#maekar

though rumors sprouted that aerion only became a bachelor because he angered his father, which seemed very plausible. you'd never met your future husband before the ceremony, and he was just as expected.

aerion rarely spared you a glance throughout the ceremony, and even when the two of you were forced to kiss, he pulled away immediately afterward, muttering curses beneath his breath, then he left the altar entirely.

maekar rolled his eyes at his son as he did it, then he glanced at you and nodded at aerion, as if he wanted you to follow. of course, you didn't, and maekar sneered and took your place behind aerion, yelling for the guests to move to the great hall for feasting.

even as your family greeted you during the feast, all you could think about was aerion, sitting beside you, wearing immaculately tailored red-and-black velvet, his fingers spinning marbles, face placid as he watched the guests dance.

you were still in your heavy, dornish wedding dress, sweat accumulating on your brow, your chest rising and falling with every breath as you tried to draw oxygen into your lungs.

"must you breathe like a fucking cow?" aerion spat out, turning to you abruptly as he slammed the marbles down, ignoring the way they rolled and crashed to the ground.

you gave aerion a minuscule glance, hand against your torso, heart speeding into a panicked beat. the last thing you needed in the moment was his childish temper. all eyes were on you, even when it seemed like they were not.

the people expected you to burst, act out, lose your ladyship, and that outcome was approaching faster than you wanted it to. instead, you would've liked your outburst to be in the comfort of your marriage bedchamber, beside aerion—unfortunately.

"my dress is tight, i'm beside a fucking child who is now my husband, and people keep whispering about my fucking breasts, so no, i can't." aerion recoiled at your words, his eyebrows raising, then he shrugged, "that is unfortunate." he glanced down at your breasts in the process, noticing how they were spilling from your corset.

when he was done examining you, he turned forward once more, leaving you to your devices. so, reaching behind yourself, you began pulling at the ties of your dress. by that point, air was whistling in and out of your mouth, and maekar was looking down the table, noticing your frantic movements, though your attempts were poor in there subtly.

"what the fuck is the issue?" maekar spat, tossing a piece of beef at aerion. it hit the prince on the cheek, and he glared at his father, "she can't breathe, and there's no need for you to throw shit!"

"then help her!" aerion rolled his eyes and turned to you, grabbing your arm to twist you in your chair. he began ripping at the laces of your corset, fingers wiggling.

"what a way to be subtle." you ignored his words, inhaling a deep, calming breath, then snatching the bottle of dornish wine off the table and pouring it into your cup.

"everything they say about you is true." you only said it to strike a nerve, and it worked, because aerion turned to you, lips curled into a sneer. "and what do they say about me, wife?"

"don't tell me you don't know, husband?" you matched his stare, noticing the way his hand curled into a fist, muscles working in his arm. aerion cleared his throat to draw your attention, "i care little for what the small folk think of me."

you grinned and shrugged, "it is the highborn too." aerion hummed and shook his head, though you could see his jaw in an ironclad clench. "that woman is whispering about you." he said, pointing lazily at a woman sitting at a table with a few ladies, noticeably highborn.

"women always whisper. you're lucky men immediately throw fists. that is if you can fight?" you rested your chin against your hand, watching aerion lazily, and he chuckled, as if the very thought of him not being able to fight was foolish, "of course i can fight."

"how well can you fight, prince? or are you just trying to impress me?" aerion leaned against the table, licking his lips, "i could show you."

you rolled your eyes, "men that hit their wives are weak." aerion scoffed, "that's not what i meant. i thought they said you were smart."

humming, you turned towards him, "what do you propose to show me you can fight?" aerion pointed at a man resting against the wall. he was watching the people dance, a cup of ale in his hand.

"that one." aerion began standing, but your eyes widened and you grabbed his arm, "you're going to beat that man? he's done nothing!" aerion pulled out of your grip and smirked, "i'm only meaning to prove you wrong." he continued pushing out of his seat, but you grabbed his arm once more.

aerion was strong enough to pull you with him, and before you knew it, you were wrapped around his torso, feet dragging, though he was heavily lifting you.

"this is foolish! how do you mean to prove the people wrong if you constantly show how cruel you are?" you spat it heavily, foot clamping down on his, and aerion winced, arms wrapped around your waist.

"i don't care about that." your only other thought was to wrap your arms around his neck. aerion was tugged down, hand lingering on your hip, and you pushed him further into the crowd, "just dance. it is your wedding day after all."

your lips whispered against aerion's ear, and he let out an annoyed sigh, melting in your grip and grabbing your hand, intending to dance. it was awkward at first, pressed against him so firmly, your dress dragging around you, but then, like unclenching fists, you relaxed.

cheek against aerion's chest, you were squeezing the ever living hells out of his hand. a breath exitted your lips, and your eyes closed, reveling in the steady beat of aerion's heart.

"you mean to distract me, but he's staring." aerion whispered. you glanced up at him, and he was grimacing, eyebrows furrowed as he watched behind you. when you looked, the man was watching.

