was head over heels for you, thinking about you most of the time. 

“Prince Daeron!”

His father had asked him to meet him in the yard, perhaps to force him to train the sword with him, as if another Blackfyre rebellion might start anytime soon. With Aerion, Aemon and Aegon gone, he was down to three children, and only Daeron was a boy to pick up a sword.

So, he was trying to go hide in his chambers, walking toward the stairs. And your voice stops him, as he sees you leaning in the stair railings above him, waving at him with a smile.

“Stay right there! Do not move”

He sighs, his heart beating more quick as he hears you going downstairs quickly. 

“I was looking for you” You say without a breath, holding out a book for him “Here!”

He sees the cover, almost faint letter of the title. “Guide for dreams? Really?”

“I sent a letter to my home, so the servants could fetch it and bring it here.” You say proudly “And I highlighted the important parts, so you can control your dreams. It’s a gift to you.”

Daeron is a bit surprised, because he had forgotten you mentioned a book. He was too ashamed, of being clumsy to throw wine into his clothes in front of you. 

“It is from Volantis, a gift from my uncle. But I already read it, so it is yours”

He was a bit speechless at first, as it was a cute gesture, he had to admit. Only his mother and father would worry about his dreams, when he was a child, but now it was something no one spoke of. Sometimes Egg and Aemon would be curious, as children were, but some dreams came true, some did not. 

“Thank you”

“When one is courting someone it is proper to gift things” You say with your hands clasped together, proud of yourself. “So this is my gift to you”

Daeron blinks for a second, confused at your words “Courting someone?”

“Yes. My mother said that if a man wants to court me, he must give me things.”

That did not explain your comment. “And this was a gift…?”

“Yes, but it is from my uncle. Not a courting gift, of course, that would be silly, But it is my courting gift to you”

“You intend to court… me?”

“I do not intend, I am.”

Speechless was one word. But he was frozen in place at that, confused and unsure what to say. Women did not court men, that was sure, less  a maiden to a prince. But again, you cared little for social norms, it seems. 

“Oh”

You smile proudly of yourself, as you get on your tippy toes to press a soft kiss on his lips. 

It was ridiculous, him of all people, getting wooed like he was the maiden, and not the drunk prince who would always ask a serving man to fetch him a wench. 

“You can refuse me, if you like. I would not ask for the book back” You say then, with a giddy smile in your lips, proud of yourself. 

“I… I… I am not refusing, I just… I have never been… courted?” He says, unsure of his words and the situation. Was he not having a ridiculous dream now? Could you have infected him with your queer dreams?

“I haven’t either. But I think I am doing a good job”

“I think so too, I suppose”

“You do not need a septa to chaperone you?”

“Ehm… no. I think not”

You grin, and say “Then, you must hear my dream from last night! Have you ever heard that the Yi Tish emperor has concubines? Well, I dreamt that I had many concubines, but all of them were made of water, and so they could not see the sun, because they would evaporate…”

“That it’s silly” He notes, allowing you to hold his hand as you two walked across the halls. 

“I know, but thank the Gods that you are not made of water!”

Daeron was unsure how a strange lady could simply take care of him, courting him. But he would not refuse your attention to him. And besides, not all his dreams come true, and you have always loved the gardens.

He stood beside his parents in his uncles solar of the Red Keep, hands slightly clammy clasped behind his back, listening as Maekar Targaryen and his wife were announced. The doors opened, and in swept heat from the late summer air, and with it, noise. A child’s cry.

High, pleased babbling echoed against the stone walls.

Valarr’s spine went rigid.

Maekar entered first, tall and imposing, his wife followed, smiling warmly, and in her arms.

Valarr blinked.

You were smaller than he expected.

Wrapped in pale silks, white threaded with faint red embroidery, you were all soft curves and bright, curious violet eyes. Your hair was fine and light, silver-blond catching the sun pouring in through the high windows. You made an indignant sound when your mother shifted her grip, little hands fisting in protest before settling again.

The adults exchanged greetings. Polite words, and familiar courtesies.

Valarr barely heard them.

He was staring at the little dragon wrapped in her mother's embrace.

“You remember my brother, Prince Baelor, of course,” Maekar was saying, gesturing to Valarr’s father. “And this is his wife, and his son.”

Introductions continued, and then.

“And this is our youngest,” your mother said, voice warm with unmistakable pride. “Our daughter.”

She tilted you slightly forward, inviting admiration.

Valarr swallowed.

You stared back at him.

Your gaze fixed on him with startling intensity for someone so small, eyes wide and unblinking. A slow smile spread across your face, gummy and delighted, as if you’d found something you very much approved of.

Valarr had the absurd thought that you looked…pleased. As though he were a novelty.

“Well,” Baelor chuckled, “she seems like a lively one.”

“She always is,” Maekar’s wife replied fondly. “Especially when there are new faces.”

Your attention did not waver. Your small hand lifted, fingers opening and closing in a clumsy, curious motion.

Valarr shifted his weight.

This was fine. Perfectly fine. You would be admired, cooed over, perhaps passed to a septa or attendant. He would smile politely from a distance. That was the proper order of things.

He relaxed, just a fraction.

And then Baelor said, far too lightly, “Valarr.”

Valarr felt dread bloom instantly.

“Yes, Father?” His words coming out to meek for a prince of his stature.

“Why don’t you greet your cousin properly?”

Before Valarr could respond, before he could so much as draw breath to suggest an alternative, Maekar’s wife laughed softly.

“Oh, would you like to hold her?”

The room seemed to tilt.

“I-” Valarr began, his mind urging him to refuse his uncles good wife.

It was too late.

You were already being transferred.

Your mother stepped closer, carefully placing you into Valarr’s arms with practiced ease, as if handing over a bundle of linens instead of a living, breathing child. Your weight was unfamiliar, warm, solid, and alarmingly fragile.

Valarr froze.

His arms locked in place, instinctively stiff, elbows tucked awkwardly at his sides. He stared down at you in open panic, acutely aware of how many eyes were on him.

You blinked up at him.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then you reached for him.

