vitherd

Unease gnawed at your spine.

Fingers interlocked, elbows resting upon the table, you listened closely to the words of your Master of Coin. The Seven Kingdoms were to reap consequences of the Great Spring Sickness.

Scarcity. Famine. Children, women and men alike, their bodies burned, having succumbed to the disease.

When Valarr’s own grandfather, the previous king, and his sweet brother did too, you undoubtedly saw a great deal of his resolve… crack.

Duty was thrust upon him at once. Overnight, he had been crowned king.

Now, moons upon moons had passed, and here you sat: Queen Consort, having been given a seat at the Small Council by your own husband and King, Valarr Targaryen.

Last night, Valarr had woken up once again in the middle of the night, plagued by his own dreams. He would not speak of the contents. You could guess what they contained.

You immediately got up from your chair once the meeting was over, and searched the halls for him. You wandered off and crossed into the halls toward his chamber, where guards would let you in with no words spoken.

He did not often sit in on the Small Council’s meetings; he entrusted you to do so, while he resumed other work in the meantime. Albeit, it was hard to focus this time as he was the only thing that had been on your mind.

The second you entered, he called out your name, and you saw him smile—perhaps a bit of a strained smile—and you bit on your lower lip as you slid toward him, sitting on the corner of his desk.

“How’d the meeting go?” Valarr asked, reaching over to hold your hand, setting a pamphlet down. You leaned forward, grip firm around his hand, other one stroking his face.

“We shall figure out the details of it all,” you spoke, and brought his hand to your lips, planting a soft peck to his knuckles, “But the council stays cooperative, still.”

“That is… at least good…” he nodded off, then got up, your hands still interlocked. He strode over around and now stood in front of you. “I know you are worried for me, dove.”

“So let me speak.” you smiled, wrapping your legs around his hips to bring him closer toward you. His lips parted, eyes trailing over you. “The wound is still fresh, I know. Yet, my heart breaks when you refuse to help yourself.”

“Help myself? I…” he scoffed, a gentle thing, eyes looking at your intertwined hands, “I am the king. It is my duty to… overcome these pains and… I choose to instead, thrust more duty upon you.”

You shook your head, “Do you thrust duty upon me because of your absence of ability, or because of the presence of my own?”

Valarr smiled, then pressed his lips into a line, “You are certainly good at arguing and debating me with every breath you take.”

“I’ll answer for you, it is the latter,” you then placed your hands on his shoulders, “You are capable. As your grandfather was. As—”

“Love.” He protested.

“—your father was. You—” you pulled him closer, gently, “—shall be great. You already are. The good in you that you’ve shown me, will now be the same good the realm is to see as well.”

“Goodness is not the only quality a king should possess.”

“You are right,” you cocked your head to the side, “Besides being painfully perfect in every way, I do suppose you are quite intent on pissing your wife off.”

“Ah.” Valarr smiled, arms wrapped at your waist, “How have I pissed her off now?”

“Denying facts. Acting illogical despite your smarts. So the only logical reason must be that you want to irritate me.”

He blinked once, letting out a small sigh as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I do not think I… I can ever fill the emptiness he left behind.”

You frowned; Valarr was haunted by his continuous losses. Yet, he could not see his own greatness—he used to be so proud, so certain—in only moons, his world turned upside down.

“Valarr. Love. Husband?” he laughed softly as you kissed the tip of his nose, tilting his chin with your finger, “We haven’t seen many kind kings. You are one of few. Stubborn, smart, strong, good. You have it in you.”

Valarr began to protest. You were quicker.

“And to say otherwise, would be to disgrace the effort your father had put in the raising of those very qualities.”

Now, you have left him dumbfounded. You ran your thumb along his jaw. “You are grieving still. And before you were king, you were human first. And mayhap, if you need to mourn forever… Seven hells, who gives a fuck?”

A scoff left his lips, and when you looked better at him, tears welled up. Valarr bit his lip, and a drop fell from the shutting of his eyes. You physically felt weakened at the sight.

Bringing him in, you hugged him whole, and he buried his face in your shoulder. You heard him let out a small, quiet, muffled sob. You felt tears of your own come close.

Valarr sighed out as you played with his hair, as you knew he loved, to calm him down. Here, in the comfort of you, he could escape all thoughts of Baelor Breakspear. All thoughts of little Matarys, his mother Jenna, the late king and the images of the hedgeknight. The damned Aerion, that fool, who wreaked havoc upon his father.

They all disappeared in the love that you brought. Oh, how could he doubt himself? As a son. As a brother, now king, and husband, when you loved him as he is? He must be great to deserve such love. But how? Why?

Teary-eyed still, he pulled away to look at you. You brought him in for a soft kiss, which he accepted gladly, for in your lips there lied a quiet solace.

You felt so warm in him, and for all the power you held in this realm as Queen, he truly had you wrapped around his finger. And maybe, you him around yours. Tangled up in each other, you were. And… oh, how you adored it this way.

With little struggle, he carried you up from the table, and over to the bed that lied in his chamber. Placing you down on the ruffled cushions, you felt him press against your warmth, and you tugged gently at the silver in his hair.

Valarr moaned. He was always so sensitive with that little streak in his hair. You just couldn’t resist.

His hand trailed down your torso and waist, to your hips and thighs, lifting and feeling up your skirts. He squeezed there, at your thighs, and only so eagerly moved against you, if the friction of it could ever satisfy him.

“Love you, ‘loveyouloveyouloveyou,” he murmured against the skin of your neck as he pressed kisses to it, and you giggled. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, only to flip him over with the bit of strength you held.

Valarr breathed out when you straddled his lap, as if it were the Iron Throne itself. The two of you were like two halves; breathing in sync, moving toward one another as if were the very flow of nature.

“I’ll remind you just how good a king you’ll make,” your hands slipped under his shirt, and up his torso as he watched. He smiled, too pleased.

“And if I don’t learn?”

The teamsters coaxed the horses from the rutted king’s road and into the quieter woodland west of Duskendale. The trees gathered thickly there, their branches lacing overhead in a vaulted canopy of green and burnished gold. Beneath it, the air felt cleaner—freed from the churn of wheels and the dust of passing caravans.

At length, the procession reached a shallow river that slipped lazily through stone and reeds. The horses were led down first, snorting with relief as they lowered their heads to drink. Along the banks, the long line of nobles and servants alike softened under the brief mercy of stillness.

Ladies stepped delicately toward the water’s edge, lifting their skirts just enough to spare them further ruin. Gloves were drawn off finger by finger; boots were rinsed of road-dust. The journey had marked everyone, regardless of rank.

Your lady’s maid, Anne, dropped instinctively to her knees beside you. “My lady, allow me—”

You shook your head, though gently. “No. I will see to it myself.”

She hesitated. “…It is my duty.”

“And you have walked and travelled for the same miles I have,” you replied, your voice quiet but firm. “Wash your own things first.”

You did not consider the scrubbing of leather particularly edifying—but neither did you find it fitting that another should labour over your dirt while bearing her own.

The river’s chill bit at your fingers as you dipped your shoes beneath the current. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed blessedly uncomplicated—river, trees, sky.

Then hurried footfalls fractured the calm.

A man emerged from the road's path, breathless, mud spattered to his knees. He hastened toward the prince and his squire, bowing slightly as he forced the words between breaths.

“The road appears clear now, Your Grace—”

Valarr inclined his head once, and whatever softness had touched him moments prior sharpened back into princely composure. He turned to the gathered company.

“Come,” he called, his voice carrying easily over water and wind. “We continue. My father rides too far ahead.”

There was no dissent. Motion swallowed stillness at once—maids gathering baskets, guards tightening belts, teamsters calling to their horses. The quiet pocket of respite collapsed like a dream at waking.

You rose, blotting your damp hands with a handkerchief. The walk had eased the stiffness in your limbs and untangled some of the weight in your thoughts. Fresh air had done what velvet confinement could not.

That lavish carriage—with its heavy embroidery, gold trim, and dragon sigils stitched into every corner—felt less like comfort and more like omen. A reminder of where you were bound. A reminder of what awaited.

With a servant’s assistance, you climbed once more into the carriage.

Back to misery you go.

By the following day, you reached Rosby, the nearest fortress to the capital. Only ten more exhausting hours remained between you and King’s Landing. In the long stretch from Duskendale to here, you had thought—perhaps too much.

First—

There was no conceivable way the prince was ignorant of the arrangement.

The certainty haunted you. It threaded itself through every shared glance, every softened exchange. It was why the faint quickening of your heart at the mere sight of him had begun to sour.

Did Valarr believe you unaware? Did he imagine silence might cushion the blow of arrangements? Or... was he testing you, gauging how freely you would offer yourself while knowing you were destined for one of his kin?

Why had you kissed him?

...Again?

You pressed your cheek into the cushions of your seat. When apart from him, bitterness came easily. Yet in his presence, confrontation dissolved. If he had played you, he had done so with masterful gentleness.

Second—

Through the idle murmurings of maids, you learned what you could of Prince Maekar’s sons.

Four.

One had been sent to the Citadel at the king’s command. Another was a child of seven summers.

The eldest, if whispers held any truth, was a drunkard and a lecher. The second they called Brightflame.

None were wed.

Little of what you heard comforted you—but gossip was a fickle authority. And Valarr was well-loved. Word of him had reached even the Reach. Surely that must count for something?

The ache of travel had you longing—traitorously—for the comfort of his mouth against yours.

…Later, you stopped at a tavern for food. Your ladies and you arrived first to order; three coppers secured the last of the vanilla pudding. You were ravenous, though nothing else on offer tempted you. Perhaps you were spoiled beyond remedy.

Passing the royals and your escort, you seated yourself on the wooden step outside the tavern’s entrance, bowl in hand.

Valarr emerged not long after. He blinked down at you as you were midway through a generous spoonful. “You cannot simply wander off like that,” he sighed, shoulders slumping as he crouched beside you.

You glanced sidelong at his own meal—thin soup cradled in his hands—and an inelegant snort escaped you.

He turned at once. “What?”

His brows drew together, confusion sharpening his features in a way that made him almost unfairly handsome.

“You look absurd,” you informed him.

“I am eating!”

“Hunched, neck bent, breathing into the bowl. How very regal.”

Valarr hissed and shifted upright beside you. “A man cannot consume his supper in peace without being desecrated.”

You waved it off with a faint smile—but noticed, suddenly, the way his gaze lingered on your hands.

On the pudding.

Ah.

You nudged his arm lightly. “Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“You'd make a lady repeat herself?”

With visible hesitation—and the faintest flutter of lashes—he obeyed. You fed him a spoonful.

He swallowed, then looked at you with a sheepish curve to his lips. “What was that for?”

“You were staring,” you said lightly. “Have you a sweet tooth I ought to know of, Your Grace?”

He scoffed, lips pursed in mock dignity. “Perhaps.”

A beat passed.

“Shall we trade, then?” you mused.

His gaze flickered between you and the cup. Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “No, you were enjoying—”

“Take it, Valarr.”

The use of his name silenced him. Before he could protest further, you exchanged bowls.

He blinked at the pudding now in his hands.

“When we reach King’s Landing,” he muttered, “and the realm whispers that I rob ladies of their sweets, I shall regret this.”

You laughed softly as he began—quite enthusiastically—to eat.

For a while, you sat shoulder to shoulder in companionable quiet. The fresh air felt kind against your skin. A small, foolish part of you wished you might remain here indefinitely—on a tavern step, with nothing grander to contend with than soup and pudding.

You studied the bowl in your lap.

You had surrendered sweetness for him without hesitation.

What strange devil had possessed you?

After a time, he spoke, "Should I pray for the man you end up marrying?"

A moment. You turned to him. "What?"

Valarr laughed, shaking his head, "I mean, you are quite the personality. Not… never in a bad way, of course," he turned to you, feeling as if he had said something wrong.

You took in his face; and it suddenly clicked,

He did not know.

How could he not know?

Glancing over to the bowl in your lap once more, you watched as the steam blended into the atmosphere. The prince shifted toward you, now a little worried.

"I did not mean to offend—"

"My father has sent me with you because," you began, your eyes furrowed, "He wishes to betroth me to one of Prince Maekar's sons, I know not which one," you felt Valarr stiffen beside you.

The air felt thicker now. Laced with something deeper, something you could not quite point out.

"I thought you knew." you finished, tapping your finger against the bowl, "And were only avoiding it."

When you managed to look at him, his lips were slightly parted, and he had stumbled over his words. "I did not know." was all he could muster up.

In that moment, you simply exchanged a look. The noise inside of the tavern, drowned in the tension created here and now. You scoffed, "We truly are as similar as you say, I suppose," an attempt to lighten the mood.

Something in his eyes darkened. It made you feel uneasy.

"Aerion."

After seconds of haunting silence, he almost spat the name out, "You're the one they spoke of. The one that is supposed to wed him."

You hadn't spoken to Valarr since.

The next ten hours of travelling toward King's Landing were spent in excruciating and anxious anticipation. Mayhap, more like a sense of impending doom.

King’s Landing rose before you in pale stone and banners of crimson, the Red Keep crowning Aegon’s Hill like a promise—or a warning. In silks and frills, you were helped from the carriage, careful of the long train that followed like a tide at your heels. Valarr had arrived ahead of you. Since that quiet understanding had dawned between you, he had grown distant.

You knew why, deep down.

No matter,

Prince Baelor awaited you at the gates. “It seems,” he said warmly, “that instead of arriving together, I am to serve as your escort.”

His carriage had reached the city a day earlier.

