#whit asks

If Rhaenys’s birth was textbook-perfect—no tearing, no hemorrhage, and no threat to FMC's health, quick recovery, and FMC bouncing back with that post-pregnancy glow that drives him feral—he’d be on her the second the modern OB clears her for “intimate activity.” We’re talking four to six weeks postpartum at the absolute latest, and that’s only because he’s trying to be respectful.

But Valarr Targaryen in full obsessive-husband mode? The man who already worships her body like it’s his personal Valyrian relic? The second she’s off pelvic rest and the doctor says “everything looks healed,” he’s not waiting. He’s been counting the days, marking them on some internal calendar like a starving man. The breeding kink doesn’t hibernate just because there’s already one perfect silver-haired toddler running around.

Timeline breakdown:

• Weeks 1-4: He’s in protective caretaker mode on the surface—massaging her, bringing her whatever she craves, watching Rhaenys so she can rest. Underneath? He’s rock-hard every time he sees her nursing or just existing in one of his shirts, leaking a little pre-cum when she winces and he helps her into the bath. Lots of “I know, baby, I’ve got you” while his hands linger on her softer hips and belly.

• Week 5-6: Clearance day. He tries to be gentle the first time—slow, deep, missionary with lots of eye contact and “You gave me our daughter… fuck, you’re perfect.” But the second she moans and clenches around him, the switch flips. Prone bone, hand on the back of her neck, growling about filling her again so Rhaenys can have a little brother to protect.

• By month 3-4: He’s not even pretending anymore. Rhaenys goes down for a nap? He’s bending FMC over the nursery changing table or dragging her into the master shower. Morning quickies while the toddler is still asleep. Evening “stress relief” after he gets home from whatever Targaryen empire bullshit he’s running. He’s insatiable—breeding her every chance he gets, obsessed with the idea of knocking her up while she’s still got that lingering pregnancy softness.

• Would he last a full year? Lmao, no. Not even close. By the six-month mark he’s already in full Uncle Maekar energy—that “keep the bloodline strong, keep my woman swollen with my child” Targaryen traditionalist streak. He’d be tracking her cycles like a dragon watching its hoard, timing loads, making her keep her hips tilted after he finishes, maybe even getting a little ritualistic with Valyrian phrases whispered against her belly while he’s still buried inside her.

He wants them close in age. He wants Rhaenys to grow up with siblings who look like her. Most of all, he wants to see FMC round with his baby again—tits fuller, belly curved, that possessive satisfaction of knowing he did that to her. The man is unhinged about it in the hottest way.

Smut below....

The townhouse is quiet in that rare, golden hour after Rhaenys’s afternoon nap has finally taken. The baby monitor on the nightstand glows soft green—steady heartbeat, little silver curls splayed across her crib. You’re still tender, still adjusting to the new shape of your body, but the OB gave the all-clear this morning: Everything healed beautifully. You can resume normal activities. Valarr had been in the room with you, one big hand resting possessively on your thigh under the exam table, thumb stroking slow circles like he was already counting down the seconds.

He hasn’t touched you like this in weeks. Not properly.

Now the door to the master suite clicks shut behind him, and the air shifts. You’re standing by the window in nothing but one of his oversized black button-downs, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your breasts feel heavy, still sensitive from nursing. The faint stretch marks across your lower belly catch the late afternoon light like pale rivers on new land.

Valarr doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at you—those mis-matched violet and brown eyes dark with weeks of restraint finally snapping. His suit jacket is already off, tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The man is massive even in stillness: broad shoulders, that tapered waist, the visible bulge already straining against his slacks like his cock has been half-hard for days just thinking about this.

“Doctor said you’re mine again,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, stepping close enough that you can smell his cologne and the faint trace of smoke from whatever he burned at the office. One veined hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “No more waiting, ñuha riña. No more watching you walk around this house looking like the mother of my child and not being able to bury myself inside you.”

You shiver. He feels it.

He walks you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed, then sinks to his knees like a man at prayer. Big hands push the shirt up slowly, exposing you to him. His breath ghosts over your skin.

“Fuck… look at you.” His mouth finds the soft curve of your belly first—kissing the faint marks, tongue tracing them with something close to reverence. “You carried her so perfectly. My strong girl. My wife in every way that matters.” The word wife still makes something clench low in your stomach even though there’s no ring yet. He’s been calling you that more and more lately.