Your tiny hand latched onto the front of his doublet with startling strength, fingers curling into the embroidered fabric just below his collarbone. Valarr inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” Baelor said, amused. “She’s taken a liking to you son.”

Valarr did not move, and you tugged harder.

The Targaryen crest, three-headed dragon molded from steel, pulled under your grip. Valarr watched in horror as the stitching around it strained.

“I think-” he said faintly, “I think she has to strong a hold on me.”

You made a pleased sound, babbling happily as you tightened your grip and brought the emblem closer to your face, examining it with grave seriousness. Your other hand joined the first, fingers patting and scrunching the sigil as though testing its texture.

Someone laughed.

“Careful,” Maekar said dryly. “She’s strong.”

Valarr believed it.

He looked up helplessly at his mother, who was smiling far too serenely.

“Support her head Valarr.” she reminded gently.

Valarr shifted one hand, too fast, then stopped again, terrified he’d done it wrong. You wobbled slightly, offended, and let out a sharp sound of protest.

Valarr’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted instinctively, as if you could understand him.

You stared at him, then promptly shoved a fist into your mouth and chewed on it, apparently satisfied.

The adults laughed again.

Valarr flushed.

You, meanwhile, were delighted.

Your attention drifted back to his chest, to the shining emblem that had caught your eye in the first place. With unwavering determination, you tugged again, harder this time.

The thread held, barely.

“Oh-no, no,” Valarr muttered under his breath. “You cannot-”

You could.

With a triumphant little noise, you yanked, and Valarr felt the stitching give way slightly beneath your grip. Not fully torn-but loosened enough to make his stomach drop.

“She’s stealing from you,” Baelor boomed in laughter.

Valarr looked up sharply. “She’s taking the emblem father.”

“It seems fair,” Maekar said. “She is a Targaryen after all.”

Your mother laughed softly, eyes shining. “She’s always liked shiny things.”

Valarr looked down at you again.

You were beaming now, utterly content, clutching the piece of metal like a prize you’d won through sheer will. Your chubby fingers were red from gripping it so tightly.

He should have handed you back.

He should have insisted.

Instead, something strange happened.

You leaned closer, entirely unprompted, and pressed your forehead briefly against his chest, a clumsy, affectionate bump. Then you sighed, a soft, sleepy sound, and settled.

Still holding the sigil.

Valarr went very still.

The room seemed to fade at the edges.

You were warm, and real. Breathing softly against him, your tiny weight anchored in his arms as if you belonged there. His panic dulled into something quieter. His awareness heightened, careful not to drop you.

You trusted him.

For reasons entirely beyond his comprehension, you trusted him.

“Well,” his mother said softly, “I don’t think she intends to let go.”

Valarr swallowed.

“I-I don’t think I can move,” he admitted.

Maekar’s wife smiled at him, something knowing in her expression. “You are doing just fine my prince.”

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip, fingers still curled in the dragon’s heads stitched over his heart.

Valarr thought, distantly, that he would remember this.

The weight of you.

And how, for the first time that day, he hadn’t minded holding onto a babe.

Valarr realized, belatedly, that the problem was no longer holding you.

The problem was that no one seemed inclined to help him stop.

You had settled fully now, cheek pressed against his chest, breath warm through the layers of his doublet. Your fingers remained tangled stubbornly in the loosened embroidery, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for you to keep hold of him.

Valarr stood there, acutely aware of every inch of himself, his posture, his breathing, the tension in his arms. He had never been more conscious of the fact that he was alive and responsible for something far smaller and more fragile than himself.

“I think,” he said carefully, after a long moment, “she is…asleep.”

You were not, not quite, but your eyelids had drooped, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, your mouth slack in the way of someone very close to drifting off. One hand still clutched the sigil. The other had gone lax, resting against his collarbone.

“She does that,” your mother said cooed. “Decides she’s comfortable and refuses to be moved.”

Valarr attempted to shift his weight again, just enough to ease the strain in his arms.

You responded immediately.

A small, displeased sound escaped you, sharp and indignant, and your fingers tightened. Valarr froze mid-motion, heart hammering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, absurdly earnest.

This time, you opened your eyes.

They were a pale, bright violet, too clear, too knowing for someone so young. They focused on his face, studying him with an intensity that made Valarr’s breath catch.

Then you smiled.

A small, satisfied curve of your mouth, as if to say: There. Don’t do that again.

Baelor laughed outright.

“Oh, she’s clever,” he said. “Look at her. She’s got you trapped.”

Valarr shot his father a look that was half plea, half accusation.

“She’s-she’s holding my clothes,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Maekar stepped closer, studying the situation with a measured eye. He reached out, fingers brushing gently against your hand.

You did not release the sigil.

Instead, you drew it closer to yourself, little brows furrowing in displeasure.

Maekar paused.

“Well,” he said slowly, “she’s claimed it.”

Valarr stared at him. “She cannot have it.”

“Why not?” Maekar asked mildly. “It’s hers as much as yours.”

Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He had no answer that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

Your mother hid a smile behind her hand.

“She’s never taken to strangers like this,” she said. “Usually she fusses.”

Valarr swallowed.

“I’m not-” He stopped himself. “I mean, I don’t-”

He trailed off, at a loss.

You shifted again, settling more securely in his arms. Your head tucked just beneath his chin now, breath puffing softly against his throat. Valarr stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to relax, lowering his head just enough to keep you steady.

He could feel the warmth of you through the fabric. The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.

Something quieted inside him.

“Valarr,” his mother said gently, stepping closer. “You may hand her back now if you like.”

He hesitated.

He did want to, or he truly did. His arms ached, and he was painfully aware of how ridiculous he must look, standing there, rigid and wide-eyed, holding a baby who had apparently decided to take possession of him.

And yet, he looked down at you again.

Your fingers had loosened slightly now, grip slack but still determined, the metal sigil in between your touch. One foot stuck out from the folds of your linen enclosure, kicking faintly with contentment.

You trusted him, completely. Like how a small cat would nap near its siblings.

The thought landed with surprising weight.

“I think,” Valarr said slowly, “she’ll be upset.”