"most people are watching." aerion glanced around and hummed, realizing that that was entirely true. his face relaxed, and he bit his lip, "they will think we are in love." you chuckled, "then they can speak on that instead of my breasts."

it seemed the crowd was muttering a common word by the time you broke out of your bubble with aerion. consummation.

the entire thought of consummation was something you'd thought about for years leading up to your marriage, and although you weren't necessarily nervous, you could see the gleam of annoyance in aerion's gaze.

he glanced down at you, face blank, then he pulled away entirely. back rigid with evidence of stress. maekar was standing when the two of you returned to the table, and it seemed he'd been losing his irritation throughout your dance with aerion.

"it is time to prepare for consummation." he didn't say much else, and as the crowd opened with knowing gazes, that's when the anxiousness set into your bones. aerion was lingering behind you as you walked and you could feel the heat radiating off of him and the steady burn of his eyes on the back of your head.

the inside of the marriage bedchamber was prepped perfectly for consummation: lit candles, pillows fluffed, sheets folded back, and your chambermaid, mary, waiting for you.

aerion split off to prepare for the consummation while you entered. mary immediately began removing your dress, her fingers quick and nimble. then she bathed you, tied your hair up nicely, applied lotions and oils, and helped you step into a silky shift that was entirely too scandalous.

your fingers couldn't stop shaking as you waited for aerion, and not because of the sex, but because you weren't as inexperienced as they expected you to be. all ladies were meant to lose their virginities during consummation, which then made it easy to prove the binding of the husband and wife and make sure the possibility of children was in the near future.

as you were sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at your nails, the door opened and aerion walked in. he was wearing a simple robe, face pulled into a glower. your chambermaid curtsied, but he didn't pay her any attention, immediately leering off to the decanter on the tea table and pouring a heavy bout of wine into a cup.

once mary left, aerion turned to you, and raised his glass mockingly, "cheers to you, wife." you rolled your eyes, watching him guzzle down the entire cup of wine. "are you meaning to get drunk, aerion?"

he shrugged, pouring another, then coming to sit on the bed. "no one ever said you can't be drunk during the consummation."

you eyed him silently, leaning against the pillows, "are you...a virgin?" aerion glanced at you, lips pulled into a frown, "no, i am not."

"then what is the issue?" aerion placed his cup on the nightstand then sighed, "i just don't want to do it. just like i didn't want to marry you."

"you are stubborn." you said matter-of-factly, climbing beneath the sheets. aerion nodded, "and i don't like being ordered around." aerion glanced at you—at the slopes of your hips and the softness of your belly. "you are...pretty." the flatness in his tone made you laugh, "i am not the problem is what you're saying."

he shook his head absentmindedly, "what will happen if i refuse?" you inhaled deeply, thankful for the large bed because it made it easy to avoid his touch. "your father will be angry. word will spread, people may riot, the council will denounce our marriage, we'll become pariahs, more so than before. they will no longer speak of my breasts, but aerion refusing to fuck his wife."

"that is rediculous." he went beneath the covers too and stared ahead at the fireplace, watching the rise and fall of the flames. "let's get it over with then, yes?" you glanced at him and aerion watched you for a second before he nodded, beginning to undo the ties of his robe while you slipped down the bed, knees raised.

you stared at the canopy of the bed, hearing aerion shuffle around before he entered your vision, hands near your head. he was naked, pale chest covered in dark moles and a white brush of hair leading down to his groin. your eyes stopped there, and slid back up to his face.

aerion's lips were puckered, eyebrows furrowed, and he pointed at your chest, "i need something to—" you rolled your eyes, pulling up your shift to reveal your breasts. aerion was silent for a moment, admiring you, but then he nodded stiffly and leaned back, grabbing your thighs.

"i think—" you shook your head, "don't say anything, please." he scoffed, rubbing his dick against your entrance. you were wet enough for him to slip in, but pressure and pain built, and you let out a moan of pain, eyes closing.

"aren't you supposed to bleed?" aerion's voice was clouded with pleasure as he thrust into you. your pain had subsided into mild satisfaction, but it wasn't nearly what you needed to orgasm.

"aerion—" "women bleed when you take their virginity!" he paused, glaring at you, and you sighed, tugging your shift back down and shoving him off of you, "women don't always bleed!"

"oh fucking please! you aren't a virgin are you?" he watched you, awaiting an answer, and you crossed your arms tenaciously, "no, but does it really matter?"

aerion grabbed your arm, "they need confirmation, wife! without the fucking blood, we're as good as fucking dead." you rolled your eyes at his dramatics, "i can still have babes! the blood is the least of our worries."

aerion threw the covers off of himself and stood, ignoring his stark nakedness. "we can worry about the fucking babes later. now, we need blood. is there a blade here?" aerion rummaged through the drawers and you blushed, watching the clench and squeeze of his ass.

he was harder than a rock and leaking precum, and you felt slightly guilty that you'd given him a boner and he couldn't fulfill it properly.

the prince returned a second later with the stake from the fireplace, clenching it tightly as he raised it to his wrist. "you fucking owe me after this, yeah?" you ignored his words, snatching the stake and raising it to your own wrist, "no, you owe me."

aerion glared at you and took the stake, then shoved you aside, causing you to almost fall off of the bed. then he sliced his wrist, and spilt a few drops onto the sheets. when he thought it was enough, he raised his wrist to his mouth.

your heart spiked when the blood dribbled over his lip, staining his pale skin red. and aerion watched you the entire time. "stop staring." you glanced away and motioned to his dick, "what will you do about that?"

aerion climbed back onto the bed, lips red, "it'll fix itself." you raised your eyebrow, arm brushing his as the two of you lied down, "will it?"

