#valarr x reader

The sun had no right to be shining.

Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.

It had been four days.

Four days since his wife—his sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breath—had climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.

He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.

His heart, however—his poor, neglected, Y/N-less heart—understood nothing except that she was gone.

Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.

It still smelled like her.

He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against it—

A knock at the door.

"Go away," he said into the pillow.

"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.

"I'm ill."

"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."

"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."

A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"

Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.

"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."

"Grief, Your Grace?"

"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.

"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"

"Four days, seventeen hours, and—" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don't—because she took my purpose in life with her when she left."

Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.

"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"

"No."

"Lunch?"

"I said no."

"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"

Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"

The boy wisely retreated.

Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.

---

An hour later—or perhaps three; time had lost all meaning—he found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.

He opened the locket.

It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.

Her face.

The painter had captured her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.

He kissed it.

Then he kissed it again.

Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.

He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.

The door opened.

"I told you I don't want—"

"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."

"Get out."

"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."

"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."

"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."

Ten more days.

Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, without—

"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."

Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."

"I'm devoted. There's a difference."

"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in days—"

"I left yesterday."

"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."

"It counted to me."

Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."

"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."

Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.

"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathing—" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"

"Yes."

"They smell like her."

"I know. That's why it would be strange."

Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.

"She's so beautiful," he murmured.

"We know. You tell us constantly."

"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"

Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."

The door closed behind him.

Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locket—because of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face too—rested against her heart.

He hoped she was looking at it.

He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.

Another knock.

"What?"

A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.

"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."

Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.

"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."

"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."

Another few days.

He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, and—

The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.

"Leave the bread," he said weakly.

She left.

Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.

He reached for the locket again.

Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.

He could do this.

He could survive.

He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

---

He was not fine.

Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her things—her books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.

"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."

It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.

"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote me—twice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."

The shawl offered no response.

"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."

He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.

"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was just—you were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."

He paused, considering.

"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired of—"

A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.

"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."

Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:

My love,

My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them to—

He stopped reading.

They had named the baby after him.

A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.

He read the sentence again.

They have named her Valerya, after you.

"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"

Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.

"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."

The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"

"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."

---

That night, he wrote her a letter.

It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.

He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.

At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:

I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintings—one of you, one of me—side by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.

Come home soon.

Your devoted husband,

Valarr

P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.

He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bed—her side, always her side now—and fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.

Five more days.

He could survive five more days.

Probably.

---

Author's Note:

Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.

And yet, seated beside you at supper in the smaller hall reserved for the royal household, Valarr discovered that his attention had wandered once again.

The table glowed with the warm reflection of candlelight. Servants moved quietly between courses, setting down platters of roasted quail and bowls of stewed apples. Conversation flowed easily along the length of the table—his father discussing the day’s petitions, a cousin recounting some minor absurdity from the city below.

Valarr heard none of it.

He was thinking about the way your hand felt inside his.

Your fingers rested in his grasp beneath the tablecloth, warm and soft against his palm. He had taken your hand absentmindedly at the beginning of the meal, intending nothing more than idle affection, yet some quiet instinct had tightened his hold and refused to release it.

You shifted slightly beside him.

“Husband,” you murmured pleasantly, “as much as I enjoy the touch of your hand, I should also like to enjoy my dinner.”

Your fingers wiggled in a patient attempt to loosen his grip.

Valarr blinked, drawn abruptly back to the present.

“Ah—sorry,” he said at once.

The apology was sincere.

His hand did not move.

You glanced sideways at him, brows lifting in amused disbelief. “Your words and your actions appear to disagree.”

He cleared his throat, finally loosening his hold by perhaps half an inch. “I did not realize I was holding so tightly.”

“You have imprisoned my hand for the better part of a course.”

“I was distracted.”

“So I have gathered.” The corner of your mouth curved as you reached for your spoon with your free hand, attempting to resume your meal. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before Valarr, still watching you with quiet concentration, lifted his own spoon instead.

“Allow me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You said you wished to eat,” he replied, as though the matter were self-evident. “If your hand is otherwise occupied, it seems proper that I assist.”

His logic was delivered in perfect seriousness.

You looked from the spoon to Valarr’s utterly composed expression, clearly attempting to determine whether he was teasing.

He was not.

“Valarr,” you said carefully, “I am quite capable of feeding myself.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Valarr agreed.

“And also presently.”

“You are presently missing one hand,” he tuts.

“Because you refuse to release it!”

“Oh, but that does not negate the inconvenience.”

You stared at him for another moment before a soft laugh escaped you despite your efforts.

“You cannot be serious.”

He raised the spoon slightly closer to your mouth.

“You will grow hungry otherwise.”

A faint murmur of poorly concealed amusement rippled along the table. Valarr ignored it with princely indifference, his attention fixed entirely upon you as though this exchange were the most reasonable arrangement in the world.

Your eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.

“I do not like how much you are enjoying this.”

Your husband looks at you innocently, “I am merely solving a problem.”

“You created the problem.”

“And so I am addressing it efficiently.”

The spoon remained suspended patiently between you. 

For a moment you seemed inclined to refuse on principle. Then your gaze flicked toward the observing relatives who had suddenly developed a deep interest in their goblets.

Your shoulders lifted in a small, conceding sigh.

“Very well,” you said.

Valarr’s expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes as you leaned forward and accepted the offered bite.

“There,” he said calmly. “Problem solved.”

You chewed thoughtfully.

“Have you considered,” you said after swallowing, “that you might simply release my hand?”

He looked down at your fingers still resting securely within his.

“The thought has yet to cross my mind.”

The answer arrived without hesitation.

“And why not?”

Valarr regarded you with mild surprise, as though the reason were obvious.

“Because I prefer it where it is.”

The simplicity of the admission caught you off guard. A faint warmth crept into your expression, though you quickly disguised it by reaching for your goblet.

Across the table, Baelor finally gave up any pretense of ignoring the exchange.

“Valarr,” his father said dryly, “your wife does possess two perfectly functional hands.”

“Yes,” Valarr agreed.

He offered you another spoonful.

“She is choosing not to use one of them.”

You covered your face briefly with your free hand, laughter escaping despite your best efforts.

“Your Highness,” you said between breaths, “I fear I may have married a madman.”

Valarr tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If that were true,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that the others could not easily hear, “you would not look quite so pleased about it.”

You turned toward him again then, meeting his gaze directly, and for a brief moment the playful noise of the hall faded around you.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours beneath the table. Nothing else explained why something as simple as holding your hand across a supper table felt more satisfying than any victory he had ever claimed in the yard.

Valarr lifted the spoon once more.

“Another bite,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, amusement lingering in your eyes.

Then you leaned forward obediently.

The court that morning had assembled in the long audience chamber where tall windows admitted pale light, spreading across the polished stone floor in long bands of gold. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred faintly in the draft from the galleries above, and the chamber hummed with the low murmur of noble voices.

The formal petitions had concluded not long before, leaving the court in that softer hour where conversation replaced ceremony and the true work of politics continued.

Valarr stood among them with the patience expected of a prince who had been raised within such rooms all his life. His posture remained relaxed, his expression attentive, though he had long ago learned to hear the direction of a conversation before it first began.

The lord presently speaking to him possessed the unfortunate confidence of a man who believed himself very clever.

Lord Harwyn was not an important man, though he behaved as though he might become one if he spoke often enough in the right company. His beard had gone mostly silver, and he held his wine cup with the thoughtful air of someone preparing to deliver an observation of significance.

“Your Grace,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “It seems scarcely a moment since the realm celebrated your wedding. Time passes more quickly every year, does it not?”

Valarr acknowledged the remark with a polite inclination of his own.

“So I am told.”

“Two moons already, I believe?” the lord continued. “Perhaps three?”

“Two,” Valarr said.

“Ah.” Lord Harwyn nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A young marriage still, then. The realm, of course, watches such unions with great hope.”

Several courtiers within earshot grew subtly attentive.

Valarr recognized the turn of the conversation at once. It was not an unfamiliar path.

“Hope,” the lord repeated thoughtfully, “for the continuation of so distinguished a line. Naturally one understands these things take time. Still, one cannot help but wonder when the gods might see fit to bless the union with… news.”

The remark hovered politely in the air.

It was delivered as sympathy.

It carried the unmistakable shape of a provocation.

Valarr regarded Lord Harwyn for a moment with mild consideration, as though the man had asked an unexpectedly practical question about taxation.

“You are quite right,” he said calmly. “The realm is very interested in such matters.”

The lord smiled, satisfied that his point had landed.

Valarr lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of wine before continuing.

“I can assure you, however,” he said, “that there is no lack of enthusiasm in the royal apartments.”

The silence that followed arrived with impressive speed.

Lord Harwyn blinked.

“I—Your Grace?”

Valarr seemed faintly surprised by the confusion.

“You appeared concerned that the marriage lacked… progress,” he explained with perfect courtesy. “I wished to reassure you that my wife and I are very diligent.”

Several listeners abruptly found the far wall fascinating.

The lord attempted a laugh that emerged somewhat thinner than intended. “Oh, I would never presume—”

“Quite right,” Valarr agreed pleasantly.

He tilted his head slightly, as though recalling something important.

“Although,” he added, with the faintest suggestion of amusement touching the corner of his mouth, “I should mention that two moons is hardly an extended campaign. Even the most determined efforts require a reasonable span of time.”

Lord Harwyn’s goblet hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely.

“I see,” he said weakly.

Valarr regarded him with polite interest.

“Do you require further clarification, my lord?”

“No!” the man said quickly. “None whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Valarr inclined his head once more, entirely satisfied that the matter had been addressed.

Across the chamber, several courtiers exchanged looks that balanced precariously between admiration and disbelief.

Because the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, ordinarily the most composed man in any room, had just spoken of his marriage with scandalous candor.

The murmurs began almost immediately after he excused himself and crossed the chamber.

A lady from the Stormlands leaned toward her companion with quiet amusement.

“Well,” she whispered, “one cannot accuse the prince of neglecting his duties.”

Her companion’s smile was thoughtful.

“Indeed not.”

She glanced toward the far side of the hall, where you stood speaking with one of the ladies of the court, sunlight catching the pale silk at your shoulders.

“It seems,” she added softly, “that the princess has discovered how to coax a very disciplined man into honesty.”

Across the chamber, Valarr approached you with his usual composed stride.

You glanced up at him as he reached your side, your expression brightening immediately.

“My husband,” you said lightly, “why does Lord Harwyn looking at us as though he has swallowed a lemon?”

Valarr followed your gaze briefly before returning his attention to you.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that he asked a question and received a thorough answer.”

You studied him for a moment.

The faint, suspicious curve of your smile suggested you did not entirely believe that explanation.

Nevertheless, your hand slipped easily through his arm, and as you leaned closer to murmur something that drew a rare, quiet laugh from him, several observers arrived at the same conclusion at once.

Whatever enchantment lay upon the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdom was not subtle.

And he did not appear to mind it in the least.

The chamber reserved for your afternoon preparations overlooked one of the inner gardens of the Red Keep, where roses climbed the stone walls and the early light filtered softly through tall lattice windows. Within the room, however, the atmosphere remained pleasantly unhurried.