You inclined your head and fell into step beside him. His composure was unlike Valarr’s. Where Valarr felt warm and human and almost impulsive beneath his training, Baelor was discipline embodied. Measured. Regal. The sort of presence that bent rooms without effort.

Valarr had been shaped for rule; Baelor seemed born from it.

“Were your travels agreeable?” he asked.

“While the road has not been kind to my back, Your Grace, I never once felt unsafe.” You offered him the gentle, court-taught smile perfected in the Reach.

He returned it easily. “You are to meet the king and queen,” he said. “My brother awaits as well—with three of his sons. Aerion…” There was the faintest shift in his tone. “He is the one discussed with your father.”

You hummed softly. The name had etched itself into you the moment Valarr first spoke it.

“I see.”

Bitterness from one prince. A fracture—however slight—in another. You were increasingly certain of your assumption: this Aerion must disappoint in some way. Was he cruel? Mad? A lecher? A drunkard?

The latter faults you could navigate. Cruelty was another matter entirely. It did not bend easily.

You had changed before your arrival. The knight had stood guard outside while your ladies worked quickly, unlacing, brushing, fastening. Now you wore a gown of pale sea-glass blue silk, light as breath against your skin. The bodice was softly pleated, the fabric gathered in delicate folds that framed your collarbones before drawing inward at the waist.

The skirt flowed in generous panels, layered and airy, cascading to the floor in gentle waves that moved like water when you walked. Each step sent a whisper through the fabric. A sheer, translucent capelet rested upon your shoulders, trailing faintly behind you — barely there, but enough to soften your silhouette.

Your hair had been left loose, brushed but not overly tamed. The faint frizz from travel only softened you further—less sculpted idol, more living thing.

As you traversed through the halls, you wondered: If you pushed a prince into a well—would that suffice to end a betrothal without forfeiting your head?

Your skirts whispered along the stone as Baelor led you through the inner ward, toward the great hall. Your name was announced.

The air thinned.

Should you impress?

…Should you diminish yourself? No.

You did not wish to wed some insufferable princeling.

But you were damn ambitious.

“—daughter of Leo Longthorn, has arrived.”

The doors opened.

White hair. Gold gleaming. Crowns. All that, came to you as a blur of hues.

To the left stood the king and queen—unmistakable. King Daeron, silver-haired and composed, and beside him the Martell queen in gold and sun-warmed orange, radiant even with age traced gently across her features. Wrinkles adorned her bronze skin like careful script; her dark hair, streaked with silver, fell elegantly over her shoulders.

To their right stood Prince Maekar—tall, broad, pox-scarred, silver-haired, expression carved from stone. And beside him, three boys.

The tallest bore ash-blond hair, slightly unruly, eyes sharp and restless. Next stood a prince of startling beauty—white-haired, violet-eyed, ethereal enough to steal breath at a glance. The youngest was small, long white hair nearly swallowing his slight frame; something in you softened at the sight.

You advanced, poised and measured. Baelor halted as you reached the dais.

You bowed deeply and kissed the palms the king and queen that'd been extended.

The queen took your hands at once. “Oh, sweet girl,” she beamed, “you are precisely as they say. Daeron, look at her—she is truly the jewel of the south. Those frills—my dear—”

Her warmth was disarming. Had you not been trained in courts and currents of power, you might have flushed like a maiden.

The king smiled. “We hope you will find comfort during your stay.”

He gestured toward Maekar, who stepped forward with the second of his sons.

“Lady Tyrell,” Maekar said, voice iron-forged, “My second eldest, Prince Aerion Targaryen.”

You rose and met his gaze.

He was beautiful. There was no denying it. Moonlit skin, silver hair cropped short, violet eyes bright and arresting.

Yet when your eyes locked, something in them felt like greyscale—cold, creeping, lifeless beneath the sheen.

“Your Grace,” you said smoothly.

With a swift motion, he extended his hand. In it lay a circular embroidery worked in red and green—dragon and rose intertwined in gold thread.

“My lady,” Aerion said, voice honey-laced with something sharper beneath, “a gift. A symbol of union with House Targaryen.”

His smile showed the faintest hint of teeth.

You accepted it carefully.

“Gods,” you spoke, with courtly admiration, "It is quite too much, and a bit too beautiful."

But if you looked closer,

The dragon’s body coiled about the golden rose.

As if ready to consume it.

“What do you think of it?” Aerion asked, tilting his head.

Maekar gave a faint scoff. “Leave the girl be.” He hushed.

Aerion did not look away from you. “Her interpretation is of value.” A harmless smile on his lips, but hidden venom spilled from them.

All eyes pressed upon you.

You let your thumb trace the stitched scales. You lifted your gaze to meet his.

“The dragon encircles the flower,” you said gently, “as it has hovered over every field since the Conquest—and shall continue to do so.”

Aerion studied you. Then he smiled. “Yes. Quite right." The prince chuckled, "Petals cannot kill a dragon. The Conqueror knew as much.”

The Conquerors, you nearly corrected. And when they came, Harlan Tyrell was but a steward to House Gardener. Where the Gardeners went extinct, the Tyrell thorns rose.

But you curtsied instead, serene. “Few things can.”

It seems Aerion forgot about the thorns in his little embroidery.

His smirk deepened—satisfied.

So he was a little cruel. Perhaps even more so, away from the eyes of the court.

You studied him once more, briefly. He was every inch the Targaryen ideal. Ethereal. Radiant.

Yet, his violet eyes, lacked a color more. They lacked in a firm softness, his hair entirely too bright for your liking, and his face; in all its beauty, entirely too wrong.

Perhaps,

he would be quite right, if he was anything like…

...

You had slept from the hour past noon until the pale light of the following morning crept through your curtains. The exhaustion had not merely rested upon you—it had rooted itself into bone and marrow, threading along your spine, pooling behind your eyes. Even waking felt like surfacing from deep water.

Aerion Targaryen was far from ideal.

In truth, the very sight of him unsettled you.

You broke your fast that morning among daughters of noble houses and ladies-in-waiting from Queen Myriah Martell’s court. They were unlike the women of the Crownlands and Stormlands—less brittle, less eager to preen. There was warmth in them. A kind of sunlit composure. They laughed without cruelty; they listened without calculation.

You found you did not mind their company.

Tea steamed gently from porcelain cups. Conversation danced lightly around you. You sipped, smiled, contributed where needed.

Then—silver.

A flash of it, slipping behind a table, vanishing, reappearing.

You narrowed your eyes.

With a polite excuse, you rose and drifted toward the disturbance.

There, half-hidden behind carved wood and heavy cloth, stood a small prince with wide violet eyes and very little skill at espionage.

Prince Aegon looked up at you.

“My—my apologies, my lady,” he stammered at once, bowing his head so quickly it nearly knocked against the table. “I did not mean to spy—”

You laughed—genuinely—and reached for his hand.

“It is quite all right, my prince.”

You drew him gently out from hiding and crouched to his height. “Are you lost? Shall I call for someone?”

He shook his head at once, clutching your sleeve as though you might vanish. “Please do not. My—er—brother Aerion wished me to spar with him in the training yard…”

One of your brows lifted.

“So,” you murmured, smiling slightly, “you escaped.”

He nodded solemnly, placing his small hands behind his back as if bracing for judgment. “I… I know what he means to do.”

“And what is that?”

Aegon hesitated, then leaned closer, tugging your skirt as you rose.

“He is cruel, my lady,” he whispered urgently. “You cannot marry him. Aerion thinks he is a dragon in human form. He is mad.”

You stilled.

A child speaking so plainly of fear—of his own brother.

You did not allow your expression to betray you. Instead, you smiled softly.

“The prince trains often?” you asked gently. “With your other brother?”

“No. Daeron is ill-suited for battle,” Aegon murmured. “It is likely some poor soul he has chosen to humiliate for sport.”

You extended your hand.

“Then I shall protect you, little prince.”

His eyes widened in something like awe, before he placed his small hand in yours.

You walked together through the corridors, your steps light, his slightly hurried to keep pace.

“Do you know what Prince Aerion thought of our meeting?” you asked, as if idly curious.

Aegon considered. “He seemed… satisfied enough. But Aerion does not seek a wife, I am certain.”

His voice lowered.

“Only someone to torment.”

Your blood ran hotter at that.

How much had this child endured? How had a boy of seven come to speak so knowingly of cruelty?

Fear brushed at you—but something fiercer rose to meet it.

You hummed thoughtfully. “I am glad he found some satisfaction, then,” you said evenly, though the warmth had drained from your tone.

Aegon brightened suddenly. “How was the tourney at Maidenpool?”

You glanced down at him, smile returning with ease. “Quite pleasant. You missed nothing terribly important, I assure you. When you are older, you shall attend far grander spectacles.”

He pouted. “Did anyone fight in your favor?”

The answer came before caution.

“Yes,” you admitted.

His face lit like dawn. “Who? Who?”

“A secret,” you said, turning to poke his nose lightly. “But should you ever discover it—know he fought gallantly.”

“That is no fun,” he complained, though smiling still. “Is it not romantic?”

“It is customary,” you replied lightly. “More principle than passion.”

“But what if your knight fought from love, not principle?”

You laughed softly. “You think so?”

He nodded with grave conviction.

“Then perhaps it must be so,” you mused. “Though what am I to do? Prince Aerion awaits me instead.”

“No!” Aegon protested at once. “The knight awaits! The knight!”

You turned toward the tall windows overlooking the lower courtyards. The distant ring of steel reached your ears.

Below, figures moved—blades flashing in measured arcs.

“Are those the training grounds?” you asked.

“I presume so,” Aegon replied, frowning. “But I cannot see.”

You blinked—and realized the sill rose too high for him.

Without hesitation, you lifted him into your arms. He gasped, then grinned brightly, clutching your shoulders.

“And now, my prince?”

He squinted. “Yes! The training yard indeed! And there—” His expression shifted. “Aerion.”

Your gaze followed his small pointing finger.

“And…” he added, smiling wide now, “Prince Valarr! I believe he means to spar with him.”

Your breath stilled.

There he was—distant yet unmistakable. The set of his shoulders. The familiar line of him in motion.

You bit the inside of your lip to suppress the smile threatening you.

“Shall we watch?” you asked softly.

“I wish to see Valarr silence Aerion at last,” Aegon declared with fervor. Then he looked at you, suddenly serious. “But only if you promise you will not leave me to him.”

You adjusted your hold on him, steady and sure.

“You have my word, Your Grace," A giggle left you, and you set him down. He took your hand once more, and led you toward the yard.

The two of you slid past guards and knights up the stands encircling the yard. Aegon sat up on his knees beside you to make himself taller, and below both of you sat some men of the court, some ladies. You were unnoticed, for the time being.

Aerion’s blade cut through the air in sharp, deliberate arcs, each strike measured yet merciless. A Celtigar squire stumbled beneath the onslaught, struggling to keep pace with movements far beyond his skill. Aerion’s smile stretched wide as the boy faltered — not the smile of a man proud of his expertise, but of one who delighted in watching others break beneath it.

“Come now, boy. You are beginning to bore me,” he drawled, running his tongue over his teeth.

Without warning, he lunged.

The squire jolted, barely managing to lift his wooden sword before Aerion halted just short of him — and laughed. The sound rang bright and cruel. A pretty sound. But a chilling one, nonetheless.

“Did that frighten you? Truly?”

He tapped the boy’s head with the flat of his practice blade. The squire winced, hands flying up in surrender.

“I yield! I yield!” he breathed, clutching the bruise already rising on his brow.

“That is not becoming of a man,” Aerion spat lightly, still smiling. “I blame you for not yielding at once.”

A ripple of giggles fluttered through the gathered ladies. Beside you, Aegon went still.

Valarr leaned back in his chair, lifting his cup to his lips, as though analysing the other prince. Aerion turned toward him, eyes gleaming.

“Why, cousin,” he called lightly, “Shall we spar instead? I have come all this way from Summerhall. Surely you would indulge me?”

Valarr’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he set the cup aside. You felt something strange at the sight — your knees threatening to give beneath you.

“Come now,” Aerion pressed, spreading his arms wide. “You are the prince. The joy of the realm.”

Valarr stood.

“Sure,” he said simply. Almost as if he was bored.

His squire tossed him a training stick; Valarr caught it one-handed and spun it loosely as he stepped onto the grounds.

Aerion arched a brow. “How rare — you agreeing to fight me.”

He moved first — or tried to.

Valarr was faster.

The prince’s strike landed before Aerion could complete his own swing, forcing him to defend. Where Aerion’s movements were sharp and cutting, Valarr’s were precise to the point of inevitability. He flowed rather than struck, sidestepping an attack with almost effortless grace.

Whispers spread through the stands. Knights leaned forward. Bets were quietly placed.

Aerion retreated a pace, then spun his stick and hurled it toward Valarr’s face, the air hissing with its speed. Valarr ducked cleanly, focus sharpening, deeper than you had seen even during the joust.

This was, however, no longer sport.

It was personal.

Aerion lunged in close, aiming an elbow toward his cousin’s ribs, but Valarr moved like quicksilver. He wrenched the stick from Aerion’s grasp and flung it aside.

The prince laughed — and drove his fist into Valarr’s face.

The crack of impact echoed.

Valarr staggered forward, but not away. He caught Aerion’s wrist mid-motion and twisted. The silver prince hissed in pain as Valarr struck him hard at the side of the head with his elbow. A swift kick sent Aerion to the dirt, and Valarr’s boot pressed firm against his chest.

Aerion lifted his hands in mock surrender, licking the blood from his lip.

“Someone is upset,” he smirked. “How come?”