As if to prove his point, his mother reached out carefully, attempting to slide your fingers free from the the sigil.

You woke fully at once.

Your grip tightened. Your face scrunched, and a sharp, offended cry burst from you, loud enough to echo off the stone walls.

Valarr startled.

“Oh-Seven-” He pulled you closer without thinking, one hand coming up to support your back. “No, no-please don’t-”

Your cry cut off mid-sound.

You blinked and sniffled.

Then settled again, apparently appeased, cheek pressed firmly against his chest.

The room went silent.

Then Baelor laughed again, softer this time.

“Well,” he said, “it seems she’s made her choice.”

Valarr stared straight ahead, cheeks burning.

“I didn’t-” he began weakly.

Maekar gave a low huff that might have been amusement. “She’s stubborn,” he said. “Takes after her brothers I reckon.”

“Gods help us all,” your mother murmured fondly.

Valarr felt oddly proud.

The realization startled him.

He had done nothing to earn it. He had simply…existed. And yet, something about the way you clung to him, unbothered by rank or expectation, made him feel, as ridiculous as it was, chosen.

Minutes passed. Conversation resumed around him, drifting to safer topics. Valarr remained still, barely daring to breathe too deeply in case it disturbed you.

He adjusted his grip minutely, learning your weight, how to support you without startling you. The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees.

Eventually, your breathing slowed again, deeper now, unmistakably asleep.

Your mother watched closely.

“She’s truly out,” she said softly. “Now might be our chance.”

Valarr nodded, careful.

He shifted, slow and deliberate, loosening your grip finger by finger with infinite patience. You stirred but did not wake, lips pursing briefly before relaxing again.

The sigil slipped free at last.

Valarr exhaled, relieved.

But when he began to pass you back, something unexpected happened.

Your hand shot out again.

This time, instead of grabbing the piece of metal, your fingers curled around his.

Valarr froze.

The contact was brief, and clumsy, but it sent a strange jolt through him. Your grip was weak, barely there, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.

Don’t go.

He looked down at you, heart doing something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

Your mother paused, watching the moment with quiet interest.

“Oh dear...she’s going to be a handful,” she said softly.

Valarr managed a breathless laugh. “I can tell.”

Eventually—carefully, gently—you were transferred back into your mother’s arms. You protested faintly, a soft sound of displeasure, before settling again against her shoulder.

Valarr stepped back, arms suddenly empty.

The absence felt…strange.

He smoothed his doublet automatically, eyes flicking to the loose threads that once connected the metal symbol of his house. The sigil sat askew now.

He didn’t fix it.

“Well,” Baelor said, clapping a hand lightly on Valarr’s shoulder, “you’ve survived.”

Valarr nodded, still staring at you.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I have.”

As your family prepared to depart, Maekar paused beside him.

“She likes you,” Maekar said, matter-of-fact.

Valarr glanced at him, startled. “She is but a babe.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched. “Even so.”

Valarr looked at the dragonian symbol in his hands, then he lifted it up towards his uncle, "perhaps she might search for this when she awakes."

Maekar slowly took the sigil from the young boy, thanking him quietly.

They left soon after, the solar returning to its usual stillness. Valarr remained where he was long after the doors closed, fingers curling unconsciously where yours had been.

He looked down at his chest, the lack of the dragon symbol apparent.

Valarr thought, with quiet certainty, that he would never forget this.

And though he did not yet know why, he suspected it would matter.

—

The journey from Summerhall to the Red Keep was loud with celebration, though none of it felt particularly official to you, only familiar.

Your father indulged you shamelessly.

When you lingered too long admiring the view from a rise in the road, he ordered the caravan slowed. When you expressed even mild interest in a ribbon from a passing merchant, it appeared in your hands before the day was done. He listened when you spoke, smiled when you laughed, and waved off any suggestion that you were being spoiled.

“She’s allowed,” Maekar said flatly, daring anyone to disagree.

Your brothers hovered like they always did.

Daeron walked at your left, satchel of wine in hand. He was relaxed but watchful, ready with a joke or a steadying hand. Aerion stayed closer than necessary, sharp-eyed and territorial, correcting servants before they could fumble and scowling whenever someone stared too long.

“She doesn’t need all this,” you said at one point, gesturing to yourself and at the attention.

“She absolutely does,” Aerion replied. “And more.”

Attendants fussed endlessly.

Your hair was brushed and rebrushed. Your sleeves adjusted. Your jewelry inspected, removed, returned. At one point, an older attendant fastened a small trinket at your neckline, a simple piece of metal sewn into a ribbon, shaped like the three-headed dragon of house Targaryen.

You touched it absently, as you always did.

Your favorite.

No one remembered where it had come from. You certainly didn’t. It had simply…always been yours it seemed. You liked the way the jagged metal felt beneath your fingers, worn slightly dull with time. It calmed you.

Behind it all, your mother watched.

She said little, but her gaze was sharp and measuring, tracking every indulgence from the attendants. She saw how easily you were loved, and how easily that love might become leverage.

And quietly, without your knowledge, she decided.

You would be betrothed to Valarr Targaryen. for why should her daughter, beloved by the realm, settle for anything other than the heir of the heir.

—

Trumpets announced your arrival.

The Red Keep rose before you, pale stone glowing in the afternoon sun. Courtiers gathered, and servants hurried.

You felt it, even if you didn’t flinch.

Your father rested a hand briefly at your back. Your brothers closed in slightly. The attendants fluttered, whispering reminders.

Inside the keep, Valarr Targaryen was being given the vaguest instruction of his life.

“Be attentive,” his mother told him calmly. “She is important.”

Important could mean anything.

Valarr smoothed his doublet, fingers brushing the sigil at his chest out of habit. The old one had been replaced many years ago, but his hand still went there without thinking.

“You’ve met her before,” Baelor added, almost as an afterthought. “Once.”

Valarr looked up sharply. “I have?”

Baelor smiled faintly. “She was very small.”

The memory struck like heat.

Tiny hands, the warm weight. The dragon tugged loose beneath her grip.