Your handmaiden stood behind you, drawing a brush through your hair while you examined your reflection in the tall mirror set beside the dressing table. A tray of pins and ribbons lay neatly arranged nearby, and the gown selected for the evening. It is something dark and elegant, appropriate for court—waiting across the room where it had been carefully laid out.

For the moment, however, you remained comfortably seated in a simple shift of soft linen, your hair half-brushed and loose about your shoulders.

“Your Grace,” your handmaiden said after a moment, her tone careful.

The brush slowed slightly as though she were debating whether to continue.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, watching your reflection through the mirror as though deciding whether the question might cost her position.

“I do not mean to overstep my post,” she said finally, “but I have wondered something for some time.”

You lifted one brow with polite curiosity, tilting your head just enough that a loose strand of hair slid across your shoulder.

“Oh?”

“I was wondering,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what charms you used on Prince Valarr.”

You blinked, the surprise entirely genuine.

“What?”

“He is just so…” She searched for a word. “…enamored.”

Your smile appeared almost immediately, slow and amused.

“Is he?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with the earnest of someone who had spent weeks observing the evidence. “Everyone sees it.”

You leaned back slightly in the chair, the linen of your shift rustling softly as you shifted.

“Everyone?”

The brush paused briefly in your hair.

“You always know how to parry with him,” she continued. “In words, I mean. And he looks at you as though he has just remembered something important.”

You laughed softly, the sound light in the quiet room.

“That sounds awfully dramatic.”

“It is true,” the girl insisted. “You could wear a sack and he would still want to jump your—”

The door opened.

Your handmaiden stopped speaking so abruptly the brush nearly slipped from her hand.

Valarr entered mid-stride, clearly intending to finish whatever thought had occupied him before crossing the threshold.

“I wanted to speak with you about the arrangements for the evening audience because I believe the steward has misunderstood my—”

He stopped.

Entirely.

The remainder of the sentence dissolved somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

You turned slightly in your chair, the movement causing the loose fabric of your shift to shift along your shoulder.

“Good afternoon, husband.”

Valarr did not answer at once.

His gaze had fixed upon you with the kind of stunned look that suggested whatever he had come to say had completely abandoned him the moment he saw you.

Your shift, light and unadorned, slipped loosely over your shoulders, the linen catching the afternoon sun where it gathered at your collarbone. Your hair, only half-brushed, fell freely down your back in waves that had not yet been arranged into the composed elegance usually seen at court.

It was, by all reasonable standards, a perfectly innocent sight. However, your husband looked as though he had been struck by something invisible.

Your handmaiden, sensing with sudden clarity that she had wandered into dangerous territory, lowered her eyes and very quietly pretended to rearrange the ribbons on the dressing table.

Valarr cleared his throat.

“You cannot wear that.”

You stared at him through the mirror.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely in your direction as though the concept required no further elaboration.

You looked down at the shift, pinching the linen lightly between your fingers.

Then back at him.

“It is a linen shift,” you said patiently.

“Yes.”

“You are aware that it is worn beneath clothing.”

“I am very aware,” Valarr said stiffly.

“And I am presently getting dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” you asked sweetly, “is my undergarment suddenly a matter of royal concern?”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it, gaze flickering briefly toward your handmaiden before returning to you with visible restraint.

“Because,” he said carefully, “the door was open.”

“And?”

“And anyone could walk in.”

Your handmaiden coughed softly, still facing the table, her shoulders rising slightly as she tried to remain invisible.

You tilted your head, studying him with growing amusement.

“Anyone did walk in.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly.

“That is precisely the issue.”

You studied him for a moment before your smile widened with unmistakable mischief.

“Husband,” you said, “are you jealous of my shift?”

“I am not jealous of a piece of garment.”

“Then what has got you so worked up?”

Valarr did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door, the latch settling firmly into place.

Your handmaiden froze where she stood.

Valarr returned his attention to you.

“I am objecting,” he said calmly, “to the possibility that anyone else might see what I am presently seeing.”

Your brows lifted.

“Which is?”

He gestured again.

“You!”

You spread your hands lightly, the gesture causing the loose sleeves of the shift to fall farther along your arms.

“I should hope so.”

“In that,” he continued dryly, “there lies the problem.”

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room.

“Valarr, if you wish me to remain unseen by the world, you will find court life very inconvenient.”

“Believe me, I am already finding it inconvenient,” he mutters angrily.

Your handmaiden’s shoulders trembled slightly as she attempted to remain silent.

You caught the movement in the mirror and raised one brow.

“Am I amusing you?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said quickly.

Valarr folded his arms.

“You encourage this.”

“Encourage what?”

“The habit of speaking freely in your presence.”

“Would you prefer I frighten the servants?”

“That might simplify matters.”

You turned in your chair to face him fully now, your eyes bright with teasing.

“My prince,” you said, “I am really having a hard time imagining how you survived before marrying me.”

“I was calmer,” he said at once. “And lonelier.” He paused.

Your handmaiden watched the exchange with growing fascination.

Because what she had said earlier was true: you did parry with him, effortlessly, and the Crown Prince—who intimidated half the court into respectful silence—appeared strangely content to be challenged.

Valarr exhaled quietly.

“You should at least have closed the door.”

“Might I remind you that you were the one who opened it.”

“Well, you should have anticipated that.”

“You are suggesting I should predict your movements now?”

“Precisely.”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, one finger absently tracing the edge of the mirror frame.

“That seems like a great deal of responsibility.”

“It would spare me unnecessary distress.”

“Distress?” you echoed, delighted. “Over a shift?”

“Yes,” your husband affirms, exasperated.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Husband,” you said softly, “if this distresses you, I dread to think what will happen when I put the gown on.”

Valarr looked genuinely uncertain.

Your handmaiden’s eyes widened slightly at the exact moment the formidable Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms realized he had walked into a battle he might not win.

“You do this deliberately,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Your smile softened just a fraction.

“Because you look very handsome when you lose your composure.”

He stared at you.

Your handmaiden stared at both of you.

And slowly Valarr’s expression shifted. “Well,” he said quietly, “that is an unfortunate habit.”

Valarr stopped beside your chair, looking down at you with an intensity that made your handmaiden suddenly very interested in the arrangement of hairpins again.

“Then,” he said softly, “you should take care.”

“Why?”

His mouth curved very slightly.

“Because I will return the favor.”

You studied him for a moment. Then your smile returned, brighter than before.

“I look forward to the attempt.”

Behind you, your handmaiden finally understood. It was not charms that bewitched the prince. It was the simple  truth that you spoke to the Crown Prince as though he were merely a man. And Valarr  seemed to adore you for it.

That midnight, the heavy curtains around the bed stirred faintly with the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the cool salt smell of Blackwater Bay.

You had been asleep. Very soundly, in fact.

Until you woke with the distinct and increasingly urgent realization that you were terribly thirsty.

For a moment, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking into the dimness as you gathered your senses, your mind slow with sleep. Your throat felt dry, and somewhere on the small table across the chamber sat the pitcher of water that suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

You sighed softly.

It would only take a moment.

Carefully you attempted to sit up.

You did not get far.

An arm tightened around your waist with immediate precision, dragging you firmly back against the warm solid weight behind you before you had even lifted your head from the pillow.

Valarr.

His bare chest was pressed along your back beneath the blankets, warm and solid, his skin still heated from sleep, and his face was buried somewhere near the curve of your neck, his breath slow and warm against your skin. One arm was wrapped so securely around your middle that it felt less like an embrace and more like a restraint devised by a particularly affectionate gaoler, his hand splayed across the soft fabric of your shift as though even in sleep he required the reassurance that you were still there.

You attempted again, gently shifting your weight.

The arm tightened further, his body instinctively following yours so that your back pressed even more firmly into him.

You sighed again, though this time it came out quieter, more resigned.

“Valarr,” you murmured softly.

No response.

You nudged his forearm where it lay across your stomach.

“Valarr.”

Still nothing.

He made a vague sound that might have been a hum or a protest and pulled you a fraction closer, if such a thing were even possible, his face pressing more firmly against the warm hollow beneath your ear.

You stared at the canopy above the bed.

This was going to be difficult.

You reached back, patting lightly at his arm.

“My prince,” you tried again, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

A long moment passed.

Then, at last, he stirred—only enough that his brow shifted against your shoulder and his grip tightened once more, subconsciously ensuring that something precious had not wandered off in the night. His fingers flexed faintly against your waist, brushing the fabric of your shift as though seeking skin beneath it.

“Mm.”

You waited for his reply, but nothing else followed.

“Valarr,” you said again, a little more insistently now, though still quiet enough not to shatter the fragile peace of the room.

He inhaled slowly, the breath warm against the back of your neck, and muttered something into your skin that was decidedly not a word.

“I need to get up.”

Another pause.

His hand slid lazily over your waist as though attempting to soothe you back into stillness, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded line along your side.

“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You blinked.

“Stay.”

You turned your head slightly, peering back at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, his hair a dark and thoroughly disordered halo against the pillow. For a prince who spent his waking hours composed and precise to the point of severity, he looked thoroughly rumpled now—bare-chested beneath the blankets, hair mussed, his arm stubbornly locked around you like a man who had no intention of surrendering his hold.

And entirely unmovable.

“Valarr,” you said patiently, “I cannot stay.”

A faint frown appeared between his brows, though his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

“Why.”

“I am thirsty.”

Another long pause followed as your husband processed this grievous piece of information.

Then his arm tightened again, pulling you back against the steady heat of him.

“There is water,” he said vaguely.

“Yes,” you replied, glancing toward the table across the room. “Over there.”

Silence.

Then, very slowly, his eyes opened.

He stared at the dark canopy above the bed for several seconds as if deeply reconsidering the existence of thirst itself, before his gaze drifted downward toward you, lingering with slow reluctance.

You waited.

He blinked once, heavily.

“Drink it in the morning.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I would if I could survive that long.”

Valarr made a soft, dissatisfied sound and buried his face back into the hollow of your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin there as though the argument might simply end if he held you closer.

“No.”

“Valarr.”

“No.”

“Valarr,” you repeated, this time gently prying at his arm. “I truly must go.”

He groaned softly, the sound low and entirely put-upon, but after a moment his hold loosened just enough for you to slip free, though his hand lingered stubbornly at your waist as though reluctant to let you escape entirely.

You barely managed to sit up before a hand closed lazily around your wrist.

You turned.

Valarr was watching you now, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused with sleep, his expression the particular kind of weary irritation reserved for inconveniences occurring in the middle of the night.

“Where,” he asked slowly, “do you think you are going.”

You gestured toward the table.

“Water.”

His gaze followed your hand.

He squinted at the distant pitcher as though it had personally offended him.

Then he sighed—long and dramatic—and pushed himself up onto one elbow, the blankets sliding slightly down his torso.

“Wait.”

“I am already halfway there.”

“Wait.”

Before you could argue further, he dragged a hand through his already unruly hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still blinking like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep.

You blinked.

“Valarr, you do not need to—”

“I am coming with you.”

You stared at him.

“To fetch water?”

He gave you a look that suggested this was an extraordinarily foolish question.

“You are wandering across the chamber in the middle of the night,” he said hoarsely. “I am not letting you do it alone.”

You could not help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“It is merely three steps.”

“It is still across the room.”

“Goodness, you are being absurd.”