Valarr stood over him, wooden blade pointed toward his throat. With his free hand, he wiped at his own mouth. A bruise bloomed along his right cheek — dark, striking against fair skin.

It was insane how you thought he looked quite pretty with it.

“You are far too impulsive,” Valarr sighed. “And impatient.”

Aerion tilted his head. Valarr stepped back at last, tossing the stick aside. Aerion then taunted, “One might think you took it to heart.”

Valarr mirrored the tilt, expression cool. “One would first have to assume you possess one. Though, I mustn’t forget it is one of many things you lack.”

You hid your smile behind your hand. Aegon giggled beside you, delighted.

Aerion spat blood into the dirt and rose slowly. His eyes flicked past Valarr — landing on you. Aegon shrank behind your arm as Aerion’s smirk deepened.

“Brother,” he greeted smoothly. “Lady Tyrell,” he then said, lighter.

Valarr blinked and turned.

“Lady Tyrell. And Aegon,” he added, though his gaze rested only on you. Something uncertain flickered there — something carefully restrained. Yet he smiled, albeit softer than usually would.

Aegon tugged urgently at your sleeve. “We must go,” he whispered. “Aerion—” You hummed thoughtfully, rising and taking the boy’s hand.

“It was most entertaining,” you said lightly, “But Prince Aegon and I have affairs to attend to. Do we not?”

“Yes!” Aegon nodded fervently. “Affairs! Important ones.” He beamed up at you before glancing toward Valarr. “Well fought, Cousin Valarr!”

Aerion lifted his brows. “Aw. And my congratulations?”

You glanced down at Aegon — now practically hidden behind your skirts — before offering a polite dip of your head.

“You fought well, my prince.”

Though your eyes flickered elsewhere.

At someone else.

Aerion smiled, teeth flashing. “I should train more, perhaps — for the sake of my betrothed.”

Valarr’s gaze snapped from you to him.

“Yes,” Valarr said evenly. “You should. Lest you fail as both protector and… being a dragon.”

He brushed past Aerion without waiting for reply.

Aerion blinked after him. “What troubles you, cousin? You are unsteady today.” He laughed.

You bowed briefly. “Excuse us.” You guided Aegon away from the stands. Behind you, Valarr turned — just slightly — to steal one more glance.

Instead of you, he found Aegon staring back.

The boy blinked. Looked between you both.

His eyes widened.

He gasped.

Then smiled sweetly.

Valarr swallowed.

When you asked Aegon what was amiss, having heard the sound of his gasp, he replied, “Nothing at all,” and then, after a moment:

“…Marry the knight instead. Please.”

The sight of him had undone you.

You had not understood it then — only later, in the quiet of your chambers, when the noise of court had faded and you were left alone with yourself. It came to you slowly, like a truth you had long refused to name.

There had always been a pull between you.

Wherever you drifted, he was there — as though drawn by some unseen thread. And when he moved, you found yourself watching, following without meaning to. Since that tavern in Rosby, you had not spoken. Not truly. And yet the silence between you felt louder than any quarrel.

You had told yourself your unease was born solely from the arrangement looming before you. The betrothal. The expectations. The future closing in.

But a quieter part of you knew better.

Valarr did not stir fear in you. He stirred absence.

A hollowing.

He made you aware of the shape of your own heart — and how easily it could be wounded. How easily it could be seen. Someone who had once felt aligned with you, reflective even, now stood at a distance across cold stone halls, reduced to formality and glances stolen over shoulders.

Had you been foolish to indulge it?

To allow those shared moments — those unguarded conversations, those looks that lingered too long — to mean something?

Now, whenever you looked at Aerion, something inside you thinned.

It was not merely dislike. It was erosion.

As though, piece by piece, you were shedding a version of yourself you had carefully crafted over years — sharp-tongued, composed, untouchable. With him, you did not calculate. You did not strategize. You did not think of ways to bend him, to maneuver him, to win.

Instead—

You searched for Valarr in him.

And that was your greatest weakness of all.

At supper, Aerion had leaned close enough that only you could hear him. The candlelight flickered against silver hair and sharp angles.

“You are a pretty woman, certainly,” he murmured, tearing into his bread. Yet his gaze lingered far too long on the blade in his hand. “You would make a pretty bride. Alas… you are quite…”

He did not finish immediately. He did not need to.

“Plain.”

Ordinarily, you would have smiled brighter. Fed his vanity, soothed his pride, let him believe himself magnanimous for offering even that.

But something in you stilled.

Valarr would never have said such a thing.

You knew it to be untrue. You had never doubted yourself — not truly. Why, then, were you searching for the warmth of one prince in the cold remarks of another?

“Of course not, my prince,” you replied smoothly, lips curving with practiced grace. “I possess none of the blood of the dragon, after all.”

Even as the words left you, they tasted sour.

To any sensible person, such a statement would have sounded absurd. You were, by every measure whispered across courts and kingdoms, striking beyond reason. To diminish yourself so easily bordered on madness.

But Aerion smiled.

At the faintest elevation of his house — at the quiet suggestion that Targaryen blood made beauty itself — he approved.

Your submission pleased him.

And you hated how that was enough.

Men were fickle. Easy to please. You had now learned that; mad, cruel or vain, they could all be won over in one way or another.

It was not sufficient for you anymore.

And you despised it.

You groaned softly in your pillow, then rose to sit up on your cushions. Propping yourself up from there, you opened up the windows of your chamber and stared down at the sight from it; not as pretty, however it loomed over terraces upon terraces where guards stood, and from it you could make up the faint yelling of servants.

They gathered, whispering about. Whether they whispered or yelled aloud, you could not make out what they said either way. Suddenly, rustling was heard in the hallways— you found yourself listening against your door.

You could just barely make out words. Mistranslated, don’t know, she, early.

It was quite the riddle. Slowly, you would lean completely against your door, and you heard a haunting name spoken, one you would not have counted on.

Kiera of Tyrosh.

Valarr had to practically be dragged to the Great Hall to believe it. His usually put-together self now had crinkles in his shirt with intricate velvet embroidery, and the strands of his ruffled hair did not fall as neatly over his brow as they always had.

A small Tyroshi delegation stood in front of him. Even his father and grandfather had done little to conceal their surprise; Kiera of Tyrosh had arrived early, a fortnight and a week early to be exact— apparently, the letter sent had been misconstrued from the Hand’s own words, and they settled for the noblelady Kiera to sail a week, instead of a moon from then.

Kiera was quite pretty— beautiful, with her dyed pink curls, and dark skin that glowed under the court chandeliers. But where her beauty showed, Valarr felt guilty.

He could only note the absence of your own features.

Even when he pressed the lady’s palm against his forehead, he could not bring himself to kiss her hand as he did yours. He could only think of the differences in your hands, your voice, your eyes and just about everything that made you, you.

Kiera of Tyrosh was a fine noblewoman, and quite sweet. His father had secured a good match. Unfortunately for her,

She was not you.

Ever since he put together that Aerion and you were to wed, a function of his stopped working.

It was not fair. His betrothal to Kiera had been set in stone, when he heard the news of your own. Yet, it did not make him any less bitter.

To find Aerion of all people would have your hand, made him seethe beyond compare. As much as Daeron had abandoned all his duties as Prince, he had been kind in his heart— no, even if that were the case, Valarr would find a problem still.

He knew that.

Even when Kiera spoke to him, accent thick as she used the Common Tongue, he would never answer as enthusiastically as he should have, or would have.

He missed the moments, albeit short, that he had with you.

But how could he reach you, when you were so close, yet so far away?

A thousand eyes loomed over the Red Keep,

but his were only reserved for you.

On the morrow, you were present at a ladies’ tea-party, where women encircled around the newly-arrived lady from Tyrosh.

She was beautiful— the sort of beauty rare in Westeros, with her pretty, dark lips, and intricate pink locks. Both cute and proper, when she laughed, it was slightly nervous and overwhelmed— swarmed by ladies, and only you could quite catch it.

A daughter of House Lannister spoke, “And those golds you wear… One would say you are even showing off…” She said it sweetly, though courtly bites hid beneath it.

You set your saucer down on the table elegantly, and shook your head, “Come now. All know Tyrosh to be a merchantile city,” you smiled, “Though the choosing of your Archon has always been far more interesting to me.”

Kiera turned to you, beaming. “You know it? Ah… our traditions, they are quite different…” When she spoke, you found her accent to be quite honeying to your ears.

With a nod, you continued, “But status seems to preside no matter the continent.”

After a beat, she inclined her head, “That much is true, my lady.”

A lady from House Rykker added, after sipping on her tea, “You are betrothed to Prince Valarr, no? Second in line… Gods be good, you shall be the Queen one day…”

Another lady jumped in, “How was it? Are you most enamoured? Say you are,” She giggled, leaning far too close to Kiera. You shifted in your seat.

“Ah, yes… The Prince is most likeable indeed. He is kind and gentle.” Kiera finished, but the shifting of her fingers in her lap made her seem quite nervous. She then looked at you, and smiled, “You are to marry another Dragon Prince, no?”

You felt the stares of ladies shift to you, and you twirled a strand of your hair, “Yes, Prince Aerion. He is quite the dragon.” Your insides cringed at the words; Valarr never once basked in the blood of his house. But Aerion did, and complying seemed to satisfy him enough.

She smiled, “Then, we are in the same spot, I suppose.” Leaning forward, she took your hand in hers. The ladies around you looked at her as if she was mad. “Perhaps we are more similar than we think.”

You nodded, placing your palm over hers. So sweet, she was, you noted—as bright as the sun, there was no way to deny her— “You will make quite the Princess, Kiera.”

Kiera of Tyrosh was undeniably about the sweetest little lady ever.

You thought her to be a great match for Valarr.

“Well,” the Lannister lady spoke, “I hope the ball ‘morrow night shall not disappoint,” she sighed, plopping a berry between her plump lips.

After the noon, you walked the gardens with the newly come Kiera, your dresses trailing behind your feet.

“How come you had arrived so early?” you questioned, genuine curiosity prodding at your words.

Kiera smiled sheepishly, “Tyroshi is— a low form of High Valyrian. Someone mistranslated the letter, it seems,” she looked around at the flowers surrounding you, “It called for my presence a week hence. So I came, but I was welcomed with kindness nevertheless.”

You nodded your head, humming softly, “It is good you came.” you stopped, and she did as well, “This castle required some of your light.”

She giggled, a pretty sound, “I thank you for helping me with the ladies,” she said bashfully, “Or even if you did not mean to, I was glad to have someone of—…”

“Of sense. Come, you do not need to mince your words for me.” you replied softly, and she interlocked your arms as you continued on walking.

“They say you travelled with the Prince…” she turned to look at you, “Say, how good is he?”

You blinked at her, then cocked your head to the side. He’s quite the man—you wanted to say—a kind of man you had yet to meet. Something in you stung for her now, having been reminded of the inappropriateness of your and Valarr’s relationship.

“I know not much of him, but,” you used your free hand to pat her shoulder gently, “He acts every bit a prince.”

She halted in her response, then opened her lips to speak again, “He— he did seem quite distracted when we met,” she confessed, “I hope he does not mind my early arrival or…”

“He was perhaps surprised,” you smiled warmly, but something in your guts burned, “I am sure it will be alright.”

Someone coughed in the bushes as you passed.

The two of you turned, and Kiera looked to you; the guards that acted as your chaperone were chatting along. You raised your eyebrow and walked to the bush, kicked in, and was very amused when it replied with a wince.

Prince Daeron, as you’ve come to know it, surged forth from the clusters of green. Kiera squeaked, and you simply meant to hide your smile, but failed.

He stumbled over, holding at his stomach, “Gods, godsgodsgods, that hurts— What do they feed you in the Reach—” His messy, long blonde hair fell over his brows, and he bit at his lower lip, “You should enter a tourney, my lady…”

Kiera stood next to you, clutching at her skirts, “Is that a stable boy, my lady?”

“No, it is just a prince of the realm,” you mused, holding out your hand for him before his dirt-stained face grimaced, shaking his head aggressively.

“Shh, I am hiding from my father,” he crouched down, “Please, dear sister, do not sell me out. Uh, ale? Wine? Something, I shall give you in turn?”

Kiera winced, “T-That is a prince?” A smile formed on her lips, “Oh…”

When the guards asked what you were looking at behind a bush, you waved them off, and watched as Prince Maekar indeed passed through the gardens in a hurry.

“Well, he is gone,” you turned back to him, “Will you truly just lie about the dirt?”

His eyes found Kiera’s, and he smiled at her, mouthing a hello, then he sat up and looked back to you. “You do not know how he gets, lady Tyrell…” Daeron sighed.

You two watched as he rose, wiping at his dirty face. “Are you alright, Your Grace?” You said, perhaps too tauntingly.

“I am great! Though, that is the question I should instead be posing to the poor soul betrothed to my brother,” he smiled back at you, then extended his hand to Kiera, “I am Prince Daeron. The drunken, so they call me. You know, because I am so drunk.”

Despite the dirt on his hands, Kiera returned the shake, and you saw a slight spark in her eyes awaken as she did, “I am Kiera. It is a pleasure to meet you, most certainly.”

“Ah! Valarr’s betrothed,” he nodded, then turned to you slowly, “And the two of you are getting along…?”

“I would say so.” You smiled at the other woman, who nodded in turn.

“Lady Tyrell has been very kind to me.” Kiera replied.

“Oh, that’s just great.” He blinked, then bowed, “There is my father again, I shall see my way… out.”

Before you could respond, Daeron bolted.

You heard Maekar curse behind you, his voice echoing throughout the gardens.