His hands slide higher, cupping your breasts through the fabric before unbuttoning the shirt with deliberate patience. When it falls open, he groans. Your nipples are darker now, fuller. He leans in and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder when you gasp and thread your fingers through his silver streak and brown hair. The pull goes straight between your legs.

“Valarr—”

“I know, sweetheart.” His voice vibrates against your skin. “I’ve got you. Been dying for this cunt for weeks.”

He works his way down, kissing every inch like he’s mapping new territory. When he reaches the apex of your thighs he doesn’t tease. He spreads you open with both thumbs and licks a long, slow stripe up your center, tasting how wet you already are for him. A broken sound leaves his throat.

“So fucking ready for me again. This pussy missed its owner, didn’t it?”

You nod, legs trembling. He eats you like a starving man—long, firm strokes of his tongue, two thick fingers sliding into you carefully, curling just right. He knows your body better than you do now. The stretch is familiar and overwhelming all at once. He adds a third finger and sucks on your clit until your knees buckle and you come with a choked cry, grinding against his face while he moans encouragement into your folds.

He doesn’t give you time to recover. He rises, shedding his clothes with impatient jerks. His cock springs free—long, thick, veined, the head already flushed dark and glistening. That famous Targaryen length that still makes your mouth water every time. Heavy, curving slightly upward, the shaft so girthy your fingers barely meet when you wrap them around it. A pearly bead of pre-cum rolls down the side as it twitches under your gaze.

“See what you do to me?” He fists himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours. “Weeks of this. Jerking off in my office like a desperate boy while you were healing. Thinking about breeding you full again.”

He pushes you gently onto your back on the bed, spreading your legs wide and settling between them. The head of his cock nudges your entrance, hot and insistent. He leans down, forehead to yours, one hand braced beside your head while the other grips your hip.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You do. Those mis-matched eyes are blown black with lust and something deeper—obsession, love, raw need.

“I’m going to fill you up now,” he whispers against your lips. “Gonna put another baby in you while our daughter sleeps down the hall. You want that, don’t you? Want me to breed this perfect womb again?”

“Yes—please—”

He pushes in on the word, slow but relentless, stretching you open around that massive cock. The burn is exquisite. You feel every inch, every vein, until his hips are flush against yours and he’s buried to the hilt. He stays there, shuddering, letting you adjust.

“Fuck… so tight. Still so fucking tight for me.” His voice cracks. “Like you were made for this. Made to take my cock and carry my children.”

Then he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. The wet sound of him fucking into you fills the room, obscene and perfect. He drops his head to your neck, sucking marks, whispering filth and devotion in the same breath.

“You’re going to look so beautiful pregnant again. Tits heavy, belly round with my son. Everyone will know I couldn’t keep my hands off you. That I fucked you full the second I was allowed.”

One hand slides down to press against your lower belly, right where he’s bulging inside you. The possessive pressure makes you clench harder around him.

“Feel that? That’s where I’m going to put him. Right there. Gonna flood this womb until it takes.”

Your second orgasm hits you hard, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. Valarr fucks you through it, pace growing faster, more desperate. The bed creaks. His balls slap wetly against you with every thrust. Sweat slicks his skin, silver hair falling into his eyes.

“I’m close,” he growls. “Gonna cum so deep. Keep it all inside you like a good girl.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him impossibly deeper. “Breed me, Valarr. Please—give me another one.”

That does it. He slams in one final time and comes with a guttural moan, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum straight against your cervix. He grinds through it, making sure every drop stays where it belongs, hips twitching with aftershocks as he empties himself completely.

Even after he finishes he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, rolling you both onto your sides so he can hold you close. One arm bands around your back, the other hand stroking your belly again, almost reverently.

“Mine,” he breathes against your hair, voice hoarse. “All fucking mine. And soon you’ll be swollen with me again.”

You’re both still catching your breath when the baby monitor crackles. Rhaenys makes a small sleepy sound. Valarr chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Rest, ñuha riña. I’ll get her. And when she goes down for the night…” His cock twitches inside you, already half-hard again. “I’m taking you again. And again. Until my seed takes.”