“And you are terribly demanding for someone who woke me,” he muttered, pushing himself fully to his feet and immediately reaching for you again.

You laughed quietly as he guided you toward the table with a hand resting at the small of your back, his palm warm even through the thin fabric of your shift, his movements slow with lingering sleep.

The floor was cool beneath your feet, the chamber peaceful in the dim glow of the dying fire.

He poured the water himself, blinking down into the cup like a man performing a complex diplomatic task.

Then he handed it to you.

You drank gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat.

Valarr watched you the entire time, his expression softening slightly as the last of your sleepiness faded, his gaze lingering with quiet attentiveness as though ensuring the crisis had truly passed.

When you finished, he took the cup from your hand and set it back beside the pitcher.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Well what?”

“Better?”

You nodded.

“Much.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer.

Without another word, he took your hand again and guided you back to the bed, pulling the blankets aside with sleepy determination.

The moment you settled beneath them, Valarr followed immediately, drawing you back against him with quiet urgency as though reclaiming something temporarily misplaced.

This time he pulled you closer still, one arm sliding firmly around your waist while the other slipped beneath the blanket to rest against the bare skin of your side, clearly dissatisfied with the barrier of fabric. His palm settled there, warm and possessive, his chest pressed along your back once more as he tucked you securely against him.

You smiled faintly into the pillow.

“You realize,” you murmured, “I could have fetched the water myself.”

Valarr’s voice came low and drowsy beside your ear.

“I am aware.” His grip tightened slightly, his fingers brushing slowly along your skin now that they had found it, the touch absentminded and deeply content.

“But,” he said after a moment, his voice softening with that rare warmth he saved only for you, “if you are awake, I would rather be awake with you.”

You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple before his face settled once more into the curve of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing again as sleep reclaimed him.

And though the pitcher now sat only a few steps away, you found that you no longer minded being held quite so tightly by the same man who, in the daylight, unhorsed knights before roaring crowds yet seemed entirely incapable of sleeping without his wife firmly within reach.

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Brat Taming, Dom Character, Manhandling, Public Sex, Exhibitionist Kink

Lyonel is... well, a lot. Not in a bad way, of course, he is a man that likes what he likes and also a big, tall man who loooooooves fighting. So he does love when you put a bit of a fight with him, act bratty and even a little mean to him, it only makes his blood go south and needs to put you into your place.

He loves manhandling you and has no shame, most of the time people will know that you guys have sex or going to. Lyonel also will make you scream his name more than once or he will not stop, as if people needed a reminder to who you are married to/being fucked. He has something of an exhibitionist kink? Kind of. It's not like Lyonel cares if someone watches or tries to interrupt the two of you, so you two will have sex outside with little care from him. What are they gonna do if they found you? Complain? And Lyonel loves hearing you moan, scream, whimper, plead, whatever sound comes from your pretty mouth so he won't keep his thrust slow, but faster and deeper every time. It's not like it's hard for him, considering the beast he has between his legs...

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Rough & Soft Sex, Spanking, Dacryphilia?, Mention of Oral sex

Prince Valarr is just... Perfect! At first. Having the pressure of being the heir, the prince of the realm, his father would also mean having a lot of stuff pent-up, but also the impossibility to try whatever it might be improper for someone of his status.

That is not to say he won't make love to you. Cause he will! He is a very soft and caring boy, but Valarr is also curious and needy. There is a lot of stuff to find out about him and you, in how your bodies react to each other and what you don't or do like. So while there is a time when he will thrust in you deep but slow, making you feel every inch of his cock, and kissing you so softly, so gently while his hand goes to your clit to make you cum faster... He will also fuck you rough and mean; spanking your butt until a pretty red mark of his hand appears, hair completely messy, clothes discarded somewhere else in the room, eyes full of lust and tears... It's a beautiful sight that makes Valarr salivate. I personally see Valarr and Daeron having a little club about eating/blowing you like it's hobby or passion.

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Soft Sex, Teasing, Overstimulation, Not really dirty talk but he's talking...

Dear sweet Baelor... It's a man who I'm not sure of. He's perfect, too perfect... But I can't see him being like his son, he's a older man with two sons after all- so he knows what he likes and has no problem with teaching you or gently showing it to you. I feel like he is a major teaser and talker, mostly about complementing you.

Baelor is a traditional man: he likes being in a bed, maybe while having a bath, a bit of wine, and he lets the situation go along with little touches, small kisses, compliments, all stuff that makes you whimper and shiver. It's like he is courting you all over again and tempting you with sex, like he wants you to jump on him and not the other way around. And oh when you do Baelor is ready to give you anything: he's so sweet with his words, his touches, his thrusts... He also loves to overstimulate you until you are basically sobbing, but oh you can give him more right? One more orgasm, it's all he asks "my sweet" he would call you, and how can you say no when Baelor asks with his sweet, elegant voice? Ignore the fact that he said so for the last 5 orgasms...

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Needy Maekar (im NOT sorry), Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Bruises

My living stress Maekar. Single dad who cannot catch a break Maekar, please be his stress relief sometimes. Help him, please. It's not like he's needy, unlike his eldest son, but he does seek your affection, your body, more than he wants. It's kind of like an addiction, but the way your body reacts to his, the way your body looks... Maekar shivers at the mere thought, feeling himself hardened. What did you do to him?

Maekar really tries to be a gentleman to you, and he is!, it's just that he slips sometimes. He grabs you rougher than intended, pushes his cock inside of you deeper than he wanted, takes you in his office and not his bedroom... Part of him feels bad, but hearing you moan his name like that, it only makes him rougher. Meaner even. Not by calling you names (he can't bring himself to), but telling you how dirty you are being now, taking his cock so well it makes his head spin, that he will make you need him like you do for him, touching all over your body with his calloused hands and firm grip that for sure it's going to leave a mark tomorrow. That would make him feel bad and try to lavish you with so much love and softness, although you can tell that he's a bit proud...

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Aerion, Rough Sex, His whole dragon obsession (he calls you mate), Bruises&Hickeys, Public Sex, Creampie

Sigh... So, Aerion... Aerion aerion aerion... Out of everyone he's probably the roughest and meanest. Like by a lot, it's not even a competition. Kind of like his father he is obsessed with your body, more so with the way you make him feel so he won't care where you two are, if he wants to have sex he will. Even during dinner you will feel his fingers between your inner thighs...

He's so rough. You will be left not only sore but with bruises, hickeys, all over your body, either made by his hands or mouth. Aerion loves marking you in any possible way, no matter how you remind him that his cum is leaking out of you into your thighs. A dragon should make sure everyone knows who is their mate, always. And no matter how his father and uncle look at him, Aerion will only make it worse, more obvious. He will also make you scream louder that day, maybe even fuck you in the garden or in his father office, his thrusts are so fast and will force you into different position. Aerion will always finish inside, maybe sometimes on your face if you blow him, but he much prefers to finish inside of you again and again. What? You thought one time would be enough? Think again.

Valarr was sitting by the heart tree, watching the other children play come-into-my-castle from afar. The little prince, at the green age of five, was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak with his little fingers, wishing but not daring to join the game. In the middle of the makeshift castle's borders made out of tree branches, Aelor, his cousin, only one year his elder, was holding his court with a young courtier's son. Around them were at least five to six other children of the Keep, shouting out their suggestions for the identity of the lord of the keep. 

"By your weirwood tree you can only be the bannerman of Lord Tully, Lord Bracken, and so I name you" the courtier's little son declared at the entrance of the tree branch castle, his chest puffed out in certainty. 

"Wrong! You're all wrong! I'm Lord Blackwood, you've got my sigil all wrong!" Aelor shouted out in joy, pumping his small fist in the air. "Nobody made it into my castle, so I win!"

Valarr got up from his observation post, and timidly made his way to the group of boys. "Aelor, I want to play too! Maester Archibald said that I am good at learning the sigils of the houses! I could.." 

"No! we don't have any more space for you, cousin. We're already too many, and we have to wait so long for our turns", Aelor cut him off. The older princeling had never liked his cousin very much, his mismatched blue and brown eyes and dark brown hair with only a thin streak of white drawing a stark contrast to the rest of his family. Everybody else had beautiful, pure Valyrian features, even Daeron, with his dirty blond hair, had lilac eyes to show for it. But Valarr looked half Dornish in coloring, just like his father Baelor.

Rejection stung Valarr's eyes, especially after he had been so brave to get up and ask the boys to play. As he nodded and made his way back to the heart tree, a small hand reached out and tapped on his shoulder. 

When he turned around, he came face to face with you, a child of five as well. You had a big grin on your face, eyes twinkling and hair done up in a braided bun. He knew you from sight; your mother had come to court recently with her household to be a companion to his own mother. 

"Our mothers are friends, so we should be friends too!" You exclaimed, "we're going to play monsters and maidens, you should come play with us!" You waved at the little group of boys and girls a few yards away. 

Valarr blushed at the invitation. Though children were careless beings, they weren't careless enough to disregard the obvious hierarchy between their parents. Other children were taught to be weary of accidentally injuring him; leading to most other children's hesitation to let him into their games. He felt addressed to as an ordinary child for the first time in his short life, and grasped his first chance at a friendship with his small hands. 

When he nodded, you took his hand in yours, shouted out to your little group of friends that he "absolutely had to join" your game of chase, and hurriedly dragged him to them. 

That was the first time he felt the warm, fluttering happiness of making a new, genuine friend. 

-

The two of you were fast friends, soon inseparable apart from the hours spent at your lessons. When Valarr would curl up with a fairytale book under a tree, his little head already adept with his letters, — maesters called him a prodigy, already reading deftly and starting to write at only five years of age —  you'd sprawl out next to him and listen to him read aloud stories of knights, dragons, and princesses, begging him to read you another story before supper time. 

"If we were the princess and the knight from the story, we could befriend the dragon instead of killing it", you mumbled, staring into the leaves rustling in the wind and the bright blue sky. "We could fly away on the dragon, and build a castle on a beautiful unknown island. Then we'd only eat cake, and go on adventures all the time, just the three of us. We'd declare the island ours, and nobody else would be allowed in!"

Valarr's cheeks flushed pink. You liked it when he blushed, you liked pink and you liked Valarr's squishy cheeks. It was a great combination. 

"But what about our families?" He lightly furrowed his brows. Valarr, the little prince, so dutiful even at his age. 

"They could still visit us whenever they want, they're family!" You exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing.

"That'd be nice", he smiled lightly, already envisioning your castle on an island far away, living with you, the dragon, and flying into the sunset for adventures. He'd be your knight, and you'd be his princess. He'd protect you from any harm and get you all the lemon cakes you wanted. 

-

198AC

When Valarr's sixth nameday came, you'd already been six for three whole moon cycles. By then, you'd been inseparable for almost a year, and your families were completely endeared by your friendship.

You woke up on the morrow buzzing from excitement for your closest companion's nameday, almost vibrating in your chair while breaking your fast with your parents. They suggested visiting prince Baelor's family in his solar to bring his son's nameday present, a richly ornamented saddle for his pony.

"Val's six too now, Papa!" you cried out, elated by the thought of being allowed to visit your friend so early in the morning. 

"That he is, my darling." His eyes crinkled in amusement. 