Kiera and you burst out laughing.

The Red Keep had never looked so alive.

The Great Hall shimmered beneath a thousand candles suspended in iron chandeliers shaped like twisting dragons. Their flames flickered against vaulted ceilings painted in deep crimsons and golds, turning the stone walls molten in hue. Silken banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen cascaded between towering pillars, and beneath them the court gathered in waves of velvet, satin, jewels, and whispered ambition.

Music swelled from the orchestra gallery — lutes, harps, pipes, and the steady pulse of drums — weaving something bright and intoxicating into the air. Perfume and wine drifted together, mingling with the heat of too many bodies and too many secrets.

And then you entered.

Your hair was swept half-up into an intricate crown of braids, woven delicately across the back of your head and threaded with fine golden chains that shimmered in the candlelight. The rest fell freely in rich, defined curls down your back, a few soft ringlets left to frame your face. Small rose-shaped clips nestled between the braids, subtle yet unmistakably regal.

The gown flowed like poured moonlight and mist. A sheer ivory overlay draped over a soft, powder-blue underlayer, the bodice adorned with delicate beading that caught the candlelight like scattered stars. The sleeves were long and ethereal, falling in translucent panels past your arms. Around your waist rested a wide sash of muted blue, from which hung intricate golds and filigree ornaments that swayed with each step — subtle chimes of metal against silk. Lace traced the hem in tender, curling patterns.

Quite plainly, you were a gem.

Knights faltered mid-sentence. Lords turned their heads. Ladies either leaned toward one another in breathless praise or masked their envy behind fans. You moved through them like something rare and untouchable — and found your seat beside Prince Aerion.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice low and honeyed. “So you’ve made it.”

His gaze dragged over you without shame, slow and assessing — not admiration, but possession. You smiled pleasantly and reached first for the goblet before you.

“Are you enjoying the festivities, my prince?”

“Do not jest,” he muttered. “It is all rather ridiculous.”

His eyes flicked to your cup as you drank. He extended his hand without speaking, fingers expectant. You arched a brow but surrendered the goblet. He drank from the same rim, humming softly.

You glanced toward the sea of dancers — nobles spinning and laughing beneath golden light, skirts twirling, boots stamping to the rhythm.

“They do look rather ridiculous,” you admitted with a small smirk.

Aerion scoffed. “As if dancing will spare them their reaping.”

In the absence of his father, you noticed, the prince had been less confined to appearing... courtly.

You said nothing, only accepted the goblet again.

He turned back to you.

“...You are pleasing to look at tonight.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Do not pretend humility,” he waved off. “Only a woman of such appearance could have been chosen for me.”

Your jaw tightened. Chosen.

As if you were fucking cattle.

“You thought me plain the other day,” you said coolly, letting the edge slip free.

He held your gaze. “Well, I—”

“My mistake,” you interrupted smoothly. “Princes are not so fickle, after all. I must have misheard.”

His brows rose. He clicked his tongue, studying you. “It seems you took offense. I meant for you to accept it sweetly.”

“Worry not, my prince. I shall not take it to heart.”

A whistle slipped from him as he leaned closer, breath warm and intrusive. “What has got you so worked up?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do not fret, my lady. I shall correct that once you are in my bed.”

Revulsion flared hot and immediate. You slammed the goblet down — metal striking wood, grazing his pinkie. He hissed, then laughed.

“I prefer you like this,” he mused. “When you wish to hurt me.”

You smiled sweetly. “Who said anything about hurting you?”

You did not want to hurt him.

You wanted to crack his skull open against this table here and now, and check for yourself if it would spill dragon fire.

Across the hall, Valarr had seen you the moment you entered.

The dress curved along you as though made from devotion itself. He noticed the way candlelight softened the blue at your waist, how the fabrics swayed when you breathed. He had always found you beautiful— but tonight, it felt cruel.

He imagined his fingers in your hair, tracing the small roses. Wondered if your curls were as soft as they appeared. He wanted you to consume him, in his entirety.

Then he saw Aerion lean toward you.

Saw something flicker across your face.

Rage coiled tight in his chest.

If it had only been anyone else. Anyone but Aerion.

Evil. Vain. Mad. Absolutely undeserving of you.

If only you were betrothed to—

Kiera of Tyrosh’s voice beside him dissolved into nothing. Something about a dance. Something irrelevant.

Perhaps he would not make as good a husband as you once said he would.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping stone. His strides were not graceful; they were determined. He wove through dancers, between laughter and silk, until he stood behind you, hands clasped behind his back.

Aerion’s eyes lifted first.

You turned over your shoulder.

Your eyes met his.

Up close, you were a devastating force on his heart.

“Lady Tyrell,” Valarr said, voice laced by something bittersweet. “I've realized something. For all our feasts at Maidenpool… we have never once danced.”

He extended his hand.

Valarr smiled.

“Would you dance with me tonight?”

Aerion shifted sharply in his seat. “What—”

You placed your hand in Valarr’s without hesitation.

“Any time, my prince.”

"No?" Aerion scoffed. “You cannot simply dance with my betrothed.”

Valarr glanced at him over your shoulder. “You will live.”

And then he pulled you gently into the tide of bodies.

The music changed.

The bright tempo softened into something slower — a folk melody carried by a lone fiddle and the steady hum of a harp. The drums quieted into a heartbeat rhythm. Conversations lowered. Pairs drew closer.

Valarr’s hand remained wrapped around yours, firm but careful, as though he feared you might vanish.

You began to circle one another.

Not rushed. Not practiced for spectacle. The dance was an orbit, simply and plainly.

You stepped outward, skirts brushing the stone, and he followed — a measured echo. He turned, guiding your joined hands upward, and you slipped beneath them, the blue and ivory of your gown blooming like a turning cloud.

Your fingers intertwined again — not merely touching, but threading together.

The space between you narrowed.

The dance was a conversation spoken without words: approach, retreat, return. Your bodies curved along invisible lines, each step trusting the other to complete it. When he drew you in, it was subtle — a slight pull at your joined hands, enough that your breath mingled for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

You circled again, closer this time.

Your skirts brushed his boots.

His thumb traced the inside of your knuckles unconsciously, as though committing the shape of you to memory.

His eyes met yours. You felt most safe in his gaze.

"Kiera is quite right for you," you breathed, as he pulled you closer to the drawn cords of the harp.

Valarr stood quiet for a moment, as you adjusted the tips of your fingers against his.

"You're wrong. She is not the right one."

He looked at you. Valarr really, really looked at you as he said those words.

The melody swelled, tender and almost mournful.

You curtsied. He called out your name. You excused yourself.

The clench in your chest tightened. You ran your fingers through the curls of your hair thrown over your shoulder, your skirts flowing behind you.

A balcony.

Gods. You weren't that suicidal yet. Why the fuck were you here?

You exhaled, resting your elbows upon the railing, your hands on your temples. Staring down at the yards below you, you noted how if someone pushed you now, it would be quite the ending for you.

"Aerion is practically brimming with rage, that monster," a voice sighed out behind you, and you wanted to choke the shit out of them. You turned, and Daeron made his way next to you, "Must mean you did something right."

You scoffed, "He is not the issue," you stole the cup of wine he meant to drink, and he blinked at you as you swallowed it down, "I wish he was."

"You mean you want to marry him?" He smiled, tilting his head, "A little monster, he is. Or you mean something else is troubling your pretty head?"

You handed the cup over to him, which was now empty. Daeron quite literally sulked at the sight. "I could live with a fool who thinks himself a dragon."

"Ah, you did not count on my cousin being infatuated with you," you turned to him at once, "Do not worry, I will not spread about whispers. He is simply too obvious with it."

You bit at your lip, looking at the view instead, "I don't think him infatuated. I just..." you stared back at him, "He is confused."

"He isn't confused, my lady," Daeron laughed, "You think it would be hard to fall in love with the likes of you?" Somehow, he pulled out a wineskin from under his cape, and gulped down from it.

"Gods, don't say that." You scoffed. "And you? Who has fallen in love with you? Make my life easier."

Daeron halted. He eyed you.

You smirked.

"...No one."

"Ah. You like someone."

"I did not say that? Excuse you?" He smiled a bit, turning his head away from you.

"Who is it? Celia Lannister?"

"Ugh. No."

"The Lady Jolyn from House Baratheon?"

"She might eat me alive."

You shifted closer, smiling, "Or perhaps someone more forbidden." You watched his face turn pale, "Perhaps a lady from a far-away land?"

Daeron hissed, "How did you turn this on me?!"

"You fancy Kiera of Tyrosh, do you not?" You mused, as he laughed.

"Alright, alright, I... might have noticed... her— what of it?"

For a moment, you felt the anxiety within you come to a still. You shrugged your shoulders.

"We wallow in our pains."

"That," he nodded, grinning, "We shall do."

Daeron and you sat at each end of the balcony, laughing the night away. Despite the word of him being but a drunkard, you found him to be among the best company you have had since your arrival.

When you had eventually made your way to your chambers, your lady’s maid awaited at the door; she exhaled, trailing over to you.

That night, she had slipped you a note, and slid off and away afterwards. It read:

“After the dining meal tomorrow night, I await for you before the granary.”

...The words made you think:

Did this man only know of larders and granaries to meet in?

Your gaze drifted to the window, where carriages rolled across the gravel below. Servants hurried back and forth, packing the modest belongings your lord father had brought from home. The estate had been pleasant enough. The tourney at Maidenpool had drawn half the realm, and today they would all disperse like seeds on the wind.

Some would stay for a minute longer in Maidenpool. Alas, your father had other plans; his duties as Warden of the South were no light matter. He’d depart for Bitterbridge, and you were to endure your travels back to Highgarden alone.

…The night before, returned to you in fragments.

You had spoken softly. Laughed quietly. Shared something that felt fragile and dangerous all at once. Then footsteps. Voices drawing nearer.

You had not needed to speak. Neither had he. For a lady to be alone at a pond would be questionable. To be alone near a prince—unchaperoned—would be scandalous.

So you vanished.

Seven hells, you had nearly run. And it left no time for either you or the prince to exchange proper farewells.

You turned from the window now and exited your chambers, letting the door click shut behind you. The halls were quieter than they had been all week. You wandered them without much thought, seeking refreshments to settle your nerves—or perhaps merely to avoid them.

Your dress was a soft wash of pastel green, touched with lilac and faint blush pink at the ruffled edges. The sleeves slipped from your shoulders in delicate folds, and a sheer tulle cape trailed lightly behind, swaying with each step. Servants bowed as you passed; you would incline your head in return.

How would you even reach the heir of the heir?

You turned a corner—

—and were yanked backward.

The movement was swift and firm, perhaps even rough, an arm hooking around yours and dragging you into the nearest doorway. The scent of dried herbs and grain struck first. A larder.

They kicked the wooden door shut.

You did not hesitate.

Your elbow drove hard into this senseless individual's stomach. A sharp exhale burst from them as you twisted and pinned them against the shelves of food with surprising force. Light boxes tumbled from shelves at the impact, scattering onions and wrapped loaves across the floor.

To be clear. You were not the strongest, physically speaking. Growing up with your older brother did not render you naive, however.

The hooded figure hissed.

You blinked as the hood fell back. Mismatched eyes met yours.

“That hurts,” Valarr gasped, one hand pressed to his stomach. “Truly, a lot.”

You blinked again. A cluster of questions suddenly was born in your mind. Why was he here? And it is good that he is here. But why the effort and the risks? And Gods, is he insane?

“Are you alr— No—what compelled you to snatch me into a pantry like some common brigand?” Deciding not to even question the intention behind... sneaking around in the temporary Tyrell residence for this tourney, as you could figure it out, you opted for scolding. A prince, whose station was quite above yours.

He laughed weakly, still catching his breath. “I meant to surprise you, but—” He gestured vaguely. “I suppose this is also a realistic reaction to being taken so suddenly... It is on me; I apologize."

You released his collar, though your hand lingered, brushing over his knuckles before taking his hand properly. “You are unbelievable,” you scoffed, your smile betraying the sharpness of your tone. “Does it hurt a lot?”

He straightened. “No. I am faking.”

You groaned and swatted his hands away as he stifled a laugh. “You best make good use of my time in this—” You glanced around. “Gods. A larder.”

He shrugged, already stooping to retrieve the fallen boxes, putting them back in their place. “I had to make do with what we have.”

“I cannot believe a prince of the realm skulks between sacks of flour.”

"I am a man of versatility?"

“You find yourself versatile in pantries?”

“In strategic locations,” he corrected solemnly. Despite yourself, you laughed. Then the weight of departure returned. And it was quite stupid—humoring him in all of this, humoring yourself. It was certainly unbecoming of you and everything you had built for yourself.

“You should not be here." You cocked your head to the side, your voice taunting now. "Why, do you want to play in the water again?”

“Well, I’d love to, for your information,” Valarr mirrored you, head tilted to the side, and he met your gaze. “You do know your father shall depart for Bitterbridge within the hour?”

A frown would’ve graced your features if you were not quick enough to conceal your confusion—he was a prince of the realm, but you were sure no prince was constantly informed on matters of every major lord—you instead smiled mockingly.

“Does the prince mean to spy on me now? I assure you, an innocent, poor little lady of the Reach can do no damage.” Valarr pressed his lips into a line, giving you a ‘sure, that’s what you are’ look, before crossing his arms.

“Travelling alone through the Crownlands is dangerous enough for a woman, you realize." Something in your stomach turned in anticipation, and realization hit you before he said it: “Leo Tyrell called for you to travel under the supervision of House Targaryen.”

