#doomed lovers

There is little light inside the Red Keep, though. As Valarr Targaryen walks through the winding corridor to his bedchamber, he cannot help but be wroth at the torches on the walls. The artificial gleam leaves a cloying taste on his mouth, alive with the itch in his shoulders where his cousin Dareon had draped his lead-heavy hand. Valarr can still feel the weight of it, making him slouch a little, his ear ringing with Dareon’s drunken whisper, “Does she know you are doomed, cuz?”

Valarr tries to shake off the thoughts. He’d scowled at his cousin when he left him at his bedchamber, brushed the concerning hand away when Dareon tried to console him in his drunken, reproachful way. He tried to shake off the comments as inebriated babbling. But Dareon is always drunk, always hovering at some dark and distant place no one can see or fathom. He is pathetic, Valarr knows, stumbling around, speaking nonsense, drinking his way through Valarr’s pre-wedding pillage as if his life depended on it. His fears do not matter. His visions do not matter. The wedding is tomorrow and there is nothing to stop it. Valarr has made sure of it.

Does she know? Does she know?

Is he?

In the dark there are plenty of places to hide, but the incessant voice is inescapable. He strides faster, his ears hot and buzzing, heart thudding with anxiety, to reach his door. No light at this part of the Keep, so he walks blindly, reaching for a room, something, somewhere, to keep him straight. Just as he takes the sharp turn to the winding staircase, a body slams into him, sending shockwaves through his heart.

“Oh, sorry—Your Grace!” the woman squeaks. 

Even in the dark, he can make out the faint outline of her body, the silver robe draped over her frame. She has her arms crossed over her chest, breathing hard, just as he is. And although he cannot make out her face, he imagines she is flushed as well.

“Why are—what are you doing?” he says after a moment, feeling his heart settle from the surprise.

“I wanted to see the moon,” she replies, her voice chafed and familiar.

Valarr blinks. Before he can ask anything else, or even think, she hastily elucidates, “It is just—I can see the sky from my chambers, but the moon—it is supposed to be a full moon, tonight. And I so wanted to see it. Without letting Ser Donnel know, of course. I scarcely doubt he’d let me out.”

“The knights are here to protect you, my lady. Not cage you.”

“How can you tell one from the other?” she asks.

He almost smiles. 

“And anyhow, I did not want them to follow me.”

“I see.”

From some indecipherable corner of the hallway, flickers of light seep in. The moonlight smoothes the outline of her body, he can make out her naked arms now, that dent in her elbow he noticed a fortnight ago. It is fascinating, these little details, all that make her a reality, not some figment of his tortured imaginations. Her silver gown glints in the moonlight. Sends a shiver down his spine. When Dareon saw her in his dreams, is this how she looked?

“Aren’t you ladies looking for you?” he asks. His voice catches up at the last syllable, and he blushes involuntarily.

She shakes her head. “I’ve ordered them to leave. I wanted a night alone. The last night alone—It is my wedding tomorrow, you know.”

“Yes, I—I know.” He chuckles, feeling feverish. Light-headed. “I intend to be there.”

She is smiling, he can tell. And Valarr isn’t sure he could be hotter if he tried. This is the longest they have talked since their wedding was arranged two moons past. Valarr has been princely, restrained, obedient to the customs of the Faith. There are times for it after the wedding, he had repeated after the Septons. There is time, more time, an abundance of time after they are made one and are blessed before the gods. During sleepless nights, Valarr imagines the time as dunes, an infinite number of them, stretched out before his eyes like sands in the Red Waste.

He must have been silent for a long time. Because she coughs and he jolts back to reality. 

“I should go, I know it was a foolish thing to have done—”

“No,” he says reflexively. Because he does not wish for her to go, no. For one moment, one fleeting moment, he thinks—Begone, you needless servants of gods. You are not needed here. His pulse quickens. The moment goes as soon as it comes, but she has taken a step forward. Unsure, suddenly. As breathless as he.

“My Prince…”

“I shall show you the moon.”

__________

PART TWO

kismet

palindrome

twenty long years

negative space (modern valarr X dreamer reader)

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