You were practically bouncing at the door when your household set out from your quarters, running laps around your parents and the servants holding the big boxes meant for Valarr. 

When your little procession arrived at the door to Baelor's solar, you sprinted off and nimbly sidestepped the poor startled guards at the door, slamming the doors open and running into the room to see your dearest friend. 

"Happy nameday Val!" You shouted, running straight at him and hugging him tightly. The impact of the hug was great enough that he let out a huff of breath, and only croaked out a quiet "thank you". 

Behind you, your parents were apologizing to the guards, but entered nevertheless, and greeted the heir's household. The servants placed the present boxes on the floor next to the gift pile, then bowed before they took their leave.

"My prince, dear Jena, we wish you the jolliest and the most blessed nameday for Prince Valarr. Apologies for our daughter's.. overflowing enthusiasm to congratulate his little grace." 

Your mother dipped into a curtsy, your father bowing his head next to her. 

Lady Jena was having none of the formalities, and crossed the room in quick steps to greet your mother in a hug, followed by two quick kisses on the cheeks. "Thank you dearly to you both for the lovely wishes, that is most kind. And Baelor and I are simply delighted that our children are so close. It endears me greatly that their friendship blooms so wonderfully just as ours did."

As the adults sat on the high-backed lounge chairs while discussing their mysterious adult topics, Valarr and you padded to his little brother's crib, Valarr wishing to introduce you to his mere 3-weeks old baby brother. 

"He's so little", you wondered at his impossibly tiny hands and feet. 

"His name is Matarys", Valarr introduced him. "Matarys, this here is my closest friend", he then solemnly introduced you to the little newborn, stating your given and family name to the babe as if the little one was to remember it. You giggled at that, and played with his tiny hands. 

"Do you want to open the gifts with me?" Valarr suggested, pointing at the high-piled boxes of gifts from the entire realm. 

You nodded, excited at unboxing the undoubtedly beautiful gifts sent to the crown prince. You both sat at the foot of the pile cross-legged, delightedly tearing through the delicate packaging and revealing the gifts one by one. There was a bejeweled dagger, the pommel a golden dragon's head with a ruby in its open maw. The next was a beautifully stitched doublet, made of shining black and red velvet. Your parents had gifted him a gilded saddle and bridle for his pony, with jeweled ornaments running through the straps. As you looked through the gifts, your face suddenly saddened. 

"What's the matter?" Valarr asked, his brows scrunching up in concern. 

"I have nothing to gift you", you murmured, fidgeting with your necklace. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, commissioned by Baelor at Valarr's insistent demand for your last nameday. The fine golden chain held a delicate pendant, a huge blue topaz placed between winding golden vines. Baelor and Jena had gifted you a matching diadem, a masterpiece done by the castle's goldsmith with blue topaz ornaments and swirling ivy vines. 

You regretted not insisting on getting Valarr a present of your own, especially as he had asked his father to commission something so beautiful just for you three moons ago. 

Valarr's eyebrows furrowed further in confusion. "Your parents have already gifted me the saddle and bridle. You have no need to get me anything else."

You shook your head, and looked down to the floor in consideration. Then, you took your ring off your pointer finger, a small signet ring with your family's sigil on it. 

"I can't take that, that's yours." Valarr shook his head.

"Yes you can, I have many other rings just like this", you insisted as you took his left hand and slid it onto his index finger. "Also, now you have a gift from just me, which is good because best friends should always gift each other things for their namedays."

Valarr flushed while looking down at the signet ring on his finger. He didn't protest any longer, and smiled shyly at you. "Thank you. I'll always cherish it." He nodded solemnly with his promise. 

-

The idea came to you on a sunny day, when you were both lying in the grass, out of breath from the last game of monster and maiden. The two of you hadn't found any other children to join you, already tied up in other games or off to lessons. But playing only with Valarr was just as fun as with the whole group, his company always beat everybody else's. You were looking up at the clouds, thinking that they looked like a herd of sheep traversing a light blue lake.

Suddenly, the idea struck you. 

“Val,” you called, and he hummed in response. “We should get married when we’re older.”

Valarr craned his neck around to look at you, confusion evident in his eyes.

“If we get married, we could be best friends like this forever. Just the two of us. Septa Marya says that one day, my parents will choose a Lord for me to marry, but I don’t want to do that. We could get married like the princess and the knight, and go on adventures and see all the wonders of the world, just like in the books.” You continued, still gazing up at the clouds, imagining the scenes from the fairytales.

He smiled at that. “Yes, we should get married when we’re grownups. I’d like that. Maybe we could go sailing across the Jade Sea, I read that dragons still live there.”

You sat up, looking at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Do you promise?"

"I promise. On my honor." He sat up to face you, and nodded with all the solemness a six-year-old could muster. 

"We need a more serious promise, though. In case we grow up and forget", you added. 

Valarr hummed in agreement. "We could make a vow on the parchment. My father says that a promise made with words on a parchment and then sealed with the houses' sigils are binding." 

"If you want to promise to marry me", he quickly added, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You don't have to if you don't want to." But your excitement took momentum, and now you were consumed by the idea of being being friends with Valarr forever, without having to marry someone you did not know yet like Septa Marya said. 

"I want to! We have to get married Val, it would be the best thing! But," you hesitated. "How would we make the vow? I don't know how that works."

"I saw a parchment at my father's desk once, I can do it. We just need the big signet rings from our fathers so we can stamp the seals." Val's so smart, you marveled. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent with barely muffled giggles and whispers, as Valarr fleshed out the plan for you. Your little conspiracy meeting only ended when your mothers each sent their maidservants to collect you for supper; even then, you parted ways reluctantly.

-

The two of you chose to execute your plan while the royal party was on a hunting trip. Your parents would be absent from the Keep, with only the servants and the maester or septa to keep watch over you. It would almost be too easy to sneak off to the Hand's Tower and draft an unofficial official document. 

After your parents left the Keep, you sneaked to the solar, where your father's velvet doublet hung over the backrest of a chaise longue. When you patted the breast pocket, where you had observed your father tucking his ring into before riding off to the kingswood, you felt the distinct shape of a ring under your fingers. You pocketed it, evading the eyes of the maidservants. Your heart was beating wildly, and your hands were visibly shaking, never having taken something without leave before like this. But as you left the quarters and headed to the Hand's Tower, the anxiety soon turned into giddiness, with your giggles barely contained as you skipped the rest of the way. 

This felt like an adventure, a mischief, something that the characters from your fairytale did. Like a princess outwitting a cruel witch to reverse her spells, or a young knight valiantly stealing the keys to the cage of his one true love from the pockets of the sleeping giant. If you did this, you and Valarr could live out your dreams, never separated from each other's closest friend. 

Valarr was waiting at the door to his father's office, grinning widely from excitement. The door was not locked by some wonder, and the two of you padded in to the chamber, giggling and whispering from the excitement. 

Valarr sat himself in his father's chair, sitting at the edge of the seat so he'd be able to reach over the desk, while you sprawled across the armchair, facing him. "So what now?" You asked. Valarr was the mastermind of this plan, after all. 

"Now, we write our promises", Valarr stated, pulling out a blank parchment from a drawer after searching for a moment. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and his hand hovered over the empty page. "Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows, seeking your confirmation with a hint of insecurity in his expression. 

"Yes! It's going to be amazing when we're married, Val. We're going to go see the God's Eye, the Free Cities, and have a baker make us treats for all meals!" You giggled. Your priorities clearly stood with confectioneries tied to the royal sugar bakers.

"I am going to need to see how to write just like father does", Valarr mumbled as he pulled a parchment with a filled out contract — something about orchards and taxes — and a seal stamped upon it, "it needs to look official."

Valarr was now leaning over the parchment, occasionally looking over to his reference material, brows furrowed in concentration so the letters would be as orderly as possible. While he painstakingly wrote down the short terms of your contract, you were busy lying across the armchair and listing off all the things you wanted to do once you were grown up. Valarr, ever the polite, dutiful child, made sure to answer with "yes, sure" or a hum every once in a while. 

Once done, he pushed the parchment filled with his over to you, his eyes shining with pride. On top of the parchment, both of your names were listed with the proper titles. 

This contract made on the fifth day of the seventh moon of year 198 AC between the two persons parties above binds them in a pact of marriage. When Prince Valarr Targaryen comes of age, the two parties will be joined in marriage in a sacred ceremony. 

This agreement is valid in every corcom circumstance without conditions.

Signed,

Valarr Targaryen 

Your lips moved quietly as you sounded the words out, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Next to his signature at the bottom of the page, the three-headed dragon of his house was drawn clumsily. 

"What is a pact?" You lifted your eyes, curious over the new word.

"I think it means an agreement or promise in official words, I found it on this sheet." Valarr waved the other parchment in his hand. 

You nodded, quietly marveling at Valarr's adeptness with his letters. The words sounded so grown-up; and the penmanship was slightly wonky, but to you, it looked as perfect as any. 

"Now what?" You asked again. 

"Now you sign your name, and we stamp it. Then, it's official." Valarr said solemnly. 

You took the quill from his hand, and dipped it into the ink. Septa Marya had shown you how to write your name, stating that it was the foremost essential thing a lady should be able to spell. You pressed the tip of the quill into the page, your effort evident in your furrowed brows and tongue sticking out of the side of your mouth. The signature was a little shaky, but it was written in your best cursive, and you reckoned Septa Marya would be proud. Then, you scribbled the sigil of your house next to it, just as Valarr had. 

"Now, we stamp", Valarr put the stick of black wax on the desk, a slight look of hesitation on his face. He was afraid of burning his fingers on it, but he tried his best not to show it as he heated it against the candlelight and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He then rummaged through the drawers and produced a big signet ring, which he then pressed into the wax. You watched, fascinated by the process. Elated, you took the wax from his hand and copied his actions, stamping your father's signet ring into the little pool of wax. 

"Is it done? Is it official now?" You bounced in your seat, clapping your hands from excitement while Valarr blew on the seals to dry them. 

"It is", he confirmed once he was done, a big grin splitting his face. You squealed, then pulled him down from his father's chair to hug him tightly. You were going to marry Valarr, and now you were going to be best friends with him until the end of days. 

-

The news of your departure from King's Landing came abruptly on a cloudy afternoon. Your parents had summoned you to the solar after your lessons, and sat you down on the armchair across from them with a serious look on their face. 

Your initial confusion faded and a feeling of despair and sadness descended upon you as they explained that you'd all have to return home. As they went on about the inheritance conflicts between the minor houses of your region and how they, as their liege, would have to be present to manage the quarrels, your mind wandered to everything you’d be leaving behind. What of your friends here? What of the delicious cakes and beautiful gardens? And most importantly, what of Valarr, your best friend? 

Their faces blurred as your eyes welled up with tears. Although you pressed your lips together to appear brave, a helpless sob wrenched itself from your mouth. 

Your mother noticed your distressed state, leaving her seat to kneel before your armchair and hug you tightly until you'd calmed. Your mother's hand drew slow circles on your back, whispering words of consolation. 

"When do we leave?" You asked as your mother loosed her hug, teardrops clinging to your lashes. 