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the next morning, mary came to collect the sheets. you were tired from a night in the same bed as aerion. he was terrible in his sleep; moved constantly, muttered words as he dreamt, and couldn't keep his hands off of you, as if you were his personal stuffed animal.

"do you think they'll suspect?" aerion questioned after getting dressed, and you shrugged, "blood is blood, aerion." you were quite surprised at his anxiety when it came to the consummation. maybe your words of wisdom placed fear into his heart, and rightfully so.

"what will you do today?" you questioned in the hall outside the marriage bedchamber. aerion hummed, hand placed on his head. "terrorize someone. you?"

"sit with my ladies in waiting in the drawing room." aerion stayed by your side as you walked, his hands stuffed within his pockets. "and what do ladies in waiting do?" you shrugged honestly, "we talk and gossip and sew." aerion smacked his lips, "that sounds dull."

"it is very dull."

"then i shall come along and see what ladies speak about." you were surprised at his interest, but you assumed it was his lack of things to do that compelled him to sit with you.

you had three ladies in waiting, vanessa, june, and daisy, who accompanied you from sunspear to kings landing, meant to be your companions. they weren't necessarily your friends, but it gave you women to speak to consistently, and because they were in your service, they were forbidden from spreading gossip.

aerion sat in the far corner, staring out of the window, while you sat at the tea table within the drawing room. you wanted to sneak wine into your tea and perhaps brighten up the day, but instead, you were sewing.

vanessa was to your right, june to your left and daisy across from you. you could see aerion directly behind daisy and he was examining his dagger and speaking to a kingsguard near the door.

"how is married life?" vanessa asked and you shrugged honestly, "it has only been one day. there is little i can say about a man i just met." june nodded in agreement, "i'm sure he's...polite." you chuckled at her attempt to be gentle, "he isn't polite, but he also isn't as cruel as i expected."

the ladies nodded, humming, while you took a sip of your tea, eyes finding aerion. he was stadning now and throwing false punches at the guard, who was looking increasingly panicked, though aerion only seemed to be playing, but then he sat and continued staring out the window.

"and what of the consummation? we only have daisy's story, and it was quite boring." said june, who ignored daisy's scoff. you didn't answer immediately, hand pressing to your belly absentmindedly, and vanessa gasped, "are you already pregnant?"

that drew aerion's eyes, and he glared at you.

"no, no, i'm not pregnant. i was—" june spoke next, "the consummation was well then?" you wanted to snap at them for assuming and interrupting, but all you could focus on was aerion mouthing things at you.

"all hells—say yes!"

"...yes, it was well." none of the women knew you'd had sex before then, and it wasn't something you planned on telling them anyway. "then how was it? sex with the prince i mean." vanessa watched you with excited eyes and you chuckled anxiously.

"it was...nice. hurt a little at first then..." you trailed off, noticing that aerion was watching expectantly, a tiny little smirk on his lips as if he'd actually done something.

"actually, aerion was a little impotent. barely performed." your ladies gasped, each glancing back at aerion as they giggled. the prince's face burst with anger, and he shot out of his seat and approached you, "she's lying. i was fucking perfect."

"then why is there no evidence?" daisy asked, eyebrows raised innocently, and aerion stuttered, mouth agape, "what evidence?"

"love bites? bruises?" aerion glanced at you, then your clean, clear neck and he spat out a curse, snatching daisy's embroidery and pulling the ends of the thread, ruining a couple of hours' worth of work.

you sighed as aerion smirked proudly at her and daisy frowned heavily, head sagging. "that was cruel, husband."

"you know very well what i am." he leaned down to your ear, "and i don't like your fucking lying." the whisper of his breath against your ear made you shiver, and you blushed then turned away entirely. "we will speak of it later."

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a month after the marriage, the targaryen's were hosting a joust in your honor, meant to welcome you to kings landing as the newest member of their family.

you were sitting beneath the royal pavilion, valarr and daeron were to your sides, while maekar and baelor were behind you. and although you and your in laws were cordial, you had no desire to have long conversations with them and neither did they.

aerion was the bridge between the gap, and because he was participating in the joust, there was no one to clue you in on family conversations that almost always referred to incidents that took place before your arrival in king's landing.

though you didn't mind it. besides, it gave you time to watch aerion. for the past month of your marriage, the two of you had slept with miles between you, and not for any particular reason—unless you count the words shared with your ladies-in-waiting.

he was polite to you—brought you meals when you didn't want to eat with the others, requested your baths be warm after the sun set, didn't order you or even touch you unless you asked, which you hadn't.

that was another source of stress for you: the lack of sex. you didn't think it'd be so hard to ask for sex, but you didn't know how to go about it, especially after the consummation. so you didn't say anything at all, though every morning that you saw aerion shirtless, with bed head, the desire grew larger and larger.

aerion was sitting atop his pitch-black horse, speaking to a kingsguard as he awaited the joust to start. you had your veil in your lap, meant to be given to aerion as your favor, to grant him luck within the joust.

it was wrapped around your arm, the main source of your anxiety, mainly because all eyes were on you. attention was something you were used to as a princess, but the smallfolk in king's landing were different. they spoke proudly and bravely, and because of the wedding, you were the source of gossip within the city.