“With—your transport?” Disbelief evident in your answer, you let out a huff. “What for—could I not use our own—Gods, curse you, you are entirely too pleased!” You pointed your finger at the heir, who smiled, showing his little fangs now.

“Under the protection of the royal family, you’d be safer.” He shrugged, clearly basking in your reaction.

“You truly think this is a laughing matter?” Your eyes narrowed, hand on your hip now, the other one supporting you against the wall.

There were multiple reasons why this led you to believe that something was off.

Valarr knew you’d be going through the Crownlands with his family before you. Today. Your father would depart for his journey by the hour. When did he mean to inform you of such a thing?

The young prince leaned against, or attempted to in all his leisure, the wobbly shelves, which caused bags of flour to fall, and he flinched slightly. Valarr laughed in embarrassment; he leaned down to pick the fallen soldier up, but you were faster.

You picked up the bag and opened it up, holding it threateningly. “I swear I will throw this at you.”

“Wh—” He raised his hands up in defense, “It is not my decision!! Think about this: what would I say if I came back entirely in flour—"

“You think this is a joke? I didn’t know about this. Hells, the entire South knows it—if I were born a man, my father would skip over my brother and make me his heir,” you hissed. “He is definitely plotting something—this isn’t right.”

He blinked, slowly opening his mouth to respond, and his voice cracked a bit, “Maybe do not take it out on me?”

Anxiety brimmed at your chest—but you raised a brow at the prince and stepped closer, “Oh, are you so scared of a little flour? I could never stain a prince,” you teased, placing it on the shelf behind him.

He sighed in relief and smiled. “I haven’t a clue, but I’m sure it is out of care. Relax." He had raised his hand to place it on your shoulder, but the two of you turned at a voice in the halls.

A servant, you guessed, and you slid over to the door to hear what was being said—something about how they could not find you—and one would begin to open the door, but you quickly leaned against it and grasped your hand about the doorknob.

Valarr across the larder was dead silent, and he squinted at the window put a little high over the shelves, calculating, probably, how likely it is that he’d fit.

You turned to look at him and nodded at the window, mouthing for him to go. With little protest, he stood on a chair, and you winced at the way it dragged across the floor, holding the door down.

“Mi’lady? Are you in there?!” A servant called out, perhaps confused at why you were pushing against the door like a madwoman. “Is everything alright? We can help if you’re hurt—“

“We heard things falling, mi’lady.” Another voice called out behind the door, “Your father is searching for you."

“I was hungry?” Your eyes creased as you heard yourself, growing annoyed at how Valarr had the audacity to laugh as he climbed over the sill, “I couldn’t wait for service, so I wandered about in here.”

“I was hungry.” He mocked in a small voice, and you glared at him as he jumped off—not before he smiled at you—and you sighed, opening the door.

“A-Are you alright?" the woman would ask, and you just nodded and mustered up a polite smile, passing by them swiftly.

Amidst the anxiety brimming in your chest and only the slightest of flutters, you moved across the corridors. You’d fix your dress, pat down the curls on your head, and a new worry would be cast on your shoulders.

Because your father never did things without meaning.

Was he truly so worried?

You walked, in the hopes of a proper answer.

It was not long before you found him, listing things down—you assumed—for his squire to write down. What you said earlier was no lie; despite being dismissed on the account of gender, you were politically apt, more so than your brother.

Deep inside of you, you knew you were meant for more than the birthing beds.

Despite the love you held for your brother, envy would spill out from small cracks. A sense of purpose filled you continuously throughout your life, but a soft part of you could find yourself still gentle on the memories of last night.

How could you think of these two things at once? You had more important thoughts than some… to an extent, understanding and a rather handsome prince.

The sight of Lord Tyrell with his new squire brought you back to the days when you were your father’s cupbearer.

In contrast to all his… sarcasm, crude words, and well-renowned arrogance, he did dote on you. You were his daughter.

You cleared your throat, and your father turned to you. Leo dismissed his squire and quickly took your hands into his. “I have something to tell you. Slight… changes were made in the arrangement of your transports."

You smiled sardonically. “Servants talk. You, clearly, don’t, not to me at least.” Spoiled. You were, like any other lady. But you did not show it as much; you only used it as a weapon when needed.

He grimaced slightly and let go of your hands. “Fuck. Well, I suppose I cannot talk my way out. Simply put, I can’t let you travel alone. You’d be with our entourage anyway, but still.”

“And Prince Baelor simply agreed.” You said, sarcastically.

“I have my ways.”

“Ways of…”

“Being disgustingly wealthy,” Leo scoffed, picking at a flower next to him, playing with its pink petals, "possessing influence, and as you know?”

“The crown is in debt to you for the financial aid you allowed after the rebellion,” you finished, voice annoyed at how many times you’ve heard it throughout the entirety of your life.

“So my daughter, my only daughter, will spend the fortnight’s journey in comfort and safety.” Although he was easy on you, Leo Tyrell was still his hardheaded self, a trait you are liable to have inherited from him.

Though you did not buy it. “And I wondered why we brought only one carriage along the way,” you sighed, and he gestured for you to open your hand, to drop the ripped petals in your open palm.

“You aren’t excited to travel among the highest ranks in this realm?”

“Both Duskendale Road and Rosby Road reek; I will never be excited to travel through them." You clasped your palm over the petals. “And you are not telling me the whole of it, Father."

“What makes you think that?”

“You raised me. I am not intellectually challenged.”

He snorted, “I can tell you, but you’ll resent me earlier than I thought you would."

You dropped the petals into the grass beneath you and frowned deeply. “What did you do?”

“Nothing yet.” Leo sighed, “Don’t look at me like that. You know your place in this world.”

“What?”

“You have your duties, as do I toward you." The air around you shifted. It smelled rotten, you decided, and you suddenly felt vulnerable—your gut weak. “I mean only to make sure you are secure.”

“Why am I going with them?” You managed.

“You know. You’re not intellectually challenged, remember." He put his hand over your shoulder, but it did not make the sinking feeling inside of you any easier. “I got an offer.

You’ll be betrothed to a prince.”

His voice echoed in your head; you moved away from his touch, as if it was contagious with a plague. “You’d sell your only daughter like cattle?”

“No. Like a princess." He rolled his eyes. “There are little girls out there who have it worse than the fate of marrying a goddamned prince, of all.”

“I thought I’d get at least a choice on the matter." You felt like a little girl, alright, being scolded for sleeping too late or missing your Septa's lessons. “You always acted as if I would be.”

“Child.” He blew out air in a mix of both slight irritation and love, which one could easily misunderstand as something else—though you knew him best, “You could be a princess. You’d deal with those dragonsnakes best; you’re strong—Gods know it to be true."

“You cannot escape the ways of this world, so you need to adapt." He continued, “If you are as smart as I know you to be, you’ll do well.

And you won’t disappoint me.”

Defeat. Acknowledgement. Brutal hit of honesty. “I will poison him in his sleep if he’s mad.” Your father called out your name, voice stern, “Is this final?”

“Prince Maekar’s sons are unmarried.” The finality of the statement made your throat tighten: “You’d reside in Summerhall of all places. Ride is… only under a week from Highgarden…”

You cursed under your breath, “I thought of everything. It is not concluded,” his voice quietened slightly, "but I’d like for it to be. No man in the Reach is suited for you.

Lord Runceford is well married. The Fossoways are shrimp-brained oafs. The Hightower’s loyalties are wavering to the crown, and any Ashford is out of the question, as they are nearly bankrupt, not to speak of other regions—if no man is good enough for my daughter, I’d rather you be near the seat of the kingdoms than anything.”

You bit your lip, and the urge to rip your hair out was quelled. “Prince Maekar will reside in the Red Keep for the time being, then?”

“He shall, for your time being there.” Leo said at last, “You knew this would come. So I repeat. Do not disappoint. Be the lady you’ve always been.”

“And do not indulge in the attentions of the wrong prince.” He warned knowingly.

You turned as he walked past you to his heap of servants. For the first time in your life, you wondered what your father’s man-brains would look like, spilled across the rocky grounds he walked on.

A thought crossed your mind. You were spending time with one Targaryen, and the next moment, you were supposed to wed another.

You felt weak. You despised feeling weak.

It was decided.

You would suck it up for the time being. But you would not let yourself be sold and traded, like a doe.

In the afternoon, you gathered a comfortable cloak over your shoulders, fastening it at the throat with a small golden clasp shaped like a rose. Soft silks draped your form beneath it, pale and flowing, the fabric whispering at your ankles as you made your way toward the waiting procession.

The royal carriage.

Its body was lacquered a deep crimson that gleamed beneath the sun, with rims trimmed in gold leaf that caught the light in sharp flashes. Upon its back panel, small but unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, worked in black and gilt. Even at a distance, it announced itself—not loudly, but undeniably.

You were greeted first by Prince Baelor.

Baelor Targaryen, first in line, offered you a measured, respectful bow. Beside him stood Valarr Targaryen, already far too familiar to your thoughts.

You curtsied, smooth and composed.

Both princes bowed in turn, though you did not miss the way Valarr’s gaze lingered—unabashed, searching, as though memorizing you before the road stole the sight.

Baelor spoke.

“I hope, in time of your traveling with our company, you’ll be most comfortable,” he said with an easy smile.

And in that instant, you understood the devotion people bore him. He was every inch a prince—measured, kind, and deliberate. A future king. A servant of the realm in truth, not merely in title.

You inclined your head. “Yes, Your Grace. It shall be so.”

In all your earlier fury—directed at your father and his careful, strategic decisions—you had almost forgotten the sensation of Valarr’s eyes upon you. It felt much as it had the night of the welcoming feast: assessing, warm, unguarded.

You had also forgotten, in your annoyance and the absurdity of him snatching you, how beautiful he was. Well, you could never forget. You only ignored it.

The escort to the carriage was brief but ceremonious. A step was lowered; gloved hands offered assistance. You gathered your skirts and entered.

Inside, the royal carriage was a world apart from the dust of the road. Deep red velvet lined the walls, embroidered subtly with black thread in twisting dragon motifs. The benches were cushioned in dark brown leather, softened by layered pillows trimmed in gold cord.

A small fold-out table was fixed between the seats, carved from polished oak, its edges inlaid with tiny flecks of garnet.

The carriage smelled faintly of leather, spiced oil, and something distinctly Targaryen—you could not quite put your finger on it.

As the carriage began to roll, you allowed yourself to wonder—

Had Valarr known?

His father did. Baelor Targaryen was Hand to the King, heir, and hammer of the realm. A man who would not move pieces without understanding the board entirely.

But Valarr? He was his son. You doubted he was ever uninformed.

So he was simply stringing you along, you concluded, although, you found it a bit uncharacteristic to be true for the prince.

He was meant to marry another in time—some advantageous alliance, some careful stitch in the tapestry of the realm. The thought of anything truly fruitful between you had never dared take root in your mind, as pretty as he was.

It was not the first time you had kissed someone.

Nor was it the first time you had slipped away unseen with a man.

Yet something about the conversation—at the pond that night—had felt… different.

You always moved with caution. But he had made you softer that night. And Valarr certainly did not need coddling; he, quite frankly, could very well handle all of you. You still found yourself going easy on him, even when he would yank you in the comfort of your own halls.

…Different did not mean possible, alas.

You plucked a grape from the interlaced basket resting beside you and bit into it, though you scarcely tasted sweetness. Your lady’s maids watched you quietly, exchanging subtle glances.

You handed the basket toward them by its handle. They began to protest, but you shook your head gently. “Take it. I have no appetite.”

You offered them a small smile—carefully composed, reserved for their comfort rather than your own—and then turned toward the window.

The prince with that silver strand. You bet he was sitting in his own transport, legs spread as they had been at the gallery that day.

Was he giving you as much thought as you had been giving him? The efforts he put in to see you, although you do not like admitting it, puzzle you now.

The road carried you southward toward King’s Landing.

There were stops along the way—small taverns and roadside inns where horses were watered and drivers switched duty. The wheels never ceased their rumbling rhythm for long. The constant tumble of the road kept you awake—

—or so you pretended.

…Marriage did not frighten you.

Not truly.

What unsettled you was the certainty that you would not be happy in whatever arrangement awaited. It was imminent. Inevitable. A slow, creeping thing rather than a sudden blow.

Maybe true joy could never be reached in a world like this. But you would seek your benefits and be satisfied more often than not.

You imagined marrying some… agreeable lord—neither cruel nor especially kind. An oaf, perhaps, but manageable. A man you could tilt gently in your favor, shape without open war.

You would bear him a child. One would be enough.

You would hope for a daughter.

Though everyone always prayed for sons.

If the world desired so many boys, where would the women be to give them life?

You did not know whether you could love a child sweetly and without condition.

Your father loved you—in his way. He was soft for you, as soft as he knew how to be. But there had always been expectations braided through that affection. You were to follow example. Uphold name. Secure advantage.

His love had boundaries. It had conditions.

He understood you, perhaps—but refused to see your reality. More so that... he simply turned a blind eye to it.

And you expected no more from a man.

Somewhere in the tangle of thoughts, your eyes closed.

You did not remember when sleep claimed you. Only that hours passed in blurred warmth and muted wheels.

The carriage slowed.

Stilled.

The shift in motion pulled you gently from sleep. You blinked, adjusting to the dim interior light, and peered through the window.

You had made a stop at the Crossroads Inn, miles and miles still far from Duskendale—a reasonable halt between Maidenpool and King’s Landing, where the roads bent southward and travelers commonly rested before pressing on toward the capital.