He eases out of you carefully, a thick trickle of his cum leaking down your thigh. He watches it with dark satisfaction, then leans down and pushes two fingers back inside you, keeping it where it needs to be.

Valarr would not act normal about the baby bump. He would try to act normal because he is Valarr, and Valarr likes to believe he is controlled, elegant, reasonable, measured — but the second she starts showing?

Something in him shifts.

Not because he only sees her as the mother of his child, but because the bump makes everything visible. His claim. His fear. His future. The proof that she stayed, that some part of him is now inside her life so deeply no one can simply separate them anymore.

More watchful. More territorial.

He notices before she does.

She would be standing in front of the mirror one morning, half-dressed, frowning down at herself because her skirt will not zip the way it used to. It is not even a dramatic bump yet. Just a softness low on her stomach, a delicate curve that was not there before.

And Valarr sees it from the doorway.

She catches him in the mirror and says something small, almost embarrassed, like, “What?”

And he does not answer at first.

He just comes toward her slowly, one hand already reaching. Not for her waist. Not for her face. For the little swell beneath her navel.

His palm lands there with such careful possession that it almost feels like reverence.

“You’re showing,” he says.

She rolls her eyes because it is barely anything. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“It’s probably bloating.”

“No, sweetheart. It is not.”

And she hears something in his voice that makes her stop arguing.

Because he is not teasing her. He is not even smiling. He is looking at her stomach like the entire world has rearranged itself under his hand.

That is when the protectiveness gets worse.

At first it is practical things. Shoes with better grip. Cars waiting closer to the entrance. No carrying bags. No coffee unless he has personally checked what her doctor said. No long museum shifts without breaks. No standing too long at events. No crowded rooms unless he is beside her.

And she thinks, at the beginning, that it is sweet.

A little intense, maybe. A little Valarr.

Then it becomes: the driver knows her schedule before she does. Her assistant at the museum suddenly has instructions to “make sure she eats.” Her doctor’s office somehow always calls him too. Her prenatal vitamins are laid out every morning beside her tea. The staircase gets quietly avoided because he keeps guiding her toward the lift with his hand at her back. He does not ask if she is tired; he decides she is tired.

And the bump makes him bolder about touching her in public.

Before, Valarr was possessive in ways that could be disguised as affection. A hand on the lower back. A kiss to her temple. His thumb brushing her ring.

But once she is showing, his hand is constantly there.

Low on her stomach at galas. Around her waist at family lunches. Resting over the bump when someone speaks to her too long, as if reminding everyone in the room that she is not simply his wife, but the mother of his child.

It is subtle enough that no one can criticize it.

But she knows.

She knows when his fingers spread across her belly because another man made her laugh. She knows when his palm settles there because someone mentions how “glowing” she looks. She knows when he draws her closer because the attention is no longer only admiration — it is curiosity, hunger, speculation.

And Valarr hates that.

He hates that strangers look at her differently now. He hates that people soften around her, become familiar, ask intimate questions as though her pregnancy gives them rights to her body or her time.

“How far along are you?”

“Are you hoping for a boy?”

“Can I touch?”

The woman barely gets the question out before Valarr says, very softly, “No.”

Not “she would rather you didn’t.” Not “perhaps another time.”

Just: “No.”

And his wife flushes because it is so abrupt, but Valarr does not care. His hand is already over her stomach, shielding the bump from even the possibility of another person’s touch.

Later, she tells him, “You embarrassed her.”

“She embarrassed herself.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was being entitled.”

“You can’t just glare at every person who looks at me.”

His eyes drop to her stomach.

Then back to her.

“I can.”

And the worst part is, he means it.

As for intimacy?

The bump would ruin him.

Not in a crude way at first. More like he becomes quietly, obsessively fascinated with her body. The changes. The softness. The way her breasts grow heavier. The way her dresses cling differently. The way she starts holding her lower back without realizing it. The way she looks half-annoyed, half-shy when he stares too long.

He would touch her constantly in bed, but with this unbearable restraint. Like he wants to devour her and worship her at the same time.

He would kiss down her body slower than usual, pausing at the swell of her stomach for so long that she starts squirming.

“Valarr.”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been looking for ten minutes.”