"In four days, at daybreak." Your father had a look of sadness as well, knowing that his daughter had found true, close friends at court. His guilt at having to tear you away from them due to his and your mother's duties as lord and lady paramount apparent in his expression. He’d always been exceptionally lenient to his only daughter’s wishes, but now he was faced with a wish he could not possibly fulfill.

But the promise. What of the promise with Valarr? You were going to get married. Panic washed over you. 

"But what about Valarr? We were going to get married. I promised him," the truth spilled out of you with a new wave of tears. You let out a poorly contained sob, and your mother held you again in her arms as you buried your face in her shoulders. 

"I'm sorry, sweetling. We both are. But sadly, it cannot be helped." She patted your back, assuming the talk of marriage was simply a talk of a child's whimsy, a play-pretend between two children. Children could be quite imaginative when playing, after all. 

You sniffled, but nodded. No more fairytale readings with Valarr, no more playing lord of the crossing or monsters and maidens with the children of the court — and Valarr, of course —, and no more pony rides with your parents and Prince Baelor's household. Your little heart ached from the farewell, but you knew you could not stay when your parents were returning to your ancestral home.

When you took your leave to go to the godswood, your eyes were still red and swollen from the tears. Valarr spotted you from afar, and got up from his seat under the heart tree — our seat, you thought — to greet you, but his face fell when he saw your expression. He placed the fairytale tome on the ground, and walked up to you to meet you halfway. 

"What's the matter?" His eyes searched your face, seemingly trying to guess the source of your distress from your look alone. 

"We're leaving, Val. Mama and Papa just told me", you choked out, the lump in your throat from suppressing another sob growing almost painful. 

His eyes widened at first, then fell into a sad frown. "But you're coming back, right?" he asked hopefully. 

"I don't know", the corners of your mouth tilted down even further, "could be months, years 'till  we get back.”

His gaze fell to the ground, his lips pulled into a taught, downward frown mirroring yours. He started fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, your signet ring on his index finger. 

"It's going to be okay", he tried to be reassuring, though his voice shook slightly. "We took a vow, remember? When we're grown up, we'll get married, and we'll see each other again then. I will make sure of it."

"Promise?" Your voice trembled. 

"Promise." Valarr nodded. Your Valarr. Your dearest, closest friend in the world. You nodded back, and you walked together to the heart tree, settling into your usual seats, and Valarr opened the book to read out your favorite story anew for the umpteenth time, the one about the princess, the knight, and the fearsome dragon. 

-

208 AC

You sat on the terrace of your ancestral home, overlooking the gardens. The warm, early spring breeze threaded through your hair, the sun shining gently over your skin. The gardeners were working tirelessly, planting saplings and flower seeds for them to bloom once summer came. The watered wine on the side table had grown lukewarm under the sun’s rays, the open book in your lap laid forgotten as you watched the gardeners work their magic.

“My lady,” your maidservant called gently from behind you. “Your lord father wishes for you to join for afternoon tea in his solar now.”

You simply nodded, closing the book shut and placing it on the side table to stand up from your comfortable seat. Your mind was still firmly with the gardens, and what it would look like once the fruit tree saplings and the flowers bloomed. You hoped that there were peach trees among those planted today, peach tarts were truly one of the most delicious creations in the whole realm.

When you reached the double doors to your father’s solar, you waved off the guard’s question to whether he should announce your arrival, and swung the doors open yourself. Your parents were already seated at the tea table, lounging comfortably while leading a hushed discussion with smiles on their faces. You chose a chaise longue to sprawl on, and picked up a lime biscuit to nibble on.

“Father, mother, what might be the joyous matter you are discussing?” You raised an eyebrow, ignoring all the crumbs that were spilling all over your gown.

“We have royal invitations to the Red Keep, we leave in a sennight’s time,” your mother turned to you, a smile spreading on her face at the thought of visiting her dear friend, Lady Jena. “It will be marvelous to return there, do you remember when we spent a year at the Keep? You used to have quite a few friends there as a girl.”

You vaguely recalled the hazy memories, already a decade past now. Running through the godswood, learning to ride a pony, the games played with the other children, and the stories read under the heart tree.

“I remember,” you smiled, “I was devastated when we left. I think I had quite a nice time there.”

“You did,” your father smiled fondly. “And we think it would be nice for us to visit again. Your mother has missed Lady Jena’s company dearly, and you could reunite with your childhood companions. We would like for you to accompany us to the Red Keep.”

Your mind then jogged a deep-seated memory, Valarr. Your Valarr, who had been one of your dearest childhood companions. You remembered his plump cheeks, the curious white streak through his hair, and his mismatched eyes. For a few months after your departure, you had exchanged ravens - you had help from Septa Marya to write your letters - but, as children go, the contact had dwindled slowly. But he had always held a fond, nostalgic space in your heart. 

The idea of seeing your childhood friend was not entirely unpleasant, you decided. You pouted in consideration, then asked: “What is the occasion, anyway?”

“The King has declared a royal tournament in honor of Prince Valarr’s sixteenth nameday. There will be plenty of our bannermen participating, and some of your cousins. You will not lack in company whilst we reside there.” Your father explained.

“And it would be a marvelous opportunity to find you a match! You’re a woman grown, love, and perhaps a handsome Lord or knight would catch your fancy,” your mother added joyfully.

You weighed the pros and cons on your mental scale, your pout persisting as you looked down at your tea cup. The long carriage ride to the Red Keep sounded dreadfull, but the occasion did seem quite merry. Plus, if you were lucky enough, you could secure a match of your preference as to avoid marrying an old, wrinkly Lord as some of your lady acquaintances had. Finally, you gave a nod in agreement.

“Wonderful! Remember darling, we leave in a sennight. Make sure to instruct your maids to pack your prettiest gowns! Oh, what a beautiful feast it will be,” your mother clapped her hands in elation, then sighed with a dreamy look. Your mother did always regard these occasions with her typical sense of whimsy, and her excitement to revisit her old friend, Lady Jena, only fanned her joy.

You nodded and smiled, perhaps it would indeed be nice to visit the place from your childhood again.

-

As the guests to his nameday tournament continued to stream in through the Red Keep’s gate, his eyes searched through the processions, his ears perking up at every announcement of the stewards. Most guests were arriving many days in advance to the festivities, but the presence he was most looking forward to was nowhere to be seen yet, despite the letter of acceptance sent by a raven days ago. He fidgeted nervously with the little signet ring on his right little finger, the child's ring now being too small for any other digit. 

As he mechanically greeted the arriving Lords and Ladies, his mind kept wandering off to the neatly folded piece of parchment in his desk drawer. Only three more days, he reminded himself. Only three more days before his nameday, and there would be no more proposals of marriage pacts from houses he cared little for, no more dutifully reviewing the portraits sent from every corner of the realm, and he could finally declare his intentions before his family and the council.

As the sun started hanging low, his hopes for the day were starting to dwindle as well, before he spotted a procession in the distance, the unmistakable flag whipping in the wind with your sigil proudly stitched upon it. His heart leapt up in anticipation, but he commanded himself to remain steady at his father’s side.

It seemed to take an eternity for the carriage to finally pass through the gates and spill out its inhabitants. As he duly noted your father and your mother stepping out of the carriage, his eyes were tirelessly searching for your familiar face. When he finally spotted you, it felt as if the gods had slowed time before his eyes. 

It had been almost a decade since you last saw each other. He had been besotted with you then, a simple playground child’s fancy, but now, the woman grown walking towards him, carelessly exchanging jests with your parents, snatched his breath away from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Time had changed you, but at the same time, it hadn’t changed you at all. The childish features had left your face, leaving behind a delicate, lovely visage, seemingly carved by the Maiden herself. The curvature of your nose, dropping into a philtrum and smoothing into the arch of your lips had stayed exactly the same as he remembered, as had the playful glint in your eyes. 

As the rounds of greeting went by and you came to stand in front of him, he felt as if the gods had grasped him from the present and placed him back in time, standing dejected by Aelor in the godswood, as you tapped on his shoulder for the first time and invited him to join your group to play. He had fallen back then — as hard as a six-year-old with no real understanding of love could fall — but now he was helplessly spiraling again as you dipped into a curtsy before him. 

"Prince Valarr," you greeted, his name falling from your lips sounded like the sermon bells of the Great Sept themselves to his ears. 

"My lady," he collected himself and steadied his voice, "it is good to see you again after all this time." With all the grace himself, he carefully took your hand — a beautiful hand, he remarked — and kissed the back of it lightly. He could only hope that the slight nervous tremor would go unnoticed by you. When his gaze lifted to your face again, his eyes trailed down to your neck, where the blue topaz was glinting in the notch between your collarbones. The embers in his heart were fanned into a full-blown flame as he recognized the pendant, his pendant, a sign of his childish affection for you from a decade ago. You had kept it. What's more, you were wearing it even after all this time. 

"As it is to see you," you smiled at his recognition, "I still hold our memories of childhood quite dearly." To anyone else, it might have come across as simple courtesy, but to Valarr, the fact that you held fond memories of him felt like salvation granted by the Seven themselves. 

Valarr would have been content to stand there for the rest of eternity, holding your hand loosely in his grasp, looking at your face as the setting sun graced your skin with a golden glow. But as the round of greeting went by, he was forced to let you go, and greet the rest of your household in tow. 

Then, he heard his mother speak words to your mother that sounded as though angels were descending from the heavens and blowing horns: "Dearest, it has been way too long! Oh, how I have missed you so. We must meet for a family afternoon tea, just our two households." She held your mother's hands in her own two hands, both giddy at the long-awaited reunion. 

"Of course, Jena. Whenever you'd like. I'm sure my husband and my daughter would greatly enjoy it as well." Your mother beamed, and it was decided. Your two households would take afternoon tea in two days' time, in the privacy of the royal gardens. Valarr stole a glance at you, and his heart stuttered at your soft smile. 

-

On the day after your arrival, you sat in the gardens under the white marble pergola with the other young ladies of court, as would be expected of you. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming tourney, which was no grand wonder as the castle seemed to be buzzing in preparations for it. The first day was set to be on the prince's nameday, with all the champions' jousts taking place on that day. The next few days would consist of melées and lower ranked jousts. You sat next to an old acquaintance of yours, a daughter of a bannerman of your father, only a year your senior, making her seventeen years of age. 

"Oh, I hope Ser Devin will ask for my favor! How dreamy that would be," she looked into the distance with her eyes glazed over. Currently, she was swooning over your eldest cousin, who was part of a junior branch of your house and stood first in line to inherit his father's lands and castles. Personally, you did not understand the appeal, but politely smiled and nodded as to not spoil her fun.

"And are you looking forward to seeing any specific knights in the tilts, my lady?" A girl your age sitting on your other side inquired. If your memory serves you right, she was the daughter of a Stormlord. 

"Oh, well I suppose I will cheer for my cousins, of course," you said, as it was common courtesy, "but otherwise, I must say that I am not quite sure yet. Perhaps the knights of the Kingsguard, they are famed to be the most magnificent knights of the realm, after all."

Some ladies sitting in your vicinity nodded at that. A girl you did not recognize started with a faint flush on her cheeks: "I most certainly am excited to see Prince Valarr in the lists, he is the very picture of chivalry, not to mention how handsome he is!" Murmurs rose in agreement. 