"he will do something stupid." valarr said, leaning towards you. you gave him a nod, grinning, "i've only known him a month, and i'm sure of it." valarr ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "he is...complicated."

humming you turned to him entirely, eyes leaving aerion, "complicated how? i think our versions of complicated are vastly different." valarr shrugged honestly, "he's always been cruel."

"and he hasn't been cruel...to me." valarr watched you for a moment, "you just made my cousin much more complicated." you rolled your eyes politely and sighed, though as soon as you did, there was a man lingering in front of the pavilion.

you glanced down at him, wondering what his purpose was, but he bowed, ignoring the kingsguard as they kept him a safe distance away. "princess targaryen, is it fair if i ask for your favor?" your inlaws paused, and every seemed to take a deep breath.

"what a stupid man." maekar muttered, shaking his head.

you squeezed the armrests of your chair, mouth opening as you shook your head, "ser, that is improper—" aerion was approaching, eyebrows raised as he led his horse behind him.

your heart spiked as your body sagged, glancing away from the entire ordeal as you saw aerion grab the mans shoulder, "why are you speaking to my wife?" he said it oddly calm, face placid, though you could see his foot tapping against the ground anxiously.

the foolish knight turned to aerion and wiped his forehead free of sweat, "i only mean to—"

"ask for my wife's favor? what makes you think i'm not entitled to it?" aerion shoved his horse's lead into a guard's hands, then he placed his hands on his hips, head tilted curiously.

"aerion, the fool meant nothing by it." baelor spat out, annoyed, standing. maekar didn't bother, throwing hard candies into his mouth, eyebrows raised, though there was a sneer on his lips.

"no, no, uncle. how would you react if a fucking man asked for your wife's favor?" aerion glanced at baelor, turning his body towards the pavilion. the knight relaxed entirely and began stepping away, but suddenly, aerion spun around and clocked him directly in the jaw.

you could hear bone colliding with bone as the spectators gasped. baelor sat, hopeless, while maekar was yelling at the kingsguards to grab aerion before he beat the man to death.

blood sprouted from the knight's nose as aerion continued hitting him, and aerion jaw was clenched firmly as he shook off the guards, hands wrapping around the knight's throat.

"not so complicated during these moments." valarr mumbled, and you nodded your head in agreement, finally pushing to your feet and calling aerions name.

"aerion, you can't dirty my veil with blood, so you might as well stop now." the prince froze long enough for the guards to finally get a hold of him, and he glanced at you, palms raised, "too late."

the valyrian steel band around his finger shone in the sunlight and you called his name once more. aerion ordered the guards off of him, then he approached the pavilion, staring up at you, "you expect me to not be fucking pissed? who does that?" aerion ran a hand through his hair, and you nodded placantingly.

"yes, but—" aerion opened his mouth to interrupt you, but you gave him a look, and he sighed, allowing you to continue, "your violence will consume you one day, lest you stop now." aerion reached up and grabbed your hand, giving it a tiny squeeze, before he turned around and grabbed his horse.

you just hoped your words didn't go in one ear and out the other.

that night, you and aerion lied silently in bed. you'd been freshly bathed and oiled, your hair tied away, thumbs twiddling as you stared up at the bed's canopy.

"and what do the people say now? i hope there's no more talk of your breasts." aerion muttered suddenly, and you turned to him, "my ladies say the people think of you just the same as they usually do. enough to forget about my breasts at least."

aerion nodded, licking his lips and sighing, "that man will be fine." you scoffed, "no he won't. you broke his jaw." aerion's eyes squinted, "he will be fine."

you ignored his words and twisted onto your side, deciding you were ready to sleep, but the bed shifted, and aerion was hovering over you, elbow resting against the pillow.

"are you cross with me?"

"you have a ton of questions, and why do you suddenly care what i think?" you matched his gaze with a childish frown on your lips, and aerion chuckled, "i thought husbands cared for their wives thoughts."

you scoffed, "you've got it all wrong aerion. husbands beat their wives and tell them to never speak and use them as sex toys." aerion hummed, "is that what you want? for me to use you each night and bruise you so strategically that no one will know? because it is surely possible."

the thought made your skin buzz with subtle fear, and after a moment, you shook your head, "no."

you still had no clue why aerion had a sense of care over you, and why he wasn't the type to treat his wife like trash, but you were thoroughly grateful, but that wasn't the issue at hand.