“I am admiring my good taste.”

And she would huff, embarrassed, trying to tug the sheet over herself — but he would catch her wrist.

“No.”

“It feels strange.”

His face softens, but his grip does not.

“What does?”

“You looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Like I am yours, she almost says.

But she does not, because they both already know.

So instead she says, “Like I’m different.”

His mouth brushes the curve of her stomach.

“You are.”

Her breath catches.

Then, quieter:

“You’re more mine than you’ve ever been.”

And that is the danger of Valarr during this phase. He is unbearably gentle, but the gentleness has teeth.

He would be more careful with her physically. He would not want to hurt her. He would ask the doctor too many questions with a face so composed the poor woman would not realize he is being insane until the fourth follow-up email. He would read every guideline, memorize every risk, rearrange their sex life around what he thinks is safest for her.

But emotionally?

He becomes needier.

More easily unsettled.

If she pulls away because she feels unattractive, he takes it personally at first — not because he is angry, but because the rejection touches every ugly, insecure part of him. She is carrying his child and still somehow feels distant from him? Still capable of closing a door between them?

Impossible.

He would coax first.

Then press.

Then overwhelm.

“You do not get to hide from me,” he tells her one night, when she keeps turning away from him in bed.

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know when you’re tired.”

That irritates her enough to make her look at him. “Do you?”

His expression changes.

Not anger. Worse. Hurt, carefully dressed in calm.

“I know everything about you.”

And she hates that a little. Hates that it is almost true.

But then his hand slips under the blanket, settling warm and broad over the bump, and his voice lowers.

“I know you cried this morning because your dress did not fit. I know you skipped lunch because you felt nauseous and did not tell me. I know you stood too long in the east wing because you refuse to admit the new exhibit exhausts you.” His thumb moves once, slow and possessive. “And I know you are turning away because you think I want you less.”

She goes quiet.

Valarr leans in, kisses her shoulder, then the side of her neck.

“That,” he murmurs, “is the stupidest thing you have ever thought.”

It would be sweet if it were not so consuming.

So yes, with the baby bump, he becomes more protective.

But with Valarr, protection and control are the same instinct wearing different clothes.

He would adore the bump. He would kiss it, hold it, talk to the baby when he thinks she is asleep. He would melt the first time he feels the baby move. Like genuinely lose his composure, his hand frozen over her stomach, his eyes sharp with something almost frightened.

“Did you feel that?” she whispers.

He does not answer.

“Valarr?”

His jaw works once.

Then he lowers his forehead to her belly, and for a second he looks less like a prince, less like a monster, less like the man who can move whole lives around to suit him.

For a second, he just looks terrified.

Not in a simple “she’s dark too” way, but in a deeply messy, emotionally hungry way. She is obsessed with the intensity of his love. The devotion. The surveillance disguised as concern. The way he remembers every tiny detail. The way he removes obstacles before she even names them. The way he looks at her like the rest of the world is temporary and she is the only permanent thing in it.

For a normal person, Valarr’s love feels suffocating.

For this FMC, it feels like proof.

She wouldn’t be oblivious to his bad habits. She would know exactly what he is doing and still lean into it because some wounded, private part of her thinks: at least someone wants me enough to lose their mind over me.

And that would make Valarr so much worse.

Because Caged Valarr already has the dangerous habit of telling himself everything he does is for her safety, her happiness, their family, their future. But this FMC? She gives him confirmation.

She notices the bodyguard following her and instead of confronting him with horror, she texts Valarr:

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

And he replies:

“Come home before I become worse.”

And she smiles.

She likes the threat beneath the tenderness.

She likes knowing that if she calls him crying, someone’s life might quietly fall apart by morning. She likes when he gets jealous. She likes when he goes still and cold because another man looked at her too long. She should be frightened by the way his voice lowers, by the way he says, “Who was he?” like it is already a sentence, not a question.

But instead, her stomach flips.

And Valarr would pick up on that immediately.

He would realize she does not just tolerate his possessiveness. She responds to it. She softens under it. She becomes sweeter after it. She kisses him harder when he is at his worst.

That would absolutely ruin him.

Because then his restraint becomes almost performative. He still has enough self-awareness to know he should not be like this, but if she keeps touching his jaw and whispering, “I like when you get like this,” then what exactly is he supposed to do with that?