Well, you could not deny her on that front. Valarr had definitely grown into his features; soft, pudgy cheeks had long been replaced by sharp, carved lines. His mismatched eyes he used to be insecure about only added to his handsome face. But frankly, you had a hard time imagining the sweet, timid boy from your childhood being so gallant in the lists. 

"The Prince comes of age upon the first day of the tourney, I wonder what sorts of arrangements will be made in regards to choosing a match for him. How dreamy it would be to marry such a handsome prince! He is even the heir's heir, as if his gallantry and handsome face were not enough." Another lady spoke out wistfully. 

"Well, if it is his affection you are seeking, I am afraid we'd all be out of luck on that front," lamented a slim, brunette girl, surely a few years your senior. "He's already been presented with hundreds of potential matches and it's said that he turned down every single one of them, one of them from my own family."

"So do you suppose he simply has no intention to marry?" Your lady acquaintance's eyes widened. 

"Aye, or I reckon he has a paramour, every man has desires, after all," snickered the brunette girl. 

You frowned, as that sounded highly unlikely for Valarr, but held your tongue. As if the sweet, gentlest boy you used to know would ever dishonor himself and a woman that way. 

"Whoever that woman is, I do greatly envy her," another girl you did not recognize sighed deeply, "What wouldn't I give to be in her place."

-

The afternoon tea on the day before the beginning of the tourney took place in the more private areas of the godswood, the little clearing in the woods had been transformed into a small gathering space, with chaise longues and cushions placed on the grounds beneath ornamented parasols. The only other presences aside from your two families were the servants, and the occasional small children running by, playing their games in the godswood just as you and Valarr had as children. 

Lady Jena chatted happily away with your mother, lounging comfortably on the cushions. Prince Baelor sat on a chaise longue, facing your father, discussing lordly matters with him. You were sprawled out across the feather cushions and half-heartedly following the conversations when you heard someone clear their throat from behind you. 

When you tilted your head back to face the person, the upside-down face of Prince Valarr greeted you. He was holding a hand out and lightly smiling, as far as you could tell from your position. 

"Would you take a walk with me?" He asked, an almost unnoticeable hint of pink gracing the tip of his ears. 

You have an affirmative hum, then got up to your feet to turn and face him. He was offering you his left arm to hold, which you gingerly accepted. 

"Are you looking forward to the tourney, my prince?" you asked as to make polite small talk. He had grown into a quite tall young man, and you had to crane your neck to see his face at a close distance. As you did, you admired the beautifully carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, he really had turned into an exceptionally handsome prince.

Valarr frowned slightly at that. "There is no need to be so formal, we did use to be quite close, after all." 

"Well then Valarr," you corrected yourself, "are you excited for the tourney?"

Valarr's pink flush extended to his cheeks at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Yes, among other things, I suppose."

"One's sixteenth nameday is always an occasion to look forward to," You agreed casually. "I am sure it will be a day to remember."

Valarr's steps slowed, which meant that you came to a halt with him in tow. "Speaking of sixteenth namedays," his cheeks were really quite pink now. You wondered if he was feeling warm under the sun's rays. "I believe yours has to come to pass three moons ago, if my memory serves me right." He smiled shyly. 

You were slightly taken by surprise. Had he really remembered that detail? 

"Yes, it has. Although, I denied my parents the pleasure of throwing a tourney or any form of extravagant celebration for the occasion." You mused. 

"I had something commissioned for you," he reached into the pocket of his doublet with his free hand, and produced a small, square box. "You did tell me back then that best friends should always gift things to each other for their namedays."

You pulled your hand away from Valarr's arm to examine the box. When you opened it, small, ornate earrings made of twisting golden vines holding a blue topaz in the middle came to sight. Your breath caught at the goldsmith's intricate handiwork. 

"Valarr, this is.." You searched for words. "Beautiful, thank you. It is really most thoughtful of you." It indeed was, as you noticed that it matched your necklace gifted from him all these years ago perfectly. 

"You must forgive me," you scrunched your eyebrows, a slight pang of guilt going over you, "I did not bring any personal gift for your nameday. My parent have brought a-“

Valarr's smile did not falter as he interrupted your panicked words. "No matter, I had something in mind as to what you could gift me for my nameday, anyways."

You looked at him in confusion. 

"I would like to ask for your favor to wear at the tilt tomorrow," his mismatched eyes searched your face. For what, though, you could not tell. "For old times' sake," he added hastily. 

It made sense, you supposed. It was not unusual for knights to wear their sister’s, cousin’s, or a close companion’s favor, so Valarr simply must have continued to value your childhood friendship more than you expected. Still, it confused you as to why he would not wear the favor of a lady he wished to court.

“Of course,” you agreed, to his relief. “It would be an honor to have you wear my favor.”

He offered you his arm again to keep on walking, which you gladly accepted. As you walked further around the godswood, the sounds of children playing grew closer.

“Hai-yah!” a boyish voice cried out. When you turned your head in the direction of its source, you spotted two young boys, one with a shock of silver hair, another one with a tuft of auburn hair. They were wielding tree branches as if they were swords, clashing them against another and running wildly through the woods.

As you watched them, a strange sense of nostalgia bloomed in your chest. You distinctly remembered these woods, the familiarity growing stronger with every step. The two of you used to run through these very woods a long time ago, laughing wildly and jumping over the twisting roots.

“Little brother! Cousin! I must ask you to compose yourselves before our distinguished guest,” Valarr called out to the two boys. They slowly halted their wild chase, and padded over to you.

“My lady, may I introduce you to my brother, this is -“ 

“Matarys,” you interrupted Valarr’s introduction when you recognized the soft, auburn curls. He had been only a newborn when you last saw him, but Lady Jena’s auburn locks and Prince Baelor’s stern jaw was evident in the young princeling. “My Prince, it is an honor to meet you. Last I had seen you, you were still only a babe.” You dipped in a shallow curtsy and introduced yourself.

Valarr smiled fondly at you recalling the short meeting. 

“The honor is all mine, my lady,” Matarys bowed, albeit a little clumsily. “Are you the lady friend my brother has been talking about?” He studied your face.

“Matarys,” Valarr hissed, the tips of his ears burning. Matarys let out a giggle, but held his tongue.

“And I’m Egg, my lady!” The silver-haired boy cried out, bouncing in excitement. “My name is actually Aegon, but everybody calls me Egg for short.” He grinned.

“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Prince Egg.” You dipped into a curtsy, your use of his nickname earning a giggle out of him. 

“One day, I will be Ser Aegon of the Kingsguard! You see, I’m already training hard to be a strong knight.” He puffed his chest out, which reminded you a little bit of a small bird puffing its feathers to make itself seem bigger. You smiled fondly at his antics.

“Speaking of,” Egg turned to Valarr. “In case your squire cannot come, could I squire for you, cousin? Daeron does not wish to participate, but I would like to be a squire. Ser Donnel has already said I would make a good one! I-“

“Sure, cousin,” Valarr mirrored your fond smile at the little boy. “Gareth is quite healthy as of now, but at the event that he may not be able to partake, I will send for you.”

Egg whooped in joy, thanked Valarr, and took his leave by making an exaggerated bow. He dragged Matarys with him, who politely bid his farewells to you while Egg pulled at his arms. 

“He has grown so fast,” you murmured as you resumed your walk, “sometimes, I cannot believe how time has passed by so quickly.”

Valarr hummed in agreement, and the two of you started back to the clearing.

-

On the bright and early morrow of his nameday, Valarr Targaryen used his privilege as a crown prince of the realm, and ordered his page to summon the Small Council for the first time in his short life. After he dressed himself in a formal doublet and trousers, he opened the small drawer of his writing table, and took the small, folded parchment out. He held it in his hands, feeling the weight of the hide and the wax seal. The passing of time and his frequent touches had frayed the edges, the surface smooth from the oils of his fingers. The creases and wrinkles showed that it had been folded and unfolded many times over the past decade, but the content etched in ink was still very much legible, clear as day. He tucked the parchment safely in his breast pocket before leaving his quarters.

He willed his drumming heart to calm on his walk over to the council chamber. The nervosity made him restless, his hands lightly shaking upon close inspection. As he waited for the council members to arrive, he mindlessly turned the signet ring with your house’s sigil on his right little finger, willing it to give him courage for what was to come. 

The members of the council arrived one by one, some with still bed-tussled hair. His father, Baelor, was perfectly composed as ever, and raised his eyebrows at him in curiosity as to what the summons may be about. The remaining council members sat down groggily, and mumbled a good morrow and merry nameday wishes to Valarr.

“My Lords, father, I thank you greatly for your presence, and your heartfelt nameday wishes. I wished to bring a matter before the Small Council this morrow, ahead of the tourney starting at midday.” He did his best to speak with the quiet authority of his father, and stilled the small tremor in his voice. “As you all know, I have come of age today, and wish to let my intentions for  marriage to be known. After all, it would be my utmost duty to the realm to marry and strengthen the line of succession.”

Many nodded, Baelor merely raised his eyebrows even further at his son’s sudden declaration of his interest for marriage. After all, he had sternly rejected every single courtships and proposals until now, and he had begun to suspect that he had no intention to marry at all.

“That is most wise, my prince,” croaked the old Grand Maester. “The council has a list at ready of all the eligible ladies of the realm, including-“

“Thank you, Grand Maester. However, that will not be necessary”, Valarr interrupted with a raised hand, “for I have been promised to a lady for nigh on a decade already.”

All eyes in the council chamber widened almost comically. Using the stunned silence, he took the parchment out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Baelor reached calmly for it, and read the words carved into it, remarking the childish handwriting. The Grand Maester rose from his seat, and leaned down from behind him to inspect the document as well.

“What is this?” his father asked, eyes lifting from the parchment.

“A marriage contract,” Valarr stated plainly. “It’s been signed by our own hands, and has the official seals of our houses on it.”

“I can see that,” Baelor furrowed his brows. “When-“

“My prince, if you would excuse me,” Grand Maester interrupted. “Marriage contracts usually involve witnesses, and I can’t seem to see any accounts of them.”

“I am a witness to this contract,” Valarr declared firmly. “I was there when it was written, signed, and sealed, obviously.”

“My apologies, your Grace, but a witness is usually-“ the old maester croaked.

“I am a prince of the realm, and a man grown as of today. Do you mean to doubt my abilities to stand witness to such significant matters?” His voice deepened, summoning an air of authority and sternness seldom witnessed in him.

The room fell into silence. Finally, the silence was broken when Baelor spoke. “According to the date, this was agreed upon when you both were but six years of age. Do you mean to stand by this contract nevertheless?” The look on his eyes was illegible. 

“I do not take vows for naught, father,” Valarr stood his ground. “I have given my word upon my honor, and will stand by it. I have loved her since I was a boy, and will not take any other to wife.” He hesitated for a sliver of a moment, then added, “if she will have me.”

Baelor put the parchment down on the table, and pinched his nosebridge. The Grand Maester immediately picked up the document, and inspected it so closely, Valarr was worried he may bury his nose in it.

“My Lord Hand, the seals and signatures are indeed.. genuine. And if the prince and the lady are in fact, both of age, then I fear that there are no grounds upon which this contract can be denied.” He sighed.

Valarr watched his father’s reaction. For what seemed like an eternity, Baelor’s eyes remained closed, with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he opened his eyes to face his son, and placed his hands on the table.