"there's something else." he said matter-of-factly, collapsing back onto the bed, though his arm was brushing your spine. the cold sole of your feet pressed against his ankle, and you sighed, "there is something else."

when you didn't clue him in, aerion glared at you, "and what is it?"

you turned to your back, hands resting against your belly. your arm was over the top of aerion's, and each time he picked at his pants, the hair on his arm would rub against you, making you prickly with goosebumps.

"do you have a lover?" he was silent for a moment, then he glanced at you, sneering in confusion, "no i don't have a fucking lover. what are you on about?"

"you don't kiss me, you don't fuck me, you don't even spend time with me." aerion recoiled away from you and stood entirely, "don't tell me you're hurt."

you scoffed, tugging the covers above your head, "i'm not hurt, i'm confused."

"i can not read your mind, wife. if you want kisses and dates and sex, then you must tell me!" he was entirely irritated, and you could tell there was a sense of disappointment in himself because he didn't fulfill your needs to your liking.

you peeked at aerion, and found him leaning against the post of the bed, hand against his head. "do you even want those things?" the miniscule tone of your voice made aerion soften entirely, and he sighed, "yes."

there was a red blush covering his cheeks, and you refused a smile, peeling back the covers to welcome him. aerion took up your offer and stared at the canopy, pale lashes fluttering as he blinked.

"after the consummation, i thought this was just... an arrangement." he muttered, "and each time i tried to please you, you didn't say anything." timidity was never something you thought you'd see with aerion, but it warmed your heart.

"i didn't know how to react."

he shook his head, "that is a poor excuse." you rolled your eyes, twisting onto your side, back to him, "it is the truth, aerion." a few seconds passed, but then he curled around you, legs tangling with yours.

"do you want to have sex now?" he said, and you nodded, "a little, yes." aerion tugged your shift up slowly, then pressed his clothed dick against you, which was unsurprisingly already hard.

"i have thought about you, a lot." the rumble of his voice in your ear was enough to have you gushing, eyes closed as you relaxed.

"when?" aerion pushed through your folds, nails digging into the soft skin of your hip, "in the morning mostly. when you undress in the bathing room. i could see you—fuck—every inch of you." he began pushing into you, lips locked around the skin on your neck, leaving a purple bruise that multiplied as he focused on another inch of you.

you body was buzzing with pleasure, inhaling every scent of aerion—his hair, his sweat, his musk, everything. something about him made your body want to burst like a firework.

he knew exactly what to do too, fingers pinching at your nipples, tongue working at your skin, all the while he thrusted into you, slow at first until he was fully hilted.

the pressure built, but at his first thrust, the pleasure overtook your body entirely. you reached back and fisted aerion's hair, delighting in his rough moans. his front kissed your back each time he pushed into you, and when you grabbed his hand and placed it on your clit, aerion began to flick dutifully.

"your ladies won't know what happened to you." aerion muttered, forehead on the curve of your spine. you chuckled at his words, grabbing his arm and pulling it tighter around your body.

"i'll be pregnant in a fortnight if you continue on like this." you muttered when you felt him tighten and release inside of you, warm with his cum. your thighs were trembling as your orgasm grew, piquing each time he rutted into you.

"what if i want you pregnant?" aerion sucked on your earlobe, smirking when you came, every muscle in your body releasing with a spasm. you inhaled deeply and let out a moan, "you don't want me pregnant, aerion. you want to have fun as long as possible, without the children."

he hummed, nodding, "you know me better than expected." aerion suddenly flipped you onto your belly, hands pressing into your back as he slammed into you.

your ears were ringing, cheek pressed into the pillow, but all you could think to do was moan. "i'll need moon tea." you muttered, and aerion nodded, pushing into you one last time before he came.

his mouth was agape, eyelids squeezed tightly shut, and when he fell on top of you, neither of you bothered to move. "i'll make it myself, yes?"

Muttering prayers he only half-heartedly believed in, Maekar rested the flats of his palms against the wall opposite your chambers, hanging his head between his shoulders and attempting to ground himself, but it was in vain. “Fuck me,” he groaned, and as though the curse had summoned an answer, the door slammed open behind him.

“She’s asking for you, my prince,” a young midwife called, and he made his own head spin with how quickly he complied, shoving the veiled woman aside and rushing inside the room.

The smell hit him first, and it made him as nauseous as the sight of you in pain—the Maester was burning herbs he did not recognize, and the smoke was permeating the whole room. In a similar position he had been in a second ago, you were leaning against a wall, your fingers curled until your nails were digging into the stone. All in the room fell silent as a deep, broken groan came from you, pulled out of your chest and tearing past your lips, a sound he had never heard from you.

“The baby is in the right position but she is struggling,” the Maester said. “I have tried to persuade her to be calmer, as it would help the delivery, but she is not keen on listening.”

“Fuck off,” came the instant reply, and Maekar would have laughed if he had not be so sick with worry.

“This is most peculiar, as is your presence, my prince,” the Maester continued. “The husband should not see this part of the birthing process.”

“Yes, well, fuck off, as my wife so eloquently said,” Maekar admonished. 

Uncaring for the man’s opinion, he rushed to your side under the concerned gazes of the midwives, but daren’t touch you. His hands hovered over your quivering frame for a moment before he reached for your temple and pulled your hair aside, uncovering your face. Flushed and wet with exertion, you glanced up at him with a wild look that took his breath away.