Valarr went still.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

—

You entered the hall with sunlight caught in your hair, laughter soft on your lips as Daeron murmured something in your ear. You looked unguarded, and entirely yourself.

Valarr saw you immediately.

And then he saw it.

The trinket at your neckline.

The dragon.

Not the polished sigils worn by courtiers, but a small, slightly worn, metallic mold, attached with a silk bow and silver chains.

Valarr’s breath caught.

His gaze dropped without permission, tracking the familiar shape, the way the ribbon and chains pulled ever so slightly at the edges.

You noticed his stare and followed it down, fingers lifting automatically to the trinket.

“Oh,” you said lightly. “This?”

You rubbed the embroidery between thumb and forefinger, absent, affectionate.

“Well, my prince, I’ve always liked it. ever since I was a child.” you continued. “I don’t remember where it’s from. It’s just…mine.”

Just like that.

Your fingers curled around it.

Valarr felt as though the room tilted, the same familiar feeling from when he held you as a boy all those years ago.

—

Conversation carried on around you, but Valarr heard very little of it. His attention stayed fixed on your hands, on the unconscious way you held the sigil when you laughed, when you listened, when you grew thoughtful.

At one point, you leaned closer to him to inspect the one on his chest.

Your fingers brushed over the smooth metal.

The motion was instinctive, and terribly familiar.

Valarr’s pulse jumped.

Years ago, you had done this exact thing, clutched the dragon over his heart with all the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted and refused to let go.

You did it now without realizing.

Valarr swallowed hard.

“You favor that trinket,” he said carefully.

You smiled at him. “I suppose I do. It makes me feel safe.”

The word struck deeper than it had any right to.

—

Your mother noticed.

She watched Valarr’s expression shifted, how his composure cracked just enough to let something genuine through. She saw the way he looked at you as if seeing a memory made flesh.

She said nothing, although she didn’t need to.

Your father further discussed something Daeron said, while Aerion shot Valarr a warning glance from across the table.

And you, utterly unaware, tilted your head toward Valarr, curiosity bright.

“You’re very quiet,” you observed. “Is court always like this?”

Valarr smiled faintly.

“Not usually,” he said. “I don’t think it’s ever been quite like this.”

Your fingers tightened on the dragon again.

Valarr knew then, with quiet certainty, that this was no coincidence.

You had found him once before, And somehow, you had found him again.

—

Valarr told himself it was coincidence the first time.

The Red Keep was enormous, after all, vast halls and endless corridors, gardens that folded in on themselves, staircases that led nowhere and everywhere at once. It was entirely reasonable that paths might cross. Entirely natural.

He repeated this to himself as he rounded the corner of the eastern gardens and nearly collided with you.

You stopped short just in time, skirts swaying, breath slightly quickened as though you’d been moving fast.

“Oh,” you began, then blinked. “My prince.”

Valarr straightened instinctively, his court etiquette snapping into place before he could stop it.

“Princess,” he greeted.

You rolled your eyes immediately.

“Please don’t,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “I was trying to escape that.”

He followed your gaze.

Daeron and Aerion stood several paces behind you, mid-argument, clearly in the midst of deciding who was more responsible for whatever irritation had driven you off. Daeron gestured animatedly; Aerion’s arms were crossed, expression sharp.

Valarr’s lips twitched.

“I take it they’re the cause of your flight.”

“They always are,” you said lightly. “One of them decided I needed guarding inside the Red Keep of all places.”

“An unforgivable offense,” Valarr agreed playfully.

Your laughter surprised him.

It was bright, and it eased something tight in his chest. You shifted your weight, fingers lifting unconsciously to the dragon trinket at your neckline, rubbing the worn thing between thumb and forefinger.

Valarr noticed.

“I won’t keep you,” he said, though he made no move to leave. “Unless you’d prefer my company to theirs.”

You tilted your head, studying him.

“I think,” you said after a moment, “that I would.”

Daeron noticed them. He paused mid-sentence, gaze snapping to Valarr. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, eyes narrowing.

You turned just enough to wave them off.

“I’m fine,” you called. “Go bother someone else.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened, and Daeron sighed theatrically.

“You’re certain sister?” Daeron asked.

“Yes,” you replied. “Unless you’d like to argue in front of the prince.”

That decided it.

Your brothers retreated, reluctantly, casting Valarr one last look that was all warning.

When they were gone, the garden seemed quieter.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “They mean well.”

“I know,” Valarr replied. “I imagine I will be similar if not the same if I were to ever have a sister.”

That earned him another smile.

You walked then, not formally, just drifting along the garden path side by side. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It settled easily.

Valarr found himself glancing at you when you weren’t looking, to preoccupied with the budding flowers or bugs on the leafs.

At the way you moved without self-consciousness. At the way your fingers kept returning to the trinket, as though drawn there by instinct. At the faint crease between your brows when you grew thoughtful.

He told himself, again, that this meant nothing. he was being courteous is all.

The second time happened in the library.

Valarr had retreated there deliberately, seeking refuge from council murmurs and polite inquiries. He’d chosen a far corner, half-shadowed, shelves towering overhead, the quiet thick and blessed.

He was halfway through a page when he heard footsteps.

Light, feminine steps.

He looked up.

You stood a few paces away, scanning the shelves with open curiosity, an attendant hovering helplessly behind you with a stack of books already in her arms.

“Oh,” you said when you noticed him. “My prince, we meet again.”

Valarr closed his book slowly.

“Should I be offended,” he asked, “or relieved?”

You smiled, stepping closer.

“Relieved,” you decided. “I was hoping for something more interesting than titles about trade tariffs.”

He gestured to the shelf beside him. “History, then. Slightly more intriguing.”

Your eyes lit up.

“You read history for fun?”

“I don’t recommend it,” he said. “But it does grow on you.”

You leaned closer, scanning spines, and without realizing it, without even looking, your fingers found the dragon again.

Valarr’s breath caught.

The same motion, the same unconscious curl of your hand.

“You do that often,” he said quietly.

You glanced down, surprised, then laughed softly.

“Oh. That. I suppose I do.”