“And you are certain, my son?” He asked, an exasperated look on his face.

“I have never been more certain, father.” The young prince met his gaze steadfastly.

“Very well,” Baelor huffed out, “I will speak to her father about this after the jousts today. Considering the delicate nature of this.. pact,” he waved his hand at the parchment, “I will need to approach this matter in a careful fashion.”

Valarr felt a great weight lifted from his chest, and breathed out in relief. Through the window, the sky seemed to shine a brighter blue, the trees the most vibrant green, and the sun’s rays graced everything with a golden glow.

“Thank you, father.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Do not thank me yet, son. We will see how the day goes, and whether her family will agree to this arrangement. Until then, nobody is to speak of this matter to those outside of this council.” With that, Baelor rose from his seat, and dismissed the council with a curt nod of his head. As Valarr watched the rest of the council members scurry out, he felt he could’ve hugged his father, so great was his gratitude at this moment.

-

The gates of the Red Keep was buzzing with excitement as carriages and horses carried the spectators of the tourney out of the Keep and towards the tourney grounds right outside of the city gates. As you sneaked a peek out of the carriage window, you could see children running alongside, shouting in glee as they made their way to the tourney as well. 

You held a silk ribbon in your house colors in your hands, fidgeting mindlessly with it as you watched the narrow streets of King’s Landing pass by. The topaz earrings dangled from your ears, swinging along with every bump and pothole in the road. Your parents were chattering about the participating knights, and voicing their concern for your cousins’ safety. You were admittedly not too concerned about the matter, the jousting lances’ tips were made out of soft wood, made to shatter, and your overeager aunt and uncle had commissioned very intricate armors for your cousins to joust in.

When you rode past the city gates, your eyes were greeted by hundreds of colorful pavillions and banners snapping in the wind. The empty meadow outside of the city walls had been transformed into a marvelous tourney ground, bustling with life. 

The carriage stopped, letting your family step out onto the spring grass. Your parents craned their necks as they searched for your cousins’ pavillion, which was spotted rather quickly due to the tall flag with your heraldry stitched upon it. You threaded your arm through your mother’s, walking past the busy squires, merchants shouting out for the nobles to look at their wares, and steelworkers hammering away in their tents. 

Once arrived at your relatives’ pavillion, your parents eagerly entered, wishing to bid your cousins good fortune for their tilts. You were briefly distracted in front of the entrance by a small mouse scuttling about, watching its movements, when a warm touch on your shoulder startled you.

Your body whipped around in surprise, and yelped when you came face-to-face with Valarr standing before you in his armor. His broad frame, with the added breadth of the armor, easily towered over you.

“Hi,” he was already smiling, dimples forming on his chiseled cheeks. His mismatched eyes were glinting with something you could not quite place. When he spotted the jewelry dangling from his ears, his smile widened.  

“Valarr, hi,” you breathed out. 

“I wanted to come see you before the jousts started shortly,” he took a small step towards you. The heat eminating from his body was almost palpable, even through his thick steel armor. “For the favor.”

That made sense, you supposed. You did promise him a favor for the tilts today. 

You were still holding the silk ribbon in your hand, the floral stitchings along with your house sigils had been embroidered by your own hands. 

“May I-“ you gestured at his arm hanging by his side.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He slightly lifted his arm, allowing you sufficient space to wrap the ribbon around his upper arm, and secure it with a bow. 

“It’s beautiful, thank you.” He took your hand, and bent down to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I must get going, the champions must be present when the start of the tourney is announced. I hope I’ll see you in the stands.”

"You will," you smiled back at him, "happy nameday, Valarr. And good fortune in the lists today."

"I have all the fortune I need, but thank you," Valarr mused, holding up the arm with your ribbon tied around it. 

And with that, he took his leave. You blinked, processing whatever just occurred, then collected yourself and entered the pavilion to wish your cousins good fortune. 

-

Your mother's closeness with Lady Jena ensured that your family's seats in the stands were situated right next to the royal box; offering an excellent view over the jousting grounds. As you sat, the herald blew the horn, marking the start of the tourney, and announced the champions as they rode in.

The crowd burst into a roar as the knights in shining armor rode in on their mounts, you quickly spotted Valarr, the white streak in his hair a clear beacon even from a distance. Your ribbon on his arm was snapping in the wind, you could faintly hear the whispers of courtiers speculating whose favor the Young Prince could possibly be wearing. Riding on his pitch black destrier clad in elegant armor, he really did paint a handsome picture, his body moving fluidly with the horse, adeptly commanding it with a squeeze of his legs and a light tug on the rein. His black armor with his house’s sigil enameled on the breastplate glinted in the sun, and you briefly wondered whether that was done intentionally as to blind his opponents in the sunlight.

The champions raised their swords as the crowd cheered, then all bowed their heads to the royal box in a show of respect before riding off to the sidelines where their squires were waiting. The champions’ first opponents rode in as well, searching for their squires in the chaos of it all.

“Helmet!” You heard Valarr shout out to his squire, his voice a couple notes deeper than usual. He was always soft-spoken and gentle, and you had never heard him sound quite so commanding before. Soon, his white streak was hidden under the helm, and he was only recognizable via his armor.

As the knights lined up by the lists, the warhorses were impatiently huffing and stomping on the ground. You squinted to see who Valarr’s first opponent be, and identified a blue enameled fish upon the armor. A Tully, then.

The horn blew, and kicking up a great dust storm, the mounts galloped forward, the riders upon their backs lowering their lances. The first pass was over in a blink, the wooden tips of tourney lances bursting against shields and armors, and you saw that some riders had been unhorsed already.

Your eyes seeked Valarr out, and to your relief, him and his black destrier emerged from the dust cloud victorious; his opponent lay unhorsed on the ground. Valarr dismounted at the sight, and walked over with a hand on the sword’s hilt to his opponent, struggling to get back on his feet.

From a distance, you faintly heard him yell out, “I yield, my prince! I yield!” Only then, Valarr eased the grip on his sword, and held his hand out to help him get off the ground. The crowd burst out in another wave of cheers at the sight; praising the Young Prince for his chivalry. 

In the next tilts, Valarr faced five more challengers, one of them being his own cousin, Aerion Brightflame. He donned a spiky black armor, paired with a helmet showing a monstrous visage upon it. After two titillating matches, Valarr finally rode him down; after which Aerion rose against him, unsheathing his broadsword. The melée that followed was not short-lived, steel met steel in a flash of sparks and wooden shields splintered under heavy blows, until Valarr unarmed him and held him at swordpoint. 

The crowd, highborns and smallfolk alike, were roaring in his support; a glinting hope in their eyes that Baelor Breakspear’s line proved to be just as skilled in arms as he was. An ember of pride was fanned every time he raised his lance arm after unhorsing an opponent, your favor waving in the wind. Maybe it really had brought him good fortune.

Your cousins fared adequately enough, Devin, the eldest, unhorsing two opponents before being unseated himself in the third tilt. The others had not been so lucky, and fell from their horses in their first rides. But they all seemed unharmed, aside from minor scraps and bruises.

The tilts, which started at midday, continued until the sun was nearing the western horizon and a pale moon shone on the opposite side of the sky. There was only one tilt left for the day; Valarr was to ride against Ser Roland of the Kingsguard. After a brief break, Valarr returned to the lists.  He swung onto his black destrier, riding to the sidelines as his squire followed with the helmet and shield in his arms. 

As Valarr held his helm in his hands, his head turned towards the stands. At first, you thought he might be looking at his family in the royal box, but his gaze came to rest upon you. His hair was matted from sweat, dark brown strands plastered across his forehead from the heat and exhaustion, but his face held a determined look. You held eye contact and gave your dear childhood companion an encouraging nod before he slid his helmet on. You could not be sure due to the distance, but it almost seemed as if the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile before it was obscured by the enameled helmet.

His squire promptly delivered him the shield and put the lance in his hand, and scurried off to the weapons’ racks as to be ready when Valarr would need his next lance.

Ser Roland looked formidable as well on the opposite side of the lists, he was sitting upon his chestnut warhorse, clad in all-white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard. He was older, and more experienced, which pushed the odds in his favor. However, Valarr rode as if he had been blessed by the Warrior himself that day, the memory of the success in the council chamber that morning filled his tired muscles with strength, and he felt almost battle-high.

Not a moment too soon, the herald announced the start of the final tilt. “May the Crone guide your lance, and the Warrior grant you strength!” He cried out, then blew the start horn. 

The sound of the hooves striking the ground thundered across the meadow, the cheering of the crowds so loud your ears were threatening to ring. In a flash, both lances broke cleanly off the shields, and both riders remained seated. You held your breath as Valarr seemed to sway slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. As he urged his destrier around, you were not sure if the glint of his mismatched eyes gazing in your direction was only imagined or not.

The second pass was more brutal; the riders met in a clash of bursting wood again, but Ser Roland had met Valarr’s pauldron with the tip of his lance, sending the Young Prince reeling from his seat. In contrast, Valarr’s lance had harmlessly broken against the Kingsguard’s shield.

A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Valarr’s body lurched backwards, with only one foot remaining in the stirrups. However, to the delight of the spectators, his hooked his foot firmly around it, and pulled his body upright again, sitting tall upon his mount. 

As the horn urging the third pass blew, Valarr kicked his destrier’s sides firmly with his greaves, riding with his torso lowered against his mount, and his shield raised in defense. In the final moment before impact, Valarr’s lance drifted laterally by a minuscule bit, its tip bursting against Ser Roland’s breastplate in a shower of splinters. Ser Roland was cleanly unhorsed, landing with an uff on his back.

The crowd erupted in a roar, and you felt yourself grin at his victory. He had won his nameday tilt, your sweet, gentle Valarr had truly grown into a most gallant knight.

While the cheers died down and Ser Roland was helped up by his squires, the herald climbed down from the stands and marched towards Valarr holding the wildflower crown. The victorious prince lifted the helmet off, revealing a proud smile upon his face. He nodded to the royal box in a show of respect, to which Baelor and Jena rose their cups in response.

Valarr took the wildflower wreath from the herald, and the grounds fell into silence in anticipation to which lady would be crowned queen of love and beauty by the Young Prince. You looked on in anticipation as well, but your breath caught in your throat when he urged his destrier towards your family.

He softly called out your name, and you felt all eyes turn towards you. “Would you grant me the honor of crowning you as the queen of love and beauty?” You almost choked on your own spit from surprise. “For old times’ sake.” He added in a hushed voice, his eyes glinting under the blueish lights of dusk. Despite the apparent exhaustion, he looked beautiful. In the background, you vaguely perceived an excited squeal from your mother.

You barely registered yourself nodding before you made your way down to the railing and lowered your head to accept the wildflower crown. Valarr gently lowered it on the crown of your head, and brushed a hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. In your daze, the deafening applause and cheers from the crowds sounded almost muffled in your ears. You accepted the crown in a haze of confusion and perplexity. To the onlookers, his eyes held the look of a man utterly enamored when gazing upon you, clear as day. Not that you noticed.