“I need air,” you gasped, and he sprung into action. 

“The cold will not help—” the Maester called, to which Maekar replied by a dismissive wave of his hand.

Once the windows had been opened and the smoke dissipated, it seemed your labored breathing calmed somewhat, but only for an instant, and soon you were toppling over once more, your lovely face contorting in pain. Maekar did not hesitate this time and you fell into his arms gladly, your fingers digging into his shoulders. 

Another roar of agony was heard, slightly muffled as you pressed your face into his chest, and he said nothing, holding onto you with all his might, hoping his presence would be enough to sustain you.

“Gods be good, do something instead of standing there!” Maekar called over the top of your head.

“She will not let any of us touch her,” another of the midwives explained, rather pained. “She has been calling only for you.”

“Then tell me what the fuck to do,” he replied behind gritted teeth. “And tell him to get out!” he added with a sharp nod towards the Maester, who gave a small bow and left despite the visibly displeased look on his face.

Once the door had closed again and the wave of agony had seemingly passed, Maekar guided you to your knees when you felt heavier in his grip. Your hands unclenched from his arms and you reached for your shift, which was soaked with sweat and something thicker that smelled like copper, and reminded him of the aftermath of battle.

Without needing a word, Maekar reached for the soiled garment and helped you pull it over your head, baring your entire body to his gaze and that of the midwives. He supposed modesty did not matter when such a matter as the birth of a new life was concerned. He threw the linen aside, caught by one of the nurses and quickly whisked away.

“Do you wish to lay down?” he asked, pressing a hesitant kiss to your forehead. The glare you gave him told him his suggestion had been ludicrous, but he was relieved to know your wits and spirit had not abandoned you. 

Kneeling on the patterned rug you knew would likely be ruined, your husband’s hovering hands over your finally bare skin, you felt as though you could breathe for the first time in hours. “It hurts,” you moaned pitifully to your husband, who was looking down at you with worry. 

“I know, my love,” he answered, then turned to the older midwife. “Tell me, what the fuck do I do?”

The woman hesitated, then reached for a glass bottle sitting on a nearby table. “Your hands,” she ordered, and he did not mind her directness. He presented his palms for her to pour the liquid—some sort of strong brandy, clear and acidic—and after coating his skin in it, wiped the wetness with a clean cloth she handed him. “Feel, between her—” the woman started, then cut herself off, and Maekar rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“I am quite familiar,” he retorted, to which you laughed, a broken, nearly ugly sound. 

Worry tended to make your husband vulgar and you had often found it endearing. It was a breath of fresh air much as the one coming from the open windows, and to your surprise, it grounded you. In-between the waves that tore your whole abdomen apart, only an ache subsided, and an intense pressure where Maekar was now pressing. His fingers were rough and his touch less gentle than the midwife’s, but the bewildered expression on his face was enough to distract you.

His wrinkles smoothed over, his eyes growing wide and darker in shock. A stand of stark white hair fell into his face, his mouth dropping open. “Is that the head?” he stammered, and this time it was you who wanted to roll your eyes. “Is that hair?” he continued, looking almost disgusted and you would have pushed him away in frustration if another wave wasn’t suddenly mounting. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, stretching the vowel, your head dropping back, and this time you allowed the young midwife to support it with a firm hand. “You are never touching me again!” you threatened, and it was clear to all what you meant. Maekar, in other circumstances, would have laughed.

“Give in to it, my lady,” the older woman instructed. “You must push or the babe will remain stuck.”

“I can’t,” you cried out, your fingers digging into your husband’s shoulder. “I can’t, Maekar, I can’t—”

No words came from him and you were grateful that he did not try to contradict you or encourage you with mindless praises. Instead he remained on his knees in front of you, one of his hands at the apex of your thighs, the other holding your shoulder with enough pressure for you to push back against. His touch grounded you, and as the burning wave crashed into you again, taking your senses and your words with it, some of your mind remained tethered to him. 

Maekar swallowed the bile rising in his throat when the hot mass he was holding in his hand shifted, and soon it seemed to slip forward, his palm suddenly filled with the familiar weight of a babe’s head. You cursed again and he welcomed it, muttering his own curses and encouragements under his breath, unaware of what he was saying, mesmerized by the sight of you and the feel of his child being born from your body.

All of a sudden your jerked forward, your head colliding with his upper arm and he felt the pinch of your teeth through the fabric of his sleeve. A howl, much like he imagined that of the dragons must have been, erupted from your chest, and he reached with his second hand, catching the small body that came from yours. 

Sobs tore through you as you felt yourself tear open, and you were surprised, looking down, to see that you were indeed not split into two—instead, your husband’s large, strong hands were holding a babe, its face scrunched and its eyes shut.

Silence fell over the two of you and you held your breaths, only gasping together when finally, the babe’s mouth dropped open and a piercing wail erupted in the room. Tears still streaming down your face, you laughed, your chest feeling lighter than it had in hours, at the sight of your child and the amazed look on Maekar’s face. It was as though he was seeing the Gods themselves, his own eyes glazed over with tears.