“Does it mean something?”

You considered.

“I don’t think so,” you said. “It’s just familiar, and it comforts me.”

Valarr looked away before you could see his expression.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine does.”

You chose a book then, thick, well-worn. You tucked it under your arm.

“Borrowing this,” you said cheerfully. “I’ll return it. Probably.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied.

When you left, the space you’d occupied felt suddenly empty. Valarr sat there for a long moment afterward, staring at the shelf without seeing it.

Twice.

Coincidence, he told himself.

The third time made him laugh.

It was a narrow corridor near the royal apartments—one he rarely used, chosen out of habit more than intention. He rounded the corner quickly, deep in thought—

—and stopped short.

So did you.

For a heartbeat, you simply stared at one another.

Then you laughed first.

“This is becoming suspicious my prince,” you said.

Valarr found himself smiling before he could stop it.

“Either the Red Keep is smaller than I remember,” he said lightly, “or you’re following me.”

Your laughter rang out, a genuine one.

“I assure you,” you replied, “I’d have chosen a more dramatic approach.”

Something in Valarr loosened at the sound.

He relaxed visibly, shoulders easing, the careful distance he kept from most people slipping without effort.

And as you passed him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of summer on your clothes, he realized something unsettling. He hoped it would happen again. That you would always be their as he turns every corner. That you'd inhabit the spaces he so commonly ventured into.

—

Later that evening, as Valarr found himself choosing paths he might run into you on, he stopped short.

And laughed quietly to himself. Valarr did not mean to look for you.

That was the lie he told himself as he chose the longer path through the eastern wing the following morning, one that curved past the small terrace overlooking the Blackwater rather than cutting straight through the council corridor. He told himself he wanted air. Quiet. Space to think.

He did not tell himself he hoped you might be there.

The terrace was empty.

He felt an unreasonable flicker of disappointment before he caught himself and frowned, annoyed at the thought. Ridiculous. You had your own schedule, your own obligations, attendants, family, duties he barely understood. It was foolish to expect-

“My prince?”

He turned.

You stood in the doorway, sunlight at your back, one hand braced lightly against the stone as if you had only just decided to step outside. You looked surprised to see him, and then pleased.

“Oh,” you said, smiling. “There you are.”

There you are.

The words settled somewhere uncomfortably warm in his chest.

“I could say the same,” he replied, a little too quickly.

You stepped onto the terrace, skirts whispering softly against the stone. An attendant hovered briefly behind you, then, at your gentle insistence, retreated inside.

“Everyone keeps telling me where I ought to be, these days,” you said. “It’s exhausting.”

Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. “They do that.”

You leaned against the balustrade beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you without touching. Below, the water moved steadily, indifferent to courtly fuss.

Your fingers lifted to the dragon trinket again.

Valarr watched the motion.

“You always go to your neck, when you’re overwhelmed,” he said before thinking better of it.

You blinked. Looked down.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

You considered that, rubbing the sigil thoughtfully.

“Hm,” you murmured. “I suppose I do. Although my prince, you shouldn't stare at a ladies chest so much, some may find it indecent.”

He could feel the teasing notations behind your words, but he didnt entertain it further. Settling instead to cough into this fisted hand and wait for the warmth of his cheeks to wear off.

—

The feast that evening was unavoidable.

Your nameday demanded it, music, laughter, long tables heavy with food, and a sea of eyes eager to measure, compare, and whisper. Valarr entered with practiced composure, scanning the hall without conscious intent, finding you immediately.

You sat with your family, your father at the center, your brothers flanking you like loyal guards. You looked radiant, not because of your finery (though that was impossible to ignore), but because you were comfortable. At ease. Laughing openly.

Valarr realized, distantly, that he was smiling.

“Careful,” Baelor murmured beside him. “You’re staring son.”

Valarr straightened. “I was not.”

Baelor’s expression said everything.

Valarr, wanting to ignore his father, made his way toward the high table, intending to sit where protocol dictated. Halfway there, you glanced up.

Your eyes met his. You smiled small, and unmistakably meant for him.

Valarr changed course without even noticing he’d done it. By the time he realized, he was seated beside you.

Your brothers exchanged a look. Daeron raised a brow, and Aerion narrowed his eyes.

You, blissfully unaware, leaned closer.

“I was hoping you’d sit here my prince,” you said.

Valarr felt the words settle into him like a promise.

“Was that so?”

“Yes,” you replied simply. “You make this all fuss feel much less loud.”

Conversation flowed easily, about things he had truly no interest in. Although when you would talk he'd find himself straining his ears just to hear you a little clearer. You spoke of Summerhall, of books you’d borrowed and not yet returned, of how strange it felt to be celebrated so publicly. Valarr listened, found himself answering with more honesty than he ever offered at court.

At one point, Aerion leaned in.

“So,” he said, tone deceptively casual, “dear cousin, how long have you two known each other?”

Valarr hesitated.

You answered first.

“Oh, not long brother,” you said. “We just keep running into each other.”

Daeron snorted. “Funny how that happens.”

Valarr hid a smile behind his cup. Your fingers found the trinket again as laughter rose around you. He noticed how you stilled slightly when someone down the table laughed too loudly. How your grip tightened just a fraction.

—

After the feast, Valarr told himself, again, that he would sleep early. Instead, at the dead of night, he found himself wandering. The corridors were quieter now, torches casting long shadows across stone. He passed servants and guards, nodded politely, turned corners without thinking.

And then, there you were.

Seated on a window bench, skirts gathered around you, moonlight painting silver into your hair. You looked up at the sound of his steps and smiled as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked.

Valarr laughed softly. “Rarely.”

You shifted to make room. He joined you without hesitation. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was companionable. Comfortable in a way Valarr had rarely known.

“I think,” you said at last, “that the Red Keep is playing tricks on us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you continued. “It keeps putting you in my way.”

Valarr glanced at you, amused.

“Or,” he said lightly, “you’re really following me.”

You laughed. “You’re impossible.”

He liked the way you said that.

Your hand drifted, again, always, to the dragon at your neckline. You rubbed the thread slowly, thoughtfully, eyes distant. Valarr watched, heart tight.