This FMC would say things that are devastating for his self-control.

Like:

“I know you checked my phone.”

And Valarr would go quiet.

Not guilty. Not exactly.

Just watching her carefully.

And she would continue:

“You missed one message.”

Then hand it to him.

That would destroy him.

Because Valarr is used to having to hide the cage. This FMC keeps holding the door open.

She would encourage him in small, intimate ways first. She’d let him choose what she wears to events because she likes the way his eyes darken when she asks. She’d let him send a car because she likes being collected. She’d complain about someone at work and feel a sick thrill when that person is suddenly transferred, dismissed, or socially iced out.

And then she would test him.

Not because she wants to leave.

Because she wants to see how far he will go.

That is where she becomes dangerous too.

She might mention a man complimented her at the museum just to watch Valarr’s expression close off. She might say, too casually, “He was sweet,” and then pretend not to notice the way Valarr’s hand tightens around his glass.

And Valarr would know she is provoking him.

That would make it worse.

Because then it becomes a game they both understand.

Not healthy. Not sane. But intimate in a way neither of them can walk away from.

Their fights would be INSANE because she would not just cry and beg him to stop. She would sometimes throw his own obsession back at him.

“You don’t want me free, Valarr. Stop pretending you do.”

And he would say:

“No. I want you safe.”

And she would smile like she knows him better than that.

“You want me yours.”

Silence.

Then he would step closer and say:

“Are you complaining?”

And she would not answer.

Because she isn’t.

That is what scares him most.

I think Matarys would clock this immediately and be horrified in a very specific way. Because with canon FMC, Matarys sees a woman slowly being swallowed by Valarr’s love. With this FMC, he sees someone who is walking into the mouth willingly and petting the teeth on the way in.

Matarys would probably tell Valarr something like:

“You understand she’s making you worse, don’t you?”

And Valarr would be cold about it.

“She understands me.”

And Matarys would say:

“No. She enjoys you. That is not the same thing.”

That line would bother Valarr more than he admits.

Because deep down, Valarr does want to be loved. Not just desired, not just obeyed. Loved. But this FMC’s love is so entangled with his darkness that he might start wondering: if I became better, would she want me less?

That would be such an interesting reversal.

Canon FMC makes Valarr want to justify himself.

This FMC makes Valarr wonder if restraint is the thing that will make him lose her.

She would be the kind of woman who kisses his wedding ring after he does something unforgivable.

The kind who says:

“You didn’t have to ruin him.”

But says it while sitting in his lap.

The kind who lets the silence stretch until he asks:

“Are you angry?”

And she answers:

“A little.”

Then kisses him anyway.

And Valarr would become addicted to that. Not just to her softness, but to her permission. Her complicity. Her ability to look at the ugliest parts of him and not flinch.

Honestly, this version of FMC would create a relationship that looks more outwardly stable than Caged, but is internally much darker.

Because they would not constantly be in open war.

They would be in collusion.

She knows he manipulates things.

He knows she knows.

She knows he knows she likes it.

So everything becomes layered.

A gala is not just a gala. It is Valarr watching who speaks to her. It is FMC letting someone flirt just a little too long. It is Valarr’s hand settling on the back of her neck. It is her leaning into the touch with a smile that says, there you are.

And after, in the car, he would be furious.

“Do you enjoy making me jealous?”

And she would look out the window, pretending to think about it.

“Sometimes.”

He would laugh once, without humor.

“That is very unwise.”

And she would turn to him.

“Then stop letting me.”

That is the dynamic.

She pulls the leash while pretending he is the only one holding it.

And Valarr, who is used to being the architect of every room he enters, would slowly realize she has been building something too.

Her jealousy would be quieter and more humiliating to her. She would hate that she feels it. She would tell herself she has no right to care about women he knew before her, especially because she knows Valarr had a life before her. He is beautiful, powerful, rich, charming when he wants to be, and socially untouchable. Of course there were women. Of course there were exes, flings, beautiful girls at galas who still look at him like they remember what it felt like to be chosen by him.

And that is what would bother FMC most.

Not necessarily that he slept with them. Not even that he dated them.

It is the idea that they knew a version of him she did not.