You could feel hands on your shoulders, wrapping something around you, perhaps a sheet, and words were being said in your ear, but you did not hear them. Instead the babe’s cries and your husband’s quiet gasps of joy filled your head. With a gentleness you had never seen or felt from him he pressed your child into your chest, your four hands cradling it to your skin. 

“What a marvel you are,” Maekar laughed, pressing a kiss to your brow, his beard uncomfortable against your sensitive skin. 

One of the settees was pushed closed and with the help of your husband and a nurse, you were hoisted onto it, your babe resting between your breasts, the first cries of life soon quieting.

Maekar thought it was the most marvellous sight a man could get to see in his entire life—forgotten were the glories of battle or the deferent bows of the realm, instead the meaning of life itself rested, curled and flushed, against his wife’s chest. 

“Congratulations, my prince,” the midwife announced. “You have a son.”

More laughter erupted from you, and you felt utterly ridiculous for how far from your mind the thought had been, pushed to the side by the sight of your husband welcoming your babe to the world into his own hands, and the dazed look on his face was almost enough to make you recant your earlier threat.

Pressing a kiss to your son’s head, you closed your eyes, feeling as though for once all was right with the world and the answers to everything you had ever wondered was right there, contained into soft skin and lovely coos. The midwife wiped him clean, and he flushed an even brighter pink under the gentle press of the wet linen—then and only then did you notice the pure white of his brows and of his thin hair.

Your laughter turned to a sob again, one of utter joy.

“He looks like you,” you wept, and Maekar’s lips quivered at your temple. “I meant what I said, however, you shall never sleep in my bed again.”

Maekar’s laugh was quieted by the press of your lips, tilting your head to find his mouth. His large hand came to cover his son’s body, the small back fitting perfectly into the crook of his palm, and he thought that it would be fine, were this his last experience with fatherhood. Seven was an auspicious number indeed.

Dividers by @/saradika. Not beta read.

A/N: I wrote this entire oneshot in one go, in less than an hour and a half, and I honestly have no idea where it came from. The idea just took hold of me and did not let go until the words were all on the page.

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.

"Seven hells... you are perfect..." Baelor targaryen moans out as he buries his cock deep inside of you, willing your womb to stretch and accommodate his thick and long cock with each firm and powerful thrust. your legs are hoisted up by his shoulders and you are sure you will break in half if Baelor goes any faster.

Bringing up a hand, he grips the plush and soft skin of your hip to better drive into you and with his free hand, it slowly trails up your body and stops at your chest. not wanting any part of his wife's body to feel neglected, baelor starts by slowly pinching your nipple just to see how you would react, and as your back sharply arches off the bed, the prince struggles to hide his satisfied smirk and increase the pace on his ministrations until he can feel his own release approaching and you are left screaming out in pleasure.

His thrusts become borderline brutal as he chases his release but even in the most intimate of times, he is nothing if not chivalrous and what kind of husband is he if his wife doesn't come first?

"Baelor! Baelor! I am close!" you moan out loudly, followed by a string of pleasepleasepleaseplease as your own release rapidly approaches and suddenly you find your thoughts invaded by your husband and nothing else. You instinctively bury your face into the crook of baelor's neck and wrap your arms around him, letting out one final "I love you!" as your release hits you hard. Your walls spasm and contract against baelor whilst you ride your high.

"Such a good girl for me.." baelor praises lowly as he watches you come apart and unravel on his cock, your walls becoming tighter around his cock, seemingly milking him for all he has. His thrusts lose rhythm and stability as his balls draw up tight, the tell tale sign that his release is not that far.

"Fuck...! S-So good... so tight!! Nnghh- I love you, Jena!" Baelor roars out as he spills inside of you, pure ecstasy coursing through his blood and body but it isn't until he opens his eyes and looks down at you with your tear-filled eyes and a horrified expression that he realizes what he had just done and the realization leaves him equally horrified.

baelor's mouth opens to speak but the sounds of your sob stops him before any sound can come out. You quickly pull your legs away and almost trip over your own feet trying to get off the bed, unable to contain or stop your tears from falling and for the first time, the diplomatic prince finds himself as a lost for words and unsure of what to say.

"..Y/N please, I only mean to explain myself," Baelor pleads as he follows you off the bed, and stands behind you, silently begging you to turn around and speak to him but you do not even spare him a glance once you find your linen shift on the ground, beginning to feel more like a paid whore and less like the wife of the crown prince.

in truth, you feared this might have happened. you vividly remember your aunt and you always loved her, but the guilt of somehow replacing her has clung to you ever since the betrothal was announced and suddenly ever memory of you pretending not to hear the rumors flashes before your eyes. perhaps the gossiping lords and ladies were right, perhaps you will never be as loved as Jena was by Baelor.

"My sweet girl.. please, I beseech you." the dark-haired targaryen pleads once more, desperate to explain himself and to mend the rift he had just created but mindful to not let his emotions get in the way. An uncomfortable silence invades your chambers as you search for your robe to cover yourself, your husband's seed still slightly running down your inner thigh but the irony is not lost on you.