“You don’t remember where you got it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, you shook your head in response.

“No. I’ve asked before. No one seems to know. It’s always just been with me.”

He swallowed.

“Do you mind that?”

You considered.

“No,” you said finally. “Some things don’t need explanations.”

Valarr thought of a baby’s grip, of laughter, of a torn sigil mended too carefully to discard.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “Some things don’t.”

Later, when Valarr finally did return to his chambers, he paused before the mirror. His gaze dropped, unconsciously, to the dragon over his heart.

He smiled faintly.

Across the keep, you slept with the trinket curled in your fingers, unaware of the pattern you were weaving.

And somewhere between chance and intention, between memory and instinct. The prince who kept finding you realized something dangerous. He didn’t want to stop.

—

Valarr did not believe he was flirting.

That was the first and most critical misunderstanding.

From his perspective, he was being thoughtful. Attentive in a way befitting someone who had been told, rather unhelpfully, that you were important. He listened when you spoke. He answered when you asked. He made sure you were comfortable, and safe.

None of that, in his mind, constituted flirting.

It did, however, result in him saying things like—

“You…walk very quietly.”

You paused mid-step, turned to look at him, and burst out laughing.

“That is a compliment?” you asked.

Valarr felt heat rush to his face.

“I meant,” he said quickly, “that you move without-without drawing attention. It’s…efficient.”

“Efficient,” you repeated, eyes bright with amusement. “How flattering.”

He winced. “That came out wrong.”

You smiled anyway, and that somehow made it worse.

From then on, it only escalated. Valarr overthought everything.

Every word was weighed twice. If he spoke too much, he worried he’d bored you. If he spoke too little, he feared he’d offended you. If you smiled for longer than a heartbeat, he went quiet, convinced he’d said something foolish and you were being kind about it.

You, meanwhile, assumed this was simply how he was. Polite, reserved, and earnest Valarr, in an almost awkward way.

You found it endearing. Everyone else found it obvious.

Daeron noticed first.

It happened during a late afternoon walk along the inner ramparts. You were speaking animatedly about a book you’d borrowed—still hadn’t returned, Valarr noted—and he was listening with the kind of focus usually reserved for council matters.

Daeron watched him for a long moment, then leaned closer to you.

“He looks at you like you’re the only person in the keep sister,” your brother murmured.

You blinked. “He does not.”

Daeron hummed skeptically.

Aerion noticed next, and was far less subtle about it.

“So,” he said one evening, arms crossed as Valarr approached. “Is this intentional?”

Valarr stiffened. “Is what intentional?”

“This,” Aerion gestured vaguely between the two of you. “The constant proximity. The hovering around my sister.”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I am not hovering,” he said finally.

Aerion’s gaze sharpened. “You haven’t been more than three steps away from her all evening.”

You laughed, nudging Aerion’s arm. “You’re imagining things brother.”

Aerion looked unconvinced, but said nothing more.

Your father noticed.

Maekar watched the way Valarr adjusted his pace to match yours, during your now daily strolls in the garden with the prince. The way he angled his body toward you, shielding it, he obviously did so without realizing it. The way his expression softened when you laughed.

He had said nothing.

Your mother noticed, and smiled.

She noticed the unconscious gestures. The way your fingers always found the dragon when Valarr was near. The way his eyes followed that motion, every time, as though it were something precious. If it was any man she'd have him beheaded for looking at the princess in such an inappropriate manner.

She did not intervene.

Valarr, meanwhile, was miserable.

He stood in his father’s study one evening, hands clasped tightly behind his back, pacing in short, agitated turns.

“I don’t think she knows I like her,” he said finally.

Baelor looked up from his writing, expression unreadable.

“She doesn’t?”

“No,” Valarr said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s kind. She laughs. She speaks to me easily. I think she assumes I’m merely, being polite.”

Baelor studied him for a long moment.

“You escort her everywhere.”

“Yes, but—”

“You seek her out daily.”

“That’s coincidence.”

Valarr hesitated.

Baelor set his quill down.

“Valarr,” he said gently, “my son you are courting her in plain sight.”

Valarr froze.

“I am?”

Baelor smiled.

“You compliment her, terribly,” he added. “You grow flustered when she teases you. You go quiet when she smiles at you too long, and you look at her like she already belongs beside you.”

Valarr stared at him, horrified.

“That’s-” he stopped, swallowing. “That’s obvious?”

“To everyone but you and her it seems,” Baelor replied.

Valarr sank into a chair, covering his face with one hand.

“She deserves someone-,” he muttered. “-Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Baelor chuckled softly.

“She deserves someone who sees her,” he said. “And you do.”

The realization hit Valarr slowly. Every interaction replayed itself in his mind with new clarity.

The garden. The library. The corridors. The way you smiled when you saw him. The way your fingers curled around the dragon without thinking.

He had been courting you.

Not with grand gesture, with care. The next time he saw you, he was acutely aware of it.

You approached him in the courtyard, sunlight warming the stone beneath your feet. “There you are,” you said easily.

Valarr’s heart stumbled. “Here I am,” he replied.

You smiled at him, that same unguarded smile, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Can I walk with you?” he asked. You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

And as your fingers drifted, once again, to the familiar trinket at your neckline. Valarr thought, with equal parts terror and certainty.

Seven help me. I am in love with her.

—

The solar was quiet in the way only old stone rooms could be, thick walls holding in the warmth of the afternoon, shutters half-drawn against the sun. Baelor stood near the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze fixed not on the city beyond but on the reflection in the glass.

Maekar did not sit. He never did, not when something mattered.

“You wished to speak brother,” Maekar said, arms crossed, voice level. “So speak.”

Baelor turned slowly, studying him. He had known Maekar his entire life, knew the set of his shoulders when he was bracing, the way his jaw tightened when he expected to be challenged.

“This concerns your daughter,” Baelor said evenly.

Maekar’s expression hardened at once.

“Then you should choose your words carefully.”

Baelor inclined his head slightly. “I intend to.”

Silence stretched between them.