-

The festivities in the Great Hall were as grand as any, if not grander. King Daeron the Good had not been frugal at all when planning his grandson’s sixteenth nameday feast, quite the contrary in fact. There were seven absolutely extravagant courses gracing the tables, not even counting the appetizers and desserts. You dug in as your hunger had grown quite insistent during the day, t’was hard work sitting unmoving in the stands under the sun. Jests aside, the food was marvelous, every course truly a testament to the castle’s cooks.

When the last course had been cleared away by the servants, the guests started to take to the dancefloor. Strangely enough, Prince Baelor had vanished from the dais around the same time. Probably some matters of the realm, you brushed it off as the Hand of the King attending to some royal affairs. You adjusted the flower wreath on your head as it was starting to slide down to your brows, and watched the dancing pairs glide across the floor. As you reached for your goblet of wine, a warm hand reached from behind and tapped on your shoulder.

“Valarr,” your face broke into a smile when you saw the victor of the day’s jousts. “My congratulations for winning in the lists today, you rode splendidly.” 

“Well fought, my prince,” your father, seated next to you, joined in with his own praises.

“Thank you, truly.” Valarr tilted his head in gratitude. “Would the queen of love and beauty grace me with her first dance?”

You looked down at his hand held out in invitation, before nodding and graciously taking his hand in acceptance. As you walked to the middle of the floor, heads turned as they spotted the crown prince and the flower wreath perched atop your head. You both took up the starting pose, with your hand placed on his shoulder, and his arms wrapping around your waist to rest on the small of your back. His hand gently held your free hand, and you drifted into familiar steps of the dance.

“Do not be alarmed,” Valarr whispered, “but I think my father has just summoned yours to his solar. I saw his page speak to your father, and leave the room with him.”

“Oh?” Your head tilted in bemusement. “Whatever might that be about?”

Valarr’s cheeks reddened at the question, and your confusion deepened. Perhaps he did not feel well discussing his father’s more confidential proceedings, so you decided to leave the topic for the sake of the poor boy. Your two families had been close for a decade now, surely they had enough matters to discuss. If it was important enough, your father would disclose it to you later anyways. 

“Your final tilt against Ser Roland was magnificent, by the way,” you teased, “I had feared you might lose your seat during that second pass, but the recovery was quite impressive.”

The poor prince’s cheeks grew impossibly redder. Even as a child, he’d never been adept at handling praise. He could only mumble out a thank you. The contrast between the valiant knight at the lists and the blushing prince in front of you was almost adorable; perhaps Valarr had not yet entirely outgrown the sweet, timid boy he used to be.

As the song came to an end, a Lord you did not recognize stood in front of you, requesting your next dance. Valarr, ever the kind, dutiful prince, took his leave to return to the dais. 

The status as the queen of love and beauty of the day came with a steady stream of dancing partners, you forgot their names almost as soon as they introduced yourself; you were never really adept with names and faces anyways. When your feet began to ache and you excused yourself to take your seat by your mother’s side, a page intercepted you just as you were about to pull out your chair. Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her husband had been occupied in a meeting with the Hand for a good while, and apparently it now required your presence, as well. 

“M’ady, I apologize for the interruption. The Hand and your father require your presence in the Hand’s solar.” The young boy, twelve years of age at most, stuttered out.

“Of course, would you be so kind as to lead the way?” You smiled as you lowered the crown from your head and placed it on the table, assuming you’d be returning in a short while.

-

The dim, torchlit corridors leading to the Hand’s solar were unfamiliar at first sight, but as you ventured further with the young page, the memories started swarming back. The afternoon teas with the two families, Valarr’s sixth nameday morrow, and sitting idly while your father discussed lordly matters with Prince Baelor surfaced with every step you took.

Soon enough, you stood in front of the familiar double doors leading to Baelor’s solar. This time, you patiently waited as the page announced you before stepping in. You were greeted by the sight of Baelor sitting at his desk, your father sat in the armchair facing him. The candlelights bestowed a rather serious atmosphere in the room. 

“Father, my Lord Hand,” you took a shallow curtsy, “I have heard you sent for me.” You searched their faces for hints as to what this may be about, but failed miserably.

“My lady, thank you for joining us,” Baelor tilted his head. “We have quite important matters to discuss with you, specifically-“ he briefly searched for words, “regarding your marriage pact.”

Your head went blank. “..What?” What is it with a marriage pact now?

Letting the evidence speak for itself, Baelor slid a piece of parchment in your direction. You approached his desk, and lifted the document to your eyes. The parchment was obviously quite old, but not old enough to crumble in your hands. The soft, smooth surface indicated frequent handling, as did the numerous creases. The writing upon it was carved into the hide in a child’s handwriting, and it contained a very briefly written marriage contract between you and Valarr. When your eyes reached the end of the parchment, you identified your own handwriting as a child, crooked and wonky in a way the late Septa Marya used to scold you about. Your thumb traced the wax seals, worn down by time but still obviously genuine.

Oh. You now feintly recalled the day where you produced this document. It came as a surprise that Valarr had kept this all this time, but then all Valarr did the last few days was surprise you. 

“Valarr presented this contract to the Small Council this morrow, he says he will not take anyone else to wife.” Baelor calmly explained, watching your face closely. “The Grand Maester has inspected the document himself, and has declared it genuine. I initially wished to discuss this matter with your father alone, but he has insisted on hearing your opinions on this. Believe me my lady, neither of us will see you married unwillingly on the basis of a pact you signed at the age of six.”

You briefly unpacked your mental balance scale, weighing your options. The benefits included the fact that 1. he was your dearest childhood companion, 2. he had grown into a quite handsome man, and 3. he was considerate, gentle and kind. The only drawback was.. Well, you rummaged through your head, but failed to come up with any. 

“Will you have him?” Baelor asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern at your silence.

“Yes, I will,” the words left your lips without a hint of hesitance as you placed the parchment back on the table.

“Are you sure, daughter?” It was your father’s turn to question you.

“Yes, why not?” You shrugged. “He’s grand.”

“Grand?” The Hand’s eyebrows rose in amusement at you describing his son as grand. You and Valarr’s antics today were certainly providing Baelor’s facial muscles with quite an exercise.

You nodded, as if your statement was to explain anything and you did not understand what the confusion was about. He truly was grand, after all. There wasn’t much else you could wish for in a future husband. The crown prince and your father were staring at you with a look one could only describe as bewilderment.

“Just to confirm, you will accept the terms of this.. contract, and take my son as your lawful husband?” Baelor asked, a slight look of confusion upon his eyes, wondering whether you had heard the question correctly.

“I will, my prince.” You nodded again, your casual tone steadfast.

“Then it is settled,” The Hand looked to your father, who nodded in agreement.

As you and your father took your leaves from the solar and shut the doors behind you, you came face to face with Valarr, who had obviously been pacing. His gaze shifted between you and your father, a look of hopefulness evident in his eyes.

“Val,” you softly called his name. “Guess we truly are getting married now.” You shrugged lightly, and giggled. 

A sigh of relief punched itself out of him, and he looked to your father.

“You have my blessings, my prince. You can consider yourselves.. officially betrothed now.” He offered a slight bow.

“That is most wonderful news,” his face split into a smile as he stepped towards you to clasp your hand within his own two hands. “I swear, I will do the utmost to make you happy, anything you want. Simply tell me, and I will see it done. Even if it is not in my power, I promise I will make it so.”

You blushed, then looked down, suppressing a wide grin. Only then, your eyes trailed down to his right hand, where the small, children’s sized signet ring rested upon his little finger. Your breath caught in surprise as the torchlight glanced off the polished band.

“You kept it,” You murmured.

Valarr looked confused for a moment, but lowered his gaze to follow yours. When he realized what you’d meant, his joyous smile melted into a more calm, fond one.

“Of course I have, it’s from you. And I promised to always cherish it.” 

Oh. You felt as though somebody had smacked you on the back of the head. Every hint, every glance, every word clicked into place in that moment. Valarr had been in love with you all along, since you were all but children. He’d taken care to remember all your childish promises to each other, even keeping the scrap of parchment tucked away safely for nigh on a decade. 

“Have you really? After all this time?” Your voice was hushed, your heart picking up its pace in your ribcage. Your lips parted slightly in awe.

“Yes, love. It’s always been you.” Finally, he confessed, his beautiful, mismatched eyes gazing adoringly at you. 

As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

- Epilogue -

When you returned to your family’s assigned quarters, your motherr was already waiting at the tea table, eagerly waiting to hear what all the fuss had been about. When your father retold the events of the evening, she was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement at your betrothal.

“In retrospect, I must ask you, daughter,” your father turned his head towards you, “have you been aware of the existence of that document all this time?”

“Frankly, I had forgotten,” you shrugged. “But now that I saw it, I do remember sneaking into Prince Baelor’s office that day.” Your parents tried to look scandalized, but the air of amusement was evident.

“Darling, she did try to tell us that one time, remember? When we told her we were leaving King’s Landing.” Your mother’s eyes lit up, recalling your confession which they both had assumed was simply a child’s fancy. “She said that she was going to marry him, and that they promised.”

“Well, nobody expects their six-year-old daughter to go and sign a marriage contract,” your father snorted. Honestly, that was a fair assessment.

“The most important thing is, it did turn out quite well,” you held up your palms in defence, a smirk on your face. “I am quite satisfied with the match, if I dare say so myself.”

Your parents laughed out at your understatement laced with a jest. Indeed, it had turned out quite alright. 

Taglist: @good-night-starlight @enouche @literallyafallenangel @rakiroad

“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”

You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?

The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”

You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there. 

You bristle instantly.

“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”

“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”

My love.

His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?

“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”

Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him. 

“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”

You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.

“You should know already,” you hiss.

“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”

You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away. 

You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react. 

They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—

—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband. 

Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.

A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.

It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.

“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”

Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.

“The Lannister girl?”

You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”

To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.

You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”

Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.

You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.

The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently. 

“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”

“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”

You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.

“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”

“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”

You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.

He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache. 

“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”

“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.

“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”

You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.

Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut. 

“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”

“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.

“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”

You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn. 

“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”

“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?

Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall. 

“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”

“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”

“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”

Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”

“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”

“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair. 

“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”

Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”

“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”

Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.

His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.

“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.

You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours. 

“It does not matter.”

“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”

You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood. 

“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.

“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”

You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not. 

Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”

“No one.”

“Who has frightened you, then?”

You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”

Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.” 

His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.

You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.

“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”

“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.

“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”

“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.

“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”

“I did not know that,” you whisper.

“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”

“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.

“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”

Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”

“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”

This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.

“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.

“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.

“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”

Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”

Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”

You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”

“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”

You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.

The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.

Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.

“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”

You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?” 

Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”

“Do not mock me,” you mutter.

“I am trying very hard not to.”

“You are failing.”

“Terribly,” he admits.

You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”

“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”

Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.

“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.

You blink. “Well, yes.”

You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.

“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”

Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”

You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”

“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?” 

You eye him warily. “What?”

“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”

Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.

“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.” 

Something in your chest twists painfully.

“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”

You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.

“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”

“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”

“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.” 

“You are insufferable, is what you are.”

He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”

“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.

“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.

You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.

You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”

He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”

“I will poison you if you do.” 

His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”

You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.

Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.

“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.

Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”

“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”

You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.

“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”

“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.

Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”

“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”

“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”

Your chest aches. Loathsome man.

“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.