Voices drifted up from outside. Horses snorted. Armor clinked faintly.

Gods. This road should feel moons long.

The inn was modest but respectable, built of timber and pale stone, its sign creaking gently in the evening breeze. Lantern light pooled golden along the yard as grooms led horses away and guards settled into watchful clusters.

You would be continuing your sleep… Or so you told yourself. Your servants trailed closely behind as you mounted the narrow staircase, the wooden steps groaning faintly beneath soft slippers and armored boots alike. Your chamber lay beside those of your entourage—close enough for propriety, far enough for the illusion of privacy.

The moment the door shut behind you, you crossed the room in three long strides and hurled yourself face-first onto the bed.

A muffled, furious whisper tore from your throat into the pillows.

Props to you—you at least tried to sleep.

You turned once. Twice. Dragged a cushion over your head. Kicked it away. The mattress was soft, the linens clean, and faintly scented with lavender. None of it mattered.

The same thoughts that haunted you in the carriage only grew louder in stillness.

Marriage.

Arrangement.

Valarr’s voice by the pond?

You groaned softly and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling beams.

After several fruitless minutes, you rose with a sigh and wrapped a thin blanket about your shoulders. The window caught your eye then—curiously placed high along the sloping wall, where the inn’s roof curved outward.

You crossed to it and pushed it open.

Cool evening air brushed your face.

Below, you noticed a narrow terrace running along part of the structure—likely used by staff for repairs or by the occasional reckless guest. If one were to slip from the curved roof, one would fall only that far.

…You considered it.

Even if you fell, you would likely only break a leg. Actually, you could probably cripple yourself. But you wouldn’t die.

Perhaps the prince you were off to see would not appreciate a broken ankle, or two, or… his future wife being paralyzed from the waist down…

Still, you liked your legs far too much to risk permanent foolishness.

Carefully, you climbed onto the sill, bracing one foot before easing yourself onto the curved tiles. The roof was not terribly steep, but steep enough to demand balance. You gathered the blanket tighter around you and settled there, the night breeze catching the edge of your hair.

For a few blessed minutes, there was only quiet.

You could find fondness creeping into your heart, watching the sky above you.

The stars stretched overhead in a scattered silver field. Somewhere below, laughter drifted faintly from the yard.

Then—

A muttered curse.

You turned sharply.

At the opposite end of the roof, another figure had evidently had the same ill-advised idea.

He nearly slipped.

“Shit—” the figure hissed under his breath, scrambling for purchase before steadying himself.

You recognized him before he fully straightened.

The silhouette. The single strand caught pale in the moonlight.

The eyes that found yours moments later—violet, brown, and unmistakably startled.

Valarr Targaryen looked quite surprised by another person’s presence.

You stared at one another across the curve of tiles.

Either of you could have died climbing here, that’s a bit of a stretch, in a mishap.

For a fleeting moment, irritation pricked sharply in your chest. Of all the faces to meet you in your solitude, it had to be his—reminding you of arrangements, expectations, and impossible hopes.

But you did not hold it against him. For another moment, you allowed his presence to warm your heart, as you’ve grown to enjoy his little glances, the chasing, and your kisses.

He blinked.

Then, slowly, his expression shifted from alarm to sheepish amusement.

“Well, fancy seeing you here.”

“What’s this? Finally grown tired of your responsibilities as the heir?” You mused.

He glanced down at the drop, then back at you. “Oh, yes, I suppose this is the end for me.”

“Whatever would we do without you…”

A corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. He shifted, carefully inching closer along the roofline, movements cautious but determined. “I could ask what compels a lady to sit upon an inn’s rooftop.”

“I could ask the same of a prince.”

He let out a soft laugh. You found yourself very much liking the sound. “Fair.”

The night wind tugged at his cloak, and for a moment he looked less like a prince and more like a man who could simply not find sleep.

“You cannot rest either,” he observed quietly.

It was not a question.

You held his gaze. “No.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, gentle as it always was, with a little tension as it always was.

“I did not know if you would wish to see me,” he admitted. “I know you were not so happy to travel with us.”

With a nod, you patted the spot next to you. Valarr sat carefully, and the distance reminded you of the night of the banquet. After a few beats, you replied, “Not because of you.”

That earned you a small, crooked smile.

“You look troubled." He said, “And it’s been quite the contrast from the feast and the tourney.”

“You look like you nearly broke your neck back there, climbing out.” You countered.

He glanced upward in mock contemplation. “That too is true…”

You smiled back, now looking at him freely.

The humor faded from his expression slowly, replaced by something more searching.

“You are thinking too loudly,” he said.

You giggled, cocking your head to the side. “And what would you know of my thoughts?”

“Only that you carry them heavily.” The breeze shifted again, lifting the edge of your blanket. You gestured, picking it up at the hem—an offer. Valarr looked at you and shifted closer carefully, sharing your blanket despite his cloak.

“And you,” you said after a moment, “ought not to follow ladies onto rooftops.”

“I did not follow you." He protested and chuckled lightly, “Can a man not be restless sometimes?”

“That makes two of us,” you sighed.

For a moment longer, you studied him in the dimness—the line of his jaw, the way light hit the side of his cheek up to his pretty purple eye, and his pretty smiles.

It was irritating, you decided, how unfairly handsome he was.

He tilted his head at you, mirroring you.

“You’re beautiful. Could never tell you were on the road just now.”

You pursed your lips slightly, nudging him gently, “You are not too bad yourself.”

His laughter carried softly across the roof, warm against the cool night. Valarr turned to the sights before him and below him. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“What of your theories for why your father sent you here?” He turned to you again.

You stared at him long enough for it not to be suspicious; did he truly not know? “Apparently, only as a safety precaution,” you lied, “Although, who knows…”

“Probably is. You worry too much.” He smiled. “Perhaps it comes from being so guarded and calculated all the time.”

“You would be an expert on that?”

“That is why I like you; we share the same struggles.” He answered quickly, like it was true and the only thing he could find in his heart. You blinked and allowed yourself to smile.

“Why can’t our perfect prince sleep tonight?” You said softly, teasing. He scoffed, and it was his turn to nudge your shoulder.

“Um,” he said, as if you reminded him of the troubles he’s come here to avoid—well, he did the same to you—looking at his lap. “Kiera of Tyrosh will sail to Westeros in a moon’s time.”

“Ah.” You said coolly, perhaps more annoyed than you should’ve allowed, “Well. You’ve known of this…” The response did not correspond with your gut; if someone said something similar to you in your position, you know you would not like it.

“Yeah,” he smiled a bit, but it was not his usual one— “I have.”

Your heart faltered at his expression. You truly did share similar struggles; how funny. Beneath the rustling of your blanket, you moved your hand to pat his shoulder. “I’ve met many men, and I think you would make a better husband than most.”

Valarr doubted it. The only thing he could think of right now was no longer his soon-to-be wife, but the touch of your hand on him.

Did you merely like the attention he gave you? Everyone does. But you were not anyone. You perhaps sympathized with him, he figured… Were you used to things like this? Not that he would care or find a problem in it. But still, something in him wanted to differ from others in regard to you. Did you like this? Do you like him?

Do you think of him as much as he thinks of you?

So silly, Valarr. You met her days ago. Yet she now haunts you. How would that poor woman from Tyrosh feel? You’ll make a ghost of her.

He looked at you, and he felt his heart pace abnormally. “I thought about,” he breathed out, "how I never really asked if I could kiss you.”

Your hand stilled, and the words made something in you tingle. “How sweet,” you said after a few moments, “But you always could.”

A hum left his lips, and he chuckled, “Can I?”

You looked at the view under you; no one was there, at least not from what you could tell. You turned back to him, your hand slipping to grasp softly at his curls, bringing his face closer.

His lips met yours. You tasted want on his tongue. Or was it impending doom? When he brushed it against yours and held your face so sweetly in his hands.

The blanket fell from your shoulders, down to your waist. The soft breeze of the night hit you; it was not evident whether it made you shiver or the kiss did.

When you parted, you sighed hyperbolically. “You’d let a lady quiver in this cold, Your Grace?”

Valarr rolled his eyes playfully and pulled the blanket over you both once more. “My bad, my lady."

“Hm,” You rested your head on his shoulder. “I do not forgive you.” You said simply, looking at your nails. He pinched your shoulder hard, and it had made you squeak like a little rat.

Not much unlike the last time, Valarr and you had gone back into your rooms after speaking of things of relatively small matter: the stench of King's Landing, how the Fossoways talked exclusively in apple-riddles, and how you found that both of you despised folk songs, finding them to be extremely unrealistic and the source material of them long lost.

In the morning, you did not break your fast; you would resort to eating in your respective carriage, although it wasn't ideal. You had changed from your nightgown into comfortable cottons, a light green beneath a long black cloak, its laces pale gold.

Your lady's maids followed as you trailed over to the four-wheeled vehicle. Subconsciously, you had managed to somehow avoid the sight of the Targaryen princes. Mayhap it had not been the smartest idea to do so, since you were heavily reliant on them in this case.

Nonetheless, your maids and you were now eating the food bought from the inn on your carriage table instead, and you had even shared it with the knight beside you, who had almost salivated at the sight of it.

One of them spoke, "Someone had talked and laughed all night outside, aye." And another nodded,

"I heard it too; must've been some of the other guests of the inn, huh?"

You smiled in your hand; they wouldn't have known it was you, as you hadn't left your room, with a guard posted in front. Never expecting for you to have climbed on the roof of all places. Well, to be fair, you hadn't expected Valarr to climb out either.

The knight practically gulped the food down his throat.

One... two... three.

Three days would be spent purely on the road since then. You had reached Duskendale, and your back was officially sore and beyond saving from the travels. Pauses would be carried out between small villages and then followed by pubs, taverns, and markets. If you'd stop to catch air, you would be very likely to exchange glances with the young prince.

In the dead of eve, rain poured heavily, and you sighed in frustration. Knocking on the door, you felt the wheels come to a halt against the roads; a coachman opened the door, drops of rain wetting him in his entirety.

"Yes, my lady?" He sniffed, wiping the water in-between his nose and lips.

"Look at you, you're to be drained for days," you sighed out, shifting toward him. "Why are we not stopping at an inn?" You said it harsher than intended, perhaps from all the pain your spine carried.

The coachman coughed, "We are way behind Prince Baelor, my lady. He had skipped the last stop, and orders say... we must continue..." By the time he finished his sentence, he'd sneeze, and you heard someone say, "Bless you."

"Unbelievable. You're already sick." A hand rubbed your temples.

You heard the faint shutting of a door, and soon enough, you saw the coachman quickly bow before Valarr came into your line of sight.

"What is the matter?" He squinted his eyes at you through the rain, and you could almost laugh if you weren't so exhausted. He resembled a wet dog.

"This weather's horrid, and our drivers are freezing." You explained the latter with a very flat tone. Valarr smiled, and the rest of your servants and knights looked as if you were to be locked up. Ah, yes. No kind words reserved for the realm's heir.

Perhaps you forgot that none of these people knew how many moments you've just shared with the prince in secrecy.

"We'll be stopping anyway," he responded, and in spite of his smile, his tone hid a slight annoyance. "It seems a tree's blocking the road, and the mud's too deep to remove it."

"The weather," you deadpanned.

"And the weather's unruly," he laughed, offering a hand. "Come, there is a hostelry not too far."

Your coachman blinked at his hand and huffed out, "Oh, oh my, it is alright, I shall escort the lady Tyrell—"

You swiftly got up from your spot and took Valarr's hand, grasping tight. "Let's be quick, yes?" He helped you out of the carriage, and you lifted your skirts up from the mud.

Pulling you forward, the two of you paced hurriedly under the rain. "Are you sure you do not want me to carry you?" He let out a partly suppressed laugh, and you in turn let out a small whine.

"I considered it, but I am unsure how much of my dignity I would like to lose about now." A hiss, and your leg stilled in the depth of the muddy way from under you.

"Are you okay?" He turned, a little too quick for his own liking.

You were at your wit's end with what this journey had in store for you.

"Fuck it." You groaned, "Do it."

The servants watched from behind the two of you as Valarr picked you up with absolutely no struggle, carrying you easily in his arms, and something gave away the level of your comfort with one another when you yelled at him to quit running.

And when you had awoken the morrow after, you were met with quite the news:

"The road is quite unpaved." Valarr stood in front of your means of transport, scratching his head. "We cannot lift the oak because of the mud. And,"

He turned to the horses, and you finished the sentence for him: "They feel trapped."

"Yes," He sighed, "They panicked quite a bit throughout the road yesterday, but now they won't move at all." He bit the inside of his cheek. "We might have to go through the woods for the time being."

"Ah. Lovely." You started to walk first, and Valarr followed in your stead. "If scavengers attack us, I'm leaving you behind."

A snort left Valarr. "Bold of you to assume I would not take you down with me, my lady."

The two of you walked arm to arm—knights trailed both before and after you—and you could hear soft hushes and murmurs of servants scattered second-to-last in this row. You wondered now when you would get to King's Landing. Because, truly, you did not know whether rotting in chambers of the Red Keep or being confined to a small vehicle amidst storms was worse.

Boots pushed against the wet dirt under you, and you thought about what your older brother would have done in this situation. Complain and screech, you could only guess.

You turned to the prince, who was actually quite cautious travelling in the woods—you suppose he took what you said seriously—and whispered, "Did you really keep the favor I left you?"

That seemed to certainly shake him out of his thoughts. He blinked. "Yes. It is in my pocket." He then asked, a little softer, "Do you want it back?"

"No," a quick answer, far too quick, "Keep it. I only wondered."