“She is remarkable,” Baelor continued. “Unaffected by court in a way few are."

“She is young,” Maekar replied sharply.

Baelor did not argue that.

“I have no intention of rushing anything,” he said. “But I would be remiss not to acknowledge what is already plain.”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Plain to whom?”

“To anyone with eyes,” Baelor said quietly. “Valarr, most of all.”

That did it. Maekar let out a low breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a warning.

“My daughter is not a consolation prize for a prince who happens to notice her,” he said. “Nor is she a political convenience.”

Baelor held his gaze steadily. “I would never suggest my niece to be that.”

“She has brothers who would tear this keep apart for her,” Maekar went on. “She has a father who has bled for this family. I will not hand her over lightly.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Baelor replied.

Another silence.

“She is fond of him,” Baelor added carefully. “Even if she does not yet know what that means.” Maekar’s jaw tightened.

“And what of Valarr?” he asked. “Is he fond, or merely intrigued?”

Baelor did not answer immediately. “He is…earnest in his affection,” he said at last. “In ways that do not always serve him well. He is thoughtful to a fault. He remembers things others forget.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”

Baelor hesitated only a moment. “She wore something today,” he said. “A small dragon. Worn with age.”

Maekar stiffened. “That trinket,” Baelor continued, “once belonged to Valarr. Or rather, she took it from him.”

Maekar stared. “She was a baby,” Baelor added. “She grabbed the sigil from his chest and would not let go. We thought nothing of it at the time.”

Maekar said nothing. “Valarr did not forget,” Baelor finished quietly.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Maekar turned away, pacing once across the room, boots striking stone. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“She does not remember,” he said. “She knows nothing of that moment.”

“No,” Baelor agreed. “But she repeats it.”

“She touches the dragon whenever she is overwhelmed,” Baelor said. “Without knowing why, and my son, Valarr notices every time.”

Maekar closed his eyes briefly.

“That does not mean I will give my consent,” he said. “I have seen what the crown does to good men. I will not watch my daughter be swallowed by it.”

Baelor nodded. “Nor would I.”

Maekar looked at him sharply. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because,” Baelor said gently, “whether we sanction it or not, something has already begun.”

Maekar’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“She deserves a choice,” he said.

“So does Valarr,” Baelor replied. “And he has made none lightly.”

Maekar studied him for a long moment. “You speak as though this is decided.”

“No,” Baelor said. “I speak as a father who sees his son walking into something that matters, and I am speaking to another father who would burn the realm before seeing his daughter harmed.”

That, at least, Maekar understood.

“She will not be pressured,” Maekar said firmly. “She will not be paraded. If Valarr wishes anything from her, he will earn it."

Baelor smiled faintly. “I would expect nothing else.”

Maekar turned toward the door, then paused. “If he hurts her,” he said without looking back, “he will answer to me. Crown or no crown.”

Baelor met his back with calm certainty. “He knows.”

Maekar left without another word.

Baelor remained by the window long after. Some bonds, it seemed, did not need memory. Only time.

—

By the final days of your nameday celebrations, the Red Keep no longer felt like a palace.

You had lost track of how many feasts had been held in your honor. How many gifts had been pressed into your hands. How many times servants had bowed too deeply or courtiers had smiled too brightly, their eyes lingering just a moment too long.

Your father indulged you through all of it.

When you complained of sore feet, he waved off protocol and had chairs brought where there should not have been any. When you grew tired of sweet wines, he ordered something lighter without question. When you asked to walk the ramparts late at night, he assigned guards but did not forbid you.

“She’s had enough ceremony for a lifetime,” he said once, flatly.

Your brothers hovered relentlessly.

Daeron teased you about the attention, about how often your name was spoken in halls not meant for it. Aerion said less, but stood closer, watched harder.

Attendants fussed like it was their sole purpose in life. Everyday their were new gowns, new ribbons, new jewels, and endless adjustments.

—

Valarr had never hated celebration more.

Not because of the noise or the spectacle, he had been raised in it, but because celebration demanded visibility ,and with visibility came the scrutiny. And over the course of the week, every look he cast your way felt noticed.

He had not intended for things to become so obvious.

He had not intended to escort you so often, to linger so long, to learn the rhythms of your presence the way one learned music, without effort, without realizing it had happened.

Yet here he was, standing beside you again as musicians played softly in the gardens, torchlight flickering against stone.

“You look tired,” he said, immediately regretting it.

“I am,” you admitted cheerfully. “But it’s a pleasant sort of tired.”

“You’ve been generous with your time,” Valarr said.

You laughed softly. “As if I had a choice.” Your fingers, like oppositely charged magnets attracted towards the sigil at your neck.

Valarr’s gaze followed the motion before he could stop himself. You noticed this time.

Instead, you smiled. “You keep looking at it,” you said.

“I-” Valarr stopped, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, it’s familiar.”

“So you’ve said.”

He hesitated. “Do you ever wonder where it came from?”

“You've also asked that many times," you laughed lightly. “It is all the time I wonder, but I don’t mind not knowing.”

He wondered if you ever would.

—

By the sixth evening, no one pretended anymore.

Servants seated Valarr beside you without asking, musicians timed quieter songs for moments when you two would grace the dance floor. Courtiers bowed a fraction deeper when addressing the two of you as a unit.

—

It was late when you found yourselves alone in a quieter corridor, the sounds of celebration distant. Torches cast long shadows; the keep felt hushed, expectant.

“Valarr,” you said suddenly.

He turned to you at once. “Yes?”

“You’ve been…different,” you said carefully. “This week.”

His heart stuttered. “Different how?”

You considered, fingers worrying the three dragon’s.

“Like you’re thinking several things at once,” you said. “And none of them are simple.”

He laughed quietly. “You’re perceptive.”

“I have good teachers,” you replied.

Silence settled.

“There’s something happening,” you said slowly. “Isn’t there?”

Valarr’s instincts screamed to protect you from it, from politics, from expectation, from the weight of what was coming.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “There is.”

You looked up at him, searching his face. “And does it frighten you?”

He met your gaze. “Yes.”