They knew him before Rhaenys. Before the marriage. Before FMC became the center of his entire world. They might have seen him relaxed, casual, young, careless. They might know what he is like when he is not consumed by her. And that would make FMC feel strangely replaceable, even though logically she knows Valarr treats her like no one else could ever come close.

But insecurity is not logical.

She would wonder if the exes were prettier. More elegant. More suited to his world. More polished at dinner tables. Better at wearing family jewels. Better at speaking to Baelor and Jena. Better at understanding the rules of his life without needing to be taught.

FMC is not vain, but Valarr’s world would make anyone compare themselves.

And Valarr would notice immediately.

He would notice the moment her smile gets too polite. The moment she goes quiet. The moment her eyes linger too long on some woman laughing a little too comfortably with him across a room.

The thing is, Valarr would be almost offended by her jealousy at first — not because he dislikes it, but because to him, the comparison is absurd.

His exes are not competition.

They are not even in the same category.

To Valarr, there was before FMC, and then there was FMC. Nothing else matters. No woman before her had the ability to unsettle him. No woman before her made him feel watched and known and starved all at once. No woman before her made him rearrange his life, his morals, his future, his family, his entire sense of control.

With past girlfriends or flings, Valarr was probably charming. Generous. Attentive in that old-money, perfectly mannered way. He would send flowers. Remember details. Make them feel chosen. But it was controlled. Measured. He could leave dinner and not think about them again. He could end things cleanly. He could be polite afterward. He could see them across a room and feel nothing more than mild recognition.

He was never obsessed with an ex like he is with FMC.

That is part of what makes FMC so dangerous to him.

Before her, women were pleasant. Beautiful. Temporary. Sometimes useful socially. Sometimes entertaining. Sometimes convenient. He may even have liked some of them in a distant way. But he never needed them. He never feared losing them. He never felt that ugly, clawing panic at the thought of them walking away and building a life without him.

With FMC, it is completely different.

She makes him irrational. She makes him cruel. She makes him tender in ways that almost embarrass him. She makes him want ordinary things — breakfast, family, children, her books on his table, her hair in his sink, her sleeping beside him every night. She makes him want permanence so badly that he starts treating permanence like something he has the right to enforce.

So if FMC ever asks, “Were you like this with them?” Valarr’s answer would probably be terrifyingly honest.

Something like:

“No. I was fair to them.”

And FMC would understand the difference immediately.

Because what he feels for her is not just kindness. It is not just attraction. It is not even just love.

It is possession dressed up as devotion.

And some part of Valarr would like seeing her jealous. He would not like her hurt, but he would like the proof that she wants him enough to feel wounded by the thought of someone else having had him first. It would soothe something dark in him. He would take her jealousy and turn it into evidence.

See? You do care. You do want me. You are not as indifferent as you pretend.

But he would also be ruthless with the source of it. If an ex was deliberately making FMC uncomfortable — touching his arm, reminiscing too intimately, implying she knew him better — Valarr would shut it down cold.

Not dramatically at first. Worse than that.

Politely.

A slight step back. A flat look. A correction said softly enough that only she and FMC could hear.

Something like:

“Do not mistake history for intimacy.”

And then he would go to FMC.

Not because he needs to prove anything to the room. He does not. But because he would want FMC to see that his attention has a home now. His body has a place it returns to. His loyalty, however twisted and suffocating, is hers.

The tragedy is that his reassurance would not be normal reassurance.

He would not simply say, “You have nothing to worry about.”

He would say, in that calm, possessive way of his:

“There was no one before you. Not in any way that matters.”

And FMC would believe him.

The beginning of Caged was probably the most dangerous part because it didn’t feel like a cage yet.

It felt like being chosen.

Valarr did not start with threats, blackmail, locked doors, custody leverage, or any of the obvious cruelty. He started with attention. Intense, flattering, almost fairy-tale attention. The kind that made FMC feel seen before she realized she was being studied.

I've mentioned before that their first meetings being very “wrong person, right obsession” for Valarr.

FMC was not supposed to matter to him that much. Maybe she was connected to the museum, academia, a charity event, or some cultural space where Targaryen money and old Westerosi status floated in the background. She was not the loudest woman in the room. She was not trying to impress him. She treated him politely but normally, which immediately caught his attention.