"Of course I'd keep it. You did tell me to."

You smiled, "Why carry it around, though?"

"You know why." He countered, voice teasing and a touch too honest. It made you sink a little.

Eyes trailing downwards, they stopped at his hip, where a black scabbard sat. "Valyrian steel?" You inclined your head toward it.

His jaw twitched slightly. It was perhaps the first time you saw his face... drop, even for a moment. "No," he said, simply—not coolly or in a (well—an intended, anyway) rude manner. Still, it was a shift from his usual behavior.

You hummed in response, clasping your hands behind your back. "Don't you look chivalrous with it?" A smile graced his face, and he twirled his hand into a mocking, playful bow.

"Oh, Lady Tyrell, would you bestow me with your favor? I am in most ardent need of it!" Your eyes widened, and you let out a laugh. Feigning shock, you clutched at your chest.

"A Targaryen prince, asking for my favor? However, do I refuse!" You leaned down and plucked a flower from the ground, handing it to him. He giggled and took the flower, placing a kiss on your palm before he rose.

"Are they..." A lady's maid asked,

"Of course not..." Valarr's squire had hissed back, "They would never."

Not one soul believed him.

tourney at ashford meadow. you sat high up in the gallery, next to prince baelor. and you begged your reflexes not to give you away.

because you were about to roll your times at the mere audacity.

prince aerion, taunting your sweet, sweet husband, valarr. and valarr? he held his tongue. with hands on his hips, eyes squinted. he would say nothing.

one chance to brawl it out with him. you would solve the seven kingdoms’ struggles once and for all.

you could go into great detail on how that was wrong in any and every way. the second in line to the throne, tolerating taunts from this mentally unchecked idiot? you’d repeat aerion’s words under your breath mockingly. prince baelor would hide a smirk hearing it.

and when a pebble would hit aerion, right against his helmet, forcing it to shut across his face, you’d snort and hide your face in your palm. lovely.

but from there on out? everything went downhill; aerion had charged forth, and cut open ser hardyng’s horse, rendering the knight helpless on the ground. you had watched it in horror; not the gory scene, but the mere audacity of the thing— he really, truly believed he could get away with just about anything.

the smallfolk rose against the fence, held back by knights both of lord ashford and the kingsguard. you were escorted almost immediately toward the targaryen pavilion, but could make out the beautiful scene still; the people threw rocks at aerion, whatever they could find, and perhaps even parts of broken lances. you heard prince baelor call for a maester, for ser humfrey hardyng.

not long after, would aerion enter the pavilion as well, escorted by knights shielding him. but as he came in, he’d stumble and let out a shriek. actually, you had tripped him over.

“the fuck—“

you gasped, hand hovering over your lips, “it seems dishonor in jousting has crippled you in turn!”

he stood, turning to you in a flash, “you mock the house of the dragon, you mock your husband’s house—”

“oh no. it has you spouting nonsense as well. someone send for the maesters. MAESTERS!! MAESTERS!!!”

a knight watched it unfold, terrified. he stepped slightly between the two of you, fearing aerion would jump at you.

“a broodmare is talking.”

“yes! who’s the best mare? you are!” you cooed.

“you are so lucky—” he stepped closer.

valarr then walked in, and put his hand on your shoulder. “what is the matter?”

“she provokes me. she’s mocking me, this wife of yours!”

you fluttered your eyelashes, “i only worried for my cousin’s well-being…”

“do not speak of me as so!”

valarr turned to him, “she means no harm. it is hard to overcome… embarrassments, as you’d say.”

aerion’s eye twitched as you stuck your tongue at him behind valarr, “there, she does it once again.”

your husband turned to you, who had a grin so bright. then he turned back to his cousin. “i didn’t see anything.”

the prince whined, “you two—“

valarr smiled calmly, “it is alright. we all have failures in life.”

aerion threw his helmet to the side, the sound loud as it hit the ground. “this is insanity. i am a prince.”

“good job,” you cocked your head to the side, “you can now form a somewhat coherent conclusion.”

he was as bright as the tomatoes thrown at him today. he’d begin to open his mouth, perhaps to go about his screaming, but valarr was quicker.

“you may go now, cousin,” he pulled you closer by the shoulder, “i see nothing wrong here. uncle is looking for you.”

well, aerion certainly did not storm out gracefully. not before knocking goblets over in his wake. valarr immediately turned to you.

“my love. you know how he is. it is not worth it.”

you pouted, twirling a strand of your hair. “he killed a horse, and aegon’s cat. he is the fucking black goat of qohor.”

with wide eyes, valarr squeezed your shoulders, snorting, then laughing. you had even heard the knight behind you laugh. your husband called out your name, “—enough! how— how do you even think of that, oh my—“ he choked, “hey, and what of ser hardyng?”

“i hope he recovers, and i hope aerion cartwheels into the smoking sea.”

he blinked, laughing, “oh gods. aerion acrobating into volcanoes. that’s fucking rich.”

“you are my enabler. you fake.”

he smiled, “you must be the bigger person, love.”

“me?! he! he is the one who eats all the pomegranate, thinking it is dragon seeds!!!”

he let out a guffaw, and pressed his hand against your lips, covering your mouth, “stop— stop it. no. he is not worth your energy!!”

you smiled against his hand, and held his wrist, pulling it away from you gently, “and he cannot talk to you the way he does either.”

“i pay him no heed. he does not deserve it.”

“you deserve no less than the utmost respect.”

valarr sighed, bringing you closer. the knight long gone, posted at the outside entrance of the pavilion instead.

“i suppose he does eat a shit ton of pomegranate.”

king!valarr and his queen, you, finding out about aerion’s death

it was in the quiet hour of night, that you were met with the absence of your husband’s warmth in your bed. though it was not unusual, as valarr had to resume his kingly duties even in the dead of eve.

your hand in his reign was prominent, however, and you oft found yourself seated at the meetings of the small council. you wondered what it could’ve been; perhaps he could not find sleep, which wasn’t usual when he’d share your bed, or something truly sudden took place?

you found yourself heading towards the great hall, where you presumed valarr was right now, if not next to you. an intricate robe cast over your thin nightgown, to make you at least decent.

valarr rubbed his temples— he looked quite uneasy, and his steward bowed before you both as you stood in the entrance, hurrying out of the room. you frowned, and walked over to the king slowly, steadily. “what is the matter, love?”

he turned, biting the inside of his cheek, then handed a wrinkled pamphlet over to you. “read it.”

“how bad is it?”

“not a rebellion,” he scoffed humorlessly, “but grim news anyway.”

“is it maekar?” you questioned, finally unfolding the paper in your hands. your eyes skimmed over it, and you couldn’t fucking believe your eyes.

valarr watched as you read over the words. he swallowed, “yes. you are reading it right.”

“aerion’s dead,” a pause, and you looked to your husband, shock lacing your eyes, “and he fucking tried to swallow wildfire.” you finished, with magnificent amounts of disbelief.

he pressed his lips into a line. “yes. yes he did.”

you blinked, crossing an arm, and the free hand brought the rolled pamphlet to your chin, “we haven’t been to dragonstone in a minute.”

valarr choked on his spit, then laughed, “did you seriously just say that?”

“what? i mean, we have to go to his funeral. we are expected to.”

he snorted, “that is not something you say when a prince of the realm dies!”

“fuck him.”

he called out your name, pushing your shoulder lightly, “stop it!”

you laughed, giggling as you held his hand, “who the fuck tries to drink fire? he was unwell.”

“the blood of the dragon,” he imitated aerion’s voice, “me dragon in human form.”

you screeched at that, laughing along with your husband. “fucking hated his ass!”

“i know right?! ugh, a waste of breath going to his funeral…”

“don’t be like that, valarr,” you cooed, “he’s looking up at us from the seven hells!”

Immersing yourself in the talk of ladies was like entering the lion’s den.

The year was 208 AC, and the place? Maidenpool.

Proud banners bearing the red salmon on white snapped along the castle walls. Hosted by House Mooton, the tourney grounds sprawled beyond the stony barriers of the keep, its pale towers rising over the waters of Blackwater Bay.

Knights had come from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms—hedge knights with rust upon their mail and hope in their hearts, heirs to great titles clad in enameled plate, and veterans of past rebellions bearing scars like badges of honor. The lists stood ready. The melee grounds were churned to mud. Smallfolk crowded the outer rails, wagering coppers and cheering any man who unhorsed another.

House Mooton’s persistent loyalty to House Targaryen all but guaranteed the presence of the Dragon House at the tourney. To most, it was a simple gesture of fealty rewarded with royal favor. To keener eyes, it suggested something more intricate. The dragons were long dead, and the dynasty’s claim now seemed to hang by little more than two fraying threads of yarn. Appearances mattered more than ever.

Yesterday’s welcoming feast had made that plain.

The hall had blazed with candlelight and color—salmon banners draped between tall windows, trestle tables groaning beneath roasted meats and sweet Arbor wine. Music drifted through the chamber, laughter rising and falling like waves against the bay.

You had taken your place among the ladies, entertaining those seated on either side with idle talk and harmless rumors. It was not truly diverting, nor were these matters of consequence, but it proved far saner than enduring the pathetic attempts at courtship you had suffered earlier that evening.

Word of your beauty had traveled far—whispered from the ports of Dorne to the frozen reaches of the Wall. You were the daughter of a great house, after all; that of Leo Longthorn was no small distinction. Men approached with rehearsed compliments and wine-flushed confidence, each imagining himself subtle.

You understood your role well enough. A lady was meant to be a prize, a strategically placed bridge between two families, and in time, a mother to heirs. The functions of society held no mystery for you. Yet you had learned to sharpen your own thorns, to guide matters, in your own way, to get what you so desired.

The inability of your very stern father to tell you no, might've been proof enough.

...Still, grace was expected. Composure was required. And you maintained both, even when the audacity of certain men made your skin crawl.

Yet there had been one presence that unsettled you for an altogether different reason.

High above the feast, in the gallery overlooking the hall, sat the royal party. Among them was the Young Prince—Valarr Targaryen—seated beside his formidable father, Baelor Targaryen, known to many as the Hammer.

Valarr did not sit stiffly as some did. He lounged into his chair. Legs spread in careless confidence. One arm draped along the carved armrest, the other resting upon his knee. He spoke with the lords and highborn knights who came to pay homage before the morrow’s lists.

And yet.

At odd moments, just as the hairs along your neck rose with the distinct sensation of being watched, you would begin to turn—only to find his gaze sliding elsewhere. A fraction too late. A shade too deliberate.

Once might have been coincidence.

Twice, perhaps imagination.

But thrice?

No.

Talk in the realm claimed he was soon to be betrothed to some noblewoman of Tyrosh—an alliance meant to tighten the Crown’s hold upon the Stepstones, you'd wager. A prudent match. A political one.

But. Even with that in mind. To say you did not notice the prince’s charm, would be an outright lie.

The faint silver strand that slipped loose near his temple when he inclined his head. The breadth of his shoulders beneath dark silk. The way his hands rested—steady, assured—upon his knee and the arm of his chair. The posture itself, careless and commanding all at once.

You'd place those details together, from the three times alone you've turned to glance at him.

The space between his knees. That lap, spread...

Well.

That was quite enough of... that.

The music changed as the last of the trenchers were cleared away.

It was time to dance.

You had scarcely risen before the first petitioner arrived.

A young knight of House Vance—red-faced but earnest—bowed low and begged the honor. You granted it with a pleasant smile. He was light enough on his feet, though... he trod dangerously close to your hem in his eagerness.

No sooner had you returned to the edge of the floor, when another approached—Ser Denys of House Marbrand, broad-shouldered and confident. His compliments were polished, his laugh a touch too loud.

Then a Frey— A Piper followed. A Darry. Even a Mallister cousin who looked as though he would rather be in armor than silk.

You danced with each as was expected—graceful, measured, untouchable. Switching between them with swiftness.

And all the while, you felt it.

That gaze.

When at last the music softened—lutes replacing fiddles, the tempo gentling into something slower and more deliberate—you turned around from your most recent partner with an incline of your head.

And found him there.

Valarr Targaryen stood before you, brown hair complemented by silver, touched by the torchlight. He had shed the languid posture he’d worn in the gallery; now he stood straight, composed, every inch a prince.

A sly thought unfurled in your mind.

An opening.

It was wrong, your brain tried to reason with you. Were there not talks of him marrying another? It would be most imprudent on your part, to suggest anything at all.

You sank into a curtsy, slow and precise. “My prince.”

He inclined his head in return, eyes of violet-and-brown intent. “My lady.”

As you rose, your fingers shifted.

The brooch at your sleeve, a delicate piece of worked gold, shaped like a rose in bloom, suddenly slipped from your grasp.

To any watching, it would seem a small clumsiness. A poor lady distracted by nerves. A trifle of gold tumbling harmlessly to the rush-strewn floor.

But he saw.

You knew he saw.

The deliberate unfurling of your fingers. The measured release.

His gaze dropped to follow the brooch’s descent. Then lifted—slowly—back to you.

And he smiled.

Not politely.

Not idly.

He smiled, knowingly. With intrigue.

Without hesitation, Prince Valarr—heir to the heir of House Targaryen—went down upon one knee.

The music faltered—not in sound, but in spirit. The air itself seemed to draw tight.

A prince. Kneeling.

For you.

He retrieved the brooch with careful fingers and rose smoothly, stepping so close that you could catch the faint, sweet scent of him.

“My lady,” He said softly. His voice pitched for you alone, though all were listening, "Allow me."