"You still think of her." you whisper the obvious, amethyst eyes coming up to meet baelor's mismatched ones. you don't know how you expect him to answer and you can tell the statement takes him aback by the way his eyes widen slightly, but somehow you cannot find it within yourself to truly be mad at him or blame him, you never wanted to replace the Lady Dondarrion but knowing that you will always be second to memories is a difficult truth to live with. Baelor sighs as he stands in front of you, eyes darting across your face and the wall behind you, mind running every possible situation as to not hurt you but he cannot find the words that would appease you.

"...Everyday." Baelor confesses. deciding that you deserve to hear the truth even if it is not what you wish.

and with just a singular word, your place in baelor's world is cemented and the truth is finally revealed.

you do not yell

you do not burst out into tears again

you do not throw anything

not even a slap across the face

you only let out a sigh.

in what? you do not know. Disappointment? Anger? Frustration? What you do know is there is a heavy pit now formed in your chest, these walls begin to feel too small, and this man standing in front of you feels too much like a stranger and your father always cautioned you to be weary.

You can only weakly nod your head as you tie your robe tight around your body, swallowing every tear and curse word you know before losing your composure and showing Baelor what it means to be married to The Anvil's daughter. Without another word you walk past baelor and out of the chambers, you feel nothing like the anvil's daughter, let alone like a ferocious dragon from a powerful family. Baelor instinctively reaches a hand out but he stops himself midway, feeling undeserving to comfort you when he was stupid enough to ruin such an intimate moment with you and to so crudely confess to thinking of another woman, so, he regrettably watches your fleeting figure while only hoping that come the rise of the sun, he might yet be able to win you back.

Your eyes once again become blurred as tears threaten to spill but your stubbornness does not allow you to cry until you are away from anyone who might find joy in your sorrow. you let your legs carry you to wherever your subconscious deems safe enough and that just so happens to be your father's private chambers.

"Princess," a knight standing in front of maekar's chambers nods his head in acknowledgement and without another word, opens the large wooden doors and steps aside for you to enter. You murmur a quick thank you as you enter the threshold of your father's rooms, the nostalgic smell of it all doing little to calm you.

Maekar, sitting at his desk with a few ledgers sprawled out, turns his head towards the sound of his doors being open but his face imperceptibly softens and he rises to properly greet you. "My daughter," he greets, walking towards you but his small smile just as quickly drops as you burst into tears a few feet away from him (you were always a daddy's girl and could never hide your emotions from him)

"Gods be fucking good.." Maekar whispers more so to himself as he stops walking, having never been good with emotions or comforting people with emotions, especially when his daughter out of nowhere breaks out into a sob the second she is inside. "What has gotten into you?" Maekar voice is gruff, but it’s his way of asking if you are alright. You struggle to catch your breath and can only cling onto your father, tears staining his doublet but that's the least of his worries. "Is it Baelor? Did he raise a fucking hand to you? I swear to the seve-"

"He did not strike me, father." you quickly clarify, maekar's face already becoming red as he immediately begins to assume and prepare for the worst, his shoulders drop slightly but his body is still a tad rigid as he awkwardly brings a hand to gently caress the top of your head, not entirely fond of the sounds of his daughter sobbing... when you're practically wailing in his ear.

"Whilst we were.... coupling-" you begin to explain,

"For fuck's sake girl!" Maekar groans out in protest as he takes a small step away from you but still keeping a "comforting" hand, not wanting to hear even the littlest bit of what his daughter and brother do.

"Father please! Just listen!" You try again, understanding that no father wants to hear about his daughter's sex life. "Whilst we were in our chambers, preforming our.. martial duties.... h-he called me by the wrong name.."

Now it is Maekar's turn to be speechless at the reason for his daughter's tears and sudden appearance. he blinks once.. then twice.. then once again because surely, his hearing no longer works and he grossly misheard what you just said.

"I'm sorry?" Maekar's already permanently furrowed brows furrow more, looking down at his daughter, waiting for you to say something completely different but the tears do all the talking for you and it is then that maekar realizes he heard you just fine.

"I'll fucking kill him." Maekar promises lowly after a moment of silence, already planning how to kill baelor and storming towards the door but you are the only thing standing between life and death for Baelor. You run up to your father and wrap your arms around his broad chest. "No father!" you cry out in panic, which even confuses you, any other lady would have carried out the grim deed herself but here you are pleading for his mercy. because for now, you don't know what you want to happen to baelor but you know that unfortunately you still love him but you cannot stay in those chambers when the memory of that woman haunts each brick stone. "Might I be able to sleep here tonight? I will sleep on the floor if I must but I do not want to go back." you plead and your throat constricts towards the end and it breaks maekar's heart, seeing his confident and outspoken daughter reduced to an insecure and trembling girl and he would rather face a thousand rebellions alone than to ever see his daughter so heartbroken and scared.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl. You needn't plead like some starving dog. You take the bed." He pats your head one final time and presses a quick yet tender kiss to your temple as he gestures to his awaiting bed before returning to his own desk, still seething with anger but the sight of you asleep so peacefully does tug at the strings of his heart.