Valarr is used to people performing around him.

Women flirt with him because of his face, his name, his money, his family. Men measure themselves against him. People want access. People want approval. But FMC does not give him that immediate worship. She is respectful, maybe a little guarded, maybe even unimpressed in a quiet way.

And that bothers him.

Not in an angry way at first. More like: Why isn’t she looking at me the way everyone else does?

So he starts looking at her.

He notices small things first. Her coffee order. The way she tucks hair behind her ear when she is thinking. The books she carries. How she gets quieter around people who talk over her. How she lights up when someone asks about her work. How she is softer than she pretends to be.

At this stage, he is charming. Controlled. Careful.

He does not overwhelm her immediately. He gives her just enough attention to make her wonder about him.

A ride home because it is raining.

A text because he “saw this and thought of you.”

An invitation to dinner that sounds casual, but the reservation is impossible to get.

A compliment that is not about her body at first, but about her mind, her taste, her discipline.

That is what gets her.

Because Valarr does not begin by making her feel owned.

He begins by making her feel understood.

The early dating phase:

At first, he is almost painfully romantic.

Not soft in a goofy way, but attentive in a princely, old-money, devastatingly competent way. He makes everything easy. Doors open. Cars arrive. Tables are ready. Problems disappear before she even finishes complaining about them.

If she says she is tired, dinner shows up.

If she mentions an exhibit she wants to see, he gets private access.

If she says she is stressed, he clears his schedule.

If someone at work gives her trouble, suddenly that person becomes very polite.

And at first, that feels like love.

FMC probably thinks, He listens. He remembers. He cares.

She is not wrong, exactly. That is the complicated part. Valarr does care. He is not pretending to be fascinated by her. He is fascinated. He is not faking the tenderness. He really does want to hold her after a long day, kiss her forehead, watch her fall asleep in his shirt, hear about her work, spoil her, make her laugh.

The honeymoon phase is real.

They have date nights. They have long drives. They have lazy mornings where he does not want to let her out of bed. He sends beautiful texts, sometimes almost embarrassingly sincere ones.

Things like:

Did you eat today?

I passed that bakery you like.

Wear the blue dress tonight. You looked beautiful in it last time.

Come over after work. I miss you.

At the time, those texts feel romantic.

Later, looking back, FMC realizes how often they were not really questions.

They were instructions dressed as affection.

The honeymoon phase:

This is when Valarr is at his most intoxicating.

He makes her feel like the center of his universe. He is protective, but in a way that seems sweet. Possessive, but not yet frightening. Jealous, but still containable.

If another man looks at her too long, Valarr’s hand settles on her lower back.

If she mentions an ex, his face goes still for half a second, then he smiles and asks a question too calmly.

If she goes out with friends, he tells her to text when she gets home. Then he starts asking where they went. Then who was there. Then whether anyone made her uncomfortable.

And because he phrases it as concern, she answers.

That is the gradual part.

He does not demand control all at once. He earns little pieces of access.

Her schedule, because he wants to plan around her.

Her location, because he worries.

Her passwords, because couples should trust each other.

A key to her apartment, because what if something happens?

His driver taking her places, because it is safer.

Security around her, because being with him puts her at risk.

And every single thing has a reasonable explanation.

That is what makes early Caged so unsettling. FMC is not stupid. She is not blindly ignoring obvious danger. Valarr gives her reasons that make sense in the moment. He wraps the control in luxury, protection, tenderness, and emotional intimacy.

By the time she starts feeling watched, she has already accepted being cared for.

The first red flags:

The first red flags were probably things she could explain away.

He knew where she was before she told him.

He disliked certain friends, but only because they were “careless” or “bad influences.”

He did not forbid her from wearing something, exactly. He just went quiet when she wore it.

He did not say she could not go somewhere. He just made her feel guilty for wanting to go without him.

He did not tell her to stop talking to someone. He simply asked why she needed that person so badly.

And then, after any moment where he pushed too far, he would become devastatingly gentle.

Early Valarr would apologize without really surrendering control.

He would say:

“I know I can be intense with you.”

“I just worry.”

“You don’t understand what people are like around my family.”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I’ve never been like this with anyone else.”