The hall was watching. You felt it—the weight of a hundred stares, the quickening pulse of speculation. Lords pausing mid-sip. Ladies leaning toward one another. Whispers forming before breath even left their lips.

All too familiar. Yet, to be on the receiving end of it all...

He took your hand.

Gently.

His fingers were warm—firm without presumption. He placed the brooch into your palm, but did not release you at once.

Your gaze held his.

“Thank you, my prince,” you replied, the emphasis subtle but unmistakable.

Carefully, unhurried, you pinned the brooch back into place at your sleeve.

You curtsied once more.

And to the quiet astonishment of half the hall, he bowed again—deeper this time. Not mockery. Not mere courtesy.

Acknowledgment.

His eyes never left yours.

He was neither smug nor shy. In a way, he found a way to be a balance of both; he would initiate, wait for you to confirm, and make an attempt at reading you.

You stepped past him then. Allowing your shoulder to brush lightly against his as you went. A fleeting touch. Barely there.

It was enough.

You did not look back.

But he did.

Valarr turned as you crossed the floor toward your lord father, his gaze following the sway of your steps. Conversation resumed behind you in a rush, low and fervent.

As for you?

You kept your composure, your chin high, your expression serene.

Yet beneath the silk and courtesy, beneath the practiced grace and sharpened thorns—

For the first time—

You were genuinely fascinated by someone. And not by titles, or the means of prosperity. Something magnetic, and you swore by the Seven, the Young Prince's face reminded you that of a sweet puppy.

The day of the tourney,

You sat among the highborn in the raised stands, silk skirts arranged just so, posture immaculate. The scent of crushed grass and horseflesh drifted upward with the cheers of the crowd. Below, knights and lords rode forth one by one to present themselves—armor flashing, plumes tossing, destriers stamping.

Your gaze found your father easily.

Leo Tyrell—Leo Longthorn—sat proud in green and gold, the golden rose emblazoned boldly across his surcoat. When his eyes lifted to you, he smiled, confident and certain. He would ride today bearing your favor.

You had woven it yourself in the gardens of Highgarden—braids of soft green silk twined with fresh-cut blossoms: golden roses, of course, their petals full and sun-warm; sprays of pale blue forget-me-nots; tiny white starflowers tucked between for delicacy.

It had been meant for your father. You accompanied him on this tourney with this silent agreement. Though the possibility of a daring jouster asking for it, was never low.

Then the murmuring began.

A shift in the crowd. A stirring that rolled outward like wind through wheat.

He rode onto the field.

Valarr Targaryen emerged beneath the Targaryen banners, his armor dark but chased with red-gold flame. Upon his horse, he sat with effortless command, reins loose in his hands.

He was pretty, you decided, in day's light.

The sharp line of his jaw, the unguarded strength of his shoulders. And when he turned his head, you glimpsed it clearly—the mismatched eyes you had half convinced yourself you imagined the night before. One darker, one lighter. Valarr looked around.

He urged his horse into a brief canter, then drew the reins tight.

The beast halted hard beneath him, powerful haunches bunching; his hips thrust forward with the sudden stop, armor shifting with the motion. The crowd roared—cheers rising not merely for a contender, but for their prince. If he was not the favorite to win the day, he was undeniably the favorite of their hearts.

He circled once.

Then, instead of joining the other riders awaiting their tilts—

He turned toward the stands.

Toward you.

Leo Tyrell had not yet risen. Good, the Young Prince thought.

Valarr guided his horse to the railing below your place, dismounting it in one fluid motion. A squire hurried forward to take his long forgotten helm, but the prince did not look away from you as he passed it off.

Conversations faltered. Valarr stepped closer to the edge of the stands and bowed—not shallow, not careless, but measured. Deliberate.

“My lady,” he called up, voice clear enough to carry yet pitched as though meant only for you. “I find myself at a disadvantage.”

A ripple of amusement moved through the onlookers.

"Your Grace," You now stood above him on the platforms, placing your arms delicately at the railing, musing, "And that is?"

He rested one gloved hand upon the wooden rail, tilting his head slightly. Those eyes of his held yours fast.

“I have ridden this morning without a token to remind me what I ride for.” A faint curve touched his mouth. “Would you grant me the honor of your favor?”

Every eye in the stands burned upon you. Upon the garland resting in your hands, as if you had expected all of it. Upon the prince waiting below.

You instead toyed with the cluster of flowers beneath your fingers. "I find that hard to believe. Surely, your skill is token enough to carry you."

Valarr bit the inside of his cheek, then smiled, "Well, maybe I'm just talking my way around it."

Tilting your head to the side, you smiled reciprocally at the Prince, and you threw the braid of flowers down. They would not collect dirt; he caught them with one hand, however, you could tell he put effort into the snag.

You could only watch as he raised it up like a medal he had earned, turning away with the sway of his cape following like a shadow.

You'd deal with the sourness of your father later.

In the lists of Maidenpool, beneath a sky the color of burnished steel, Ser Humfrey Hardyng stood triumphant amid a chaos of splintered shields and trampled crests. The great melee had ended in a storm of ringing blows and staggered men; Hardyng had overthrown them one by one—Ser Donnel of Duskendale hurled into the mud as proof of it.

The joust had proven no gentler.

Prince Valarr rode beneath sigils of black-and-red, banners of his dynasty snapping in the wind. An irritation would surface in his eyes, but he’d cover it up with something more pleasant. Across him, stood a Dornish knight of House Dayne. They dismounted their horses to exchange congratulations.

They broke twelve lances in all.

Each pass thundered through the bones. Each impact sent a shudder through horse and rider alike. Valarr fought valiantly—seat steady, aim true, refusing to be unhorsed by anything less than perfection. The crowd’s cries swelled and broke like waves against stone, and somewhere amid the valor—amid the crack of ashwood and the gasp of thousands—your chest warmed.

He did not win.

On the thirteenth tilt, the Dayne’s lance struck square and merciless. Valarr reeled, clung, and finally yielded the pass. He kept his saddle, but the decision was clear. The star of Dayne had taken the field.

But you did not care for him.

Amidst the strained pleasantries, the both of them caught sight of you, slipping from the stands with steps directed to the entourage of your father.

The Dayne knight recovered first, urgency sharpening his tone as he turned toward you. “Lady Tyrell! I hope you enjoyed the joust. The farewell banquet—your lord father said he’d attend, are y—”

You inclined your head politely, skirts whispering over the trampled grass.

And passed him by.

The movement was seamless, almost gentle in its dismissal, as though he were no more than a breeze at your shoulder. You did not slow. You did not falter.

Instead, you stopped before the prince.

Your curtsey to Valarr was deeper—measured, attentive, deliberate in its grace. Sunlight caught in your hair as you straightened, a soft smile curving your lips.

“You fought well, my prince,” you said warmly. “Keep the favor. You deserved it.”

Valarr blinked.

For a fleeting heartbeat he seemed still caught in the tilt—still braced for impact. Then reality returned all at once: the loss, the broken lances, the weight of ribbon on him. Color touched his cheeks, subtle but undeniable. His arms were crossed behind his back.

He nodded—wordless, almost startled—and offered what might generously be called a bow in return. It was stiff, uncertain, more instinct than courtly polish. A prince of the realm reduced to something almost boyish.

Carrying less than the certain pride he wore earlier. You understood; a Prince of the realm should be no less than perfect. To lose would slightly crack both his ego and the expectations around him. With the latter, you could sympathize. He still took the loss gallantly. That— you could respect.

As you began to slide forward toward the banners of House Tyrell, Dornish knight still in disbelief, you felt an armoured arm grasp as gently as it could at your wrist. Quite taken aback, you turn.

“I hope to see you at tonight’s banquet,” Valarr knew quickly to regain his composure— his eyes searched yours, and much quieter, he said, “Jonquil’s Tower overlooks a pond on its northern side.”

You wanted to snap back with a sly remark, perhaps one that was two-edged— sweet on the ears, but hidden in meaning. However, the warmth of his hand on your wrist made it hard to think of such a comment. It was your turn to nod now, slow and understanding.

“All with good honor.” You responded, voice smaller than before, and the two of you parted. Resuming your positions— his of conversing with the rest of lords and knights alike, and yours of trailing into the direction that lead to your father.

Were you wooed by a man, expecting another?

Perhaps.

You would find your answer soon enough.

And Gods, what was that imbecilic prodding of your heart against your chest? Were you truly this easy?

A calculated smile found its way to your face. Composure is all that mattered with so many eyes following.

But a pond, huh?

That farewell banquet was short of underwhelming. No sight of Valarr. But that was not the main reason; it was the same as any other function, you would be again swarmed by suitors and insufferable nobility who had never grown tired of useless condemning and gossip of people at court.

You entertained the Dornish knight from today's tourney, gave him an elegant and adequate dance he could remember, then swiftly slid off to a place you prayed would be far less boring. You followed where the bannerpoles of House Mooton would be etched into the castlewalls north-way, unchaperoned, searching for a sign of a certain water source.

The pond lay still beneath the moon, its surface silvered like beaten steel. Tall grasses—foxtail and sweet vernal—bowed softly in the night breeze, brushing your skirts as you sat upon the oak plank that rested atop the sand.

You had nearly convinced yourself you were alone.

A twig snapped somewhere beyond the reeds.

“You actually came."

His voice was low, warm, threaded with quiet amusement.

You turned.

He stood just beyond the reach of the moonlight at first, but as he stepped forward, the silver glow caught him. His complexion, fair even in daylight, seemed almost luminous beneath the stars—pale skin washed in blue light. A strand of silver stood out from the rest of the brown curls.

You rose, your hand twirling circles in the pond's water. “I did.”

He glanced at the pond and your fingers. “I doubted it."

"Disappoint a prince?” you asked lightly. “I would never be so cruel.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You were rather cruel at the welcoming feast.”

“Was I?”

“You slipped away,” he said, stepping closer. “Before I could so much as ask your name properly. But I figured by the golden rose sigil.”

“You seemed content enough in the gallery,” you replied. “I thought it best to leave you at that.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Sure, I was content, alright."

The air between you shifted—less performance now, more something unguarded.

He moved to stand beside you at the water’s edge rather than opposite you. It felt deliberate. Not confrontation, but company. Your shoulders, only inches apart.

“You are a little unusual,” he said, after a moment.

“How so?” you asked.

“…Different to the ones who look at me and see only what I am meant to represent.” His mismatched gaze flicked toward you. “A title."

“And what is it you see when you look at me?” you countered.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he crouched, idly tracing a finger through the pond’s surface, sending ripples outward.

“I saw you the day House Tyrell arrived in Maidenpool,” he said quietly. “Before the feast. Before the brooch.”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Ah. So we arrive at the brooch.”

He smiled openly now. “You dropped it with such precision I nearly applauded.”

“It was an accident,” you said, though your smile said otherwise.

“Ah. Of course it was.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Most men are charmed by girls who are fragile. Or innocent.” Your voice softened slightly. “I am neither, I think. I am not suited for battle, or swords. But I am not made of glass, either."

“No,” He agreed easily. “You are not.”

A small silence settled, but it was not uncomfortable.

“You bent to pick it up regardless,” You added, phrasing it more like a question.

“I would have,” He said. “Even if it had truly been an accident.”

“I thought it funny,” he continued. “Intriguing. Our realm could use more wit."

You smiled at him then—genuine, unarmored.

The moment felt too soft. Too real.

So you sighed dramatically and nudged your slipper into the pond, flicking a splash of water onto his boot.

“They say you are ‘trothed to a woman from the Free Cities, I hear.”

He arched a brow, droplets darkening the leather at his toe. “So you listen to stories of me?” His lips twitched. “Quite obsessed.”

You gave him a flat look.

He laughed, the sound unrestrained now. “I am not betrothed. Not yet. The arrangement is… progressing. Quietly. Toward a conclusion in which I marry a lady I have never met.”

“And how romantic,” You murmured. Something about it made your heart drop slightly.

“Mm.” He tipped his head. “It is not the worst fate. She comes to a foreign land. Marries a foreign man. It will be harder for her than it ever will be for me.”

You studied his profile in the moonlight. For all the princely pride, there was something thoughtful there. Something aware.

“Do you resent it?” You asked.

"...What exactly?"

"All of this."

“No.” He paused. “But I resent that it is assumed I should not feel anything about anything, ever."

Your breath caught faintly.

“That I should be iron,” He continued. “Unbending. Unquestioning. A dragon does not complain about the direction of the wind.” His gaze shifted to you. “And you? Do they assume you are content with whichever banner you are handed?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “They assume I will smile. And that will be enough.”

“And is it?”

“No,” You admitted.

The word hung between you, fragile in its own way.

He shifted closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the warmth of him against the chill of the night air.

“You are not fragile,” he said again, quieter this time. “You are… deliberate. You see the board. You know the rules. But you still choose to move your own pieces.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of your heartbeat.

“And you?” You asked softly. “Do you move your own pieces, Your Grace?”

The look in his eyes faltered. He pondered it, then replied, "I try."

The pond lapped gently at the shore. A night bird called somewhere beyond the trees.

He studied you then—not boldly, not hungrily. Simply… carefully.

“…I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen,” he said at last, voice steady. You blinked, and despite having heard it before, the flutters it sent when he said it were admittedly different, “But no matter that.” His gaze softened, something almost vulnerable flickering there. “You are probably one of the most interesting people I’ve met as well.”

The words did not feel rehearsed.

They felt chosen. Chosen only for you. Not a lady of the Reach, a potential wife or connection.

Surprised despite yourself, you managed to respond, "Probably?"

Valarr laughed, and you