That answer surprised you. “And yet,” you said softly, “you’re still here.”

Valarr’s voice was very quiet. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

—

Baelor stood beside Maekar in the high gallery overlooking the hall below. The music swelled. You stood among the guests.

“And if she says no?” Maekar asked bluntly.

Baelor did not look away from the scene below. “Then we listen,” he said. “And Valarr will learn to accept it.”

Maekar nodded once. “She will be told tonight,” he said. “Not as an order.”

“No,” Baelor agreed. “As a possible match for the future.”

Maekar exhaled slowly. “My daughter deserves nothing but joy,” he said.

Baelor’s gaze shifted, just briefly, to Valarr, standing close at your side, speaking quietly. “She may have found it already brother.”

—

The final feast of your nameday week was grander than the rest. Banners hung high. The hall glowed with torchlight. The air buzzed, not with celebration alone, but anticipation.

You sensed it. Something about the way servants moved more carefully. The way your mother adjusted your sleeves herself. The way your father’s expression was unreadable.

Valarr felt it too.

When he offered you his arm, his hand trembled just slightly. “Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “I hope you know-”

The music swelled suddenly. A hush began to ripple through the hall. Baelor rose, and your father straightened.

Somewhere deep in your chest, the dragon trinket warmed beneath your fingers.

The hush had crept over the celebrations.

Conversation softened, laughter thinned, the musicians’ tempo slowed until even they seemed to sense it, bows drawing more gently, notes stretching longer than intended. One by one, heads turned toward the high table.

You felt it before you understood it.

Your fingers tightened around the dragon trinket at your throat, the familiarity pressing into your skin. The warmth there steadied you, even as something in the air shifted.

Valarr noticed immediately.

He had been speaking to you, something small, something meant to distract, but the moment Baelor rose, his words faltered. He straightened without thinking, shoulders squaring, expression composed with effort rather than ease.

Your father stood as well.

Baelor waited until the hall was fully still before he spoke.

“Lords and ladies of the realm,” he said, voice carrying easily through the vast space. “We gather tonight to mark the close of a week of celebration, one honoring the nameday of a daughter of House Targaryen, my lovely neice.”

A polite murmur followed.

You felt suddenly visible in a way you had not all week.

Baelor continued.

“It is fitting,” he said, “that such a celebration should also look forward, toward the future of our house, and the bonds that will strengthen it.”

Valarr’s heart began to pound. slow and heavy.

This was it.

He had known it was coming. Had felt it circling the edges of every conversation, every look, every carefully chosen word. And yet, the reality of it struck him all at once, sharp and breathless.

You glanced at him then, not in fear, more so in question.

Oh his sweet girl, he wishes he hide you away now, to not bother yourself with these pagentrys. But he could not, all he could do now was squeeze your hand slightly under the table.

Valarr met your gaze and held it, Whatever happens, his eyes seemed to say, I am here.

Baelor turned slightly, gesturing.

“It is with the blessing of both families,” he said evenly, “that we announce a betrothal.”

Your breath caught.

Maekar spoke then, voice firm and unyielding.

“My daughter,” he said, “has been raised with choice, with care, and with the understanding that her happiness is not a thing to be traded lightly.”

Your heart thundered.

Valarr’s chest felt tight.

Maekar turned fully now, his gaze sweeping the hall before settling, briefly, deliberately, on Valarr.

“She will be wed to a man who has shown her respect,” he continued, “who has sought her company without demand, and who understands the weight of what it means to stand beside her.”

A pause.

Then Baelor finished it.

“To my son, Prince Valarr Targaryen.”

The hall erupted.

A whirl it was, all the whispers rushing like wind through banners. Gasps, and murmurs. The rustle of silk as courtiers leaned closer, already weaving narratives in their minds.

You did not hear any of it, you were staring at Valarr.

He was staring at you.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between you.

Your fingers clenched around the dragon.

Valarr swallowed.

“I-” you began, then stopped.

Daeron reacted first.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aerion to hear, “that explains a great deal.”

Your mother reached for your hand. You realized then that she had known.

“How long?” you whispered, not looking away from Valarr.

She squeezed your other hand gently. “Long enough.”

Baelor raised his hand, the hall gradually settling again.

“This betrothal,” he said clearly, “is made with the understanding that it honors not only tradition but prosperity for the realm.”

Valarr felt his lungs finally draw breath.

You turned toward your father. Maekar’s gaze softened carefully.

“My dear girl, you are not commanded,” he said quietly, meant only for you. “this is an offering.”

You looked back at Valarr. He had gone still, utterly still, waiting.

“I accept,” you said. The words felt solid in your mouth.

The hall erupted properly this time.

Cheers, applause, exclamations too loud to track.

Valarr’s breath left him in a rush so sharp it nearly made him laugh. He bowed his head, briefly, respectfully, then turned back to you.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Almost reverent. “Are you certain?”

You smiled. “Yes.”

Your fingers relaxed, then, without thinking, reached for his sleeve.

Just for a moment, the same way you had when you were a babe.

—

Later, much later, you stood together on a balcony overlooking the city, the noise of celebration dimmed by distance.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Finally, you laughed softly. “So,” you said. “I suppose this explains why everyone’s been looking at us strangely.”

Valarr huffed a breath of a laugh. “I was told I was courting you.”

You glanced at him. “Were you?”

He considered. “Yes,” he said honestly. “Very badly.”

You laughed again, leaning closer. “I didn’t mind.”

Moonlight caught the dragon at your throat.

Valarr reached out, hesitant, and careful, and brushed his fingers lightly against it.

“You took this from me once,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I'm sorry?” Clearly not understanding his words.

He smiled, warm. "You were only a few moons old, when Lady Dyanna had me hold you, you found the symbol on my chest so captivating you had to have it. So you did, taking it right from my doublet."

Your face grew slightly red, facing the view instead of the prince in front of you. To ashamed to think you had done something so egregious in your early years. "Did I really?"

“Yes,” he said. “And I think I’ve been waiting for you to return it ever since.”

You did not pull away, some bonds, after all, did not need memory.

Only time.