And FMC would believe him because part of it was true.

He had never been like that with anyone else.

She was different to him.

That did not make it healthy. It made it harder to leave.

How he made control feel like intimacy

Valarr’s biggest weapon in the beginning was that he did not treat control like punishment.

He treated it like closeness.

He wanted to know everything about her day because he loved her.

He wanted her at his place more often because he slept better with her there.

He wanted her things in his apartment because she belonged there.

He wanted her to rely on his car, his staff, his resources, his protection, because why should she struggle when he could fix everything?

He made dependence feel like being cherished.

And FMC, especially in the honeymoon phase, probably found parts of it comforting. That is the most emotionally honest version of them.

There were moments where being loved by Valarr felt incredible.

He was attentive in a way most people are not. He remembered everything. He anticipated her. He made her feel precious. He looked at her like the rest of the world was background noise.

The problem was that Valarr did not know how to love something precious without trying to lock it away.

The jealousy at the start:

His jealousy probably seemed flattering at first.

Not the full paranoia yet. More like quiet possessiveness.

He would get tense when another man made her laugh. He would pull her closer at parties. He would kiss her in front of someone who had been flirting with her. He would ask questions later in bed, voice soft but too sharp underneath.

“Do you like when he looks at you?”

“Did you know he wanted you?”

“Is that why you smiled?”

And then he would make up for it with tenderness. He would bury his face against her neck, hold her too tightly, whisper that he hated feeling like this.

FMC would think, He’s insecure. He loves me too much. He’s scared of losing me.

And again, she would not be completely wrong.

But Valarr’s fear of losing her eventually became more important to him than her freedom.

When the relationship started shifting

The shift was probably subtle.

The first time FMC pushed back, Valarr did not explode. He adjusted.

If she said, “You don’t need to send a car,” he would smile and say, “I know. But it makes me feel better.”

If she said, “I want to go out with my friends alone,” he would let her — then be distant afterward, making her feel like she had wounded him.

If she said, “I need space,” he would give her space for a day, maybe two, then show up with flowers, dinner, apologies, and those wounded violet eyes.

He trained her emotionally before he ever trapped her physically.

She started asking herself, Is this worth upsetting him over?

That was the beginning of the cage.

Not the ring. Not the marriage. Not the blackmail.

The cage began the first time she chose the easier option because his reaction felt too heavy to carry.

What FMC loved about him back then

This is also important: FMC did love him.

Not just the idea of him. Not just the money or the protection. She loved him.

She loved the rare boyishness under the polished exterior. The way he softened only with her. The way he listened when she talked about her work. The way he could be dry and funny when no one else was around. The way he looked almost peaceful when she touched his hair. The way he made her feel like she had access to a version of him no one else got.

That is why later betrayal hurts so much.

Because she can remember the good parts.

She can remember lying in bed with him after midnight, his hand under her shirt, not sexual, just possessive and warm. She can remember him whispering, “Stay,” and meaning only for the night. She can remember thinking she had found someone intense but devoted. Complicated but safe.

She did not realize that “stay” would eventually become the entire relationship.

Valarr’s mindset in the beginning

From Valarr’s perspective, he probably tells himself he is being patient.

He knows he is intense. He knows his feelings are not normal. But in the beginning, he believes he can manage it.

He thinks: I only need to make her love me enough.

He thinks once she understands him, once she trusts him, once she belongs to him emotionally, the fear will stop.

But it does not.

The more she loves him, the more terrified he becomes of losing it.

The more access she gives him, the more access he needs.

The more she becomes part of his life, the less he can tolerate the parts of her life that exist outside him.

So the honeymoon phase is not fake, but it is unstable. It is built on Valarr believing love will cure his need for control, only to discover love makes the need worse.

The tragedy of the beginning

Their beginning was probably beautiful enough that FMC spent a long time defending it.

That is the tragedy.

Because when things got bad, she could still remember when he was gentle. When his protectiveness felt sweet. When his jealousy made her blush instead of flinch. When his attention felt like devotion instead of surveillance.

And Valarr clings to that version too.

He tells himself that is the “real” relationship. The dates, the laughter, the mornings in bed, the private jokes, the way she used to reach for him without hesitation.

But the truth is, the cage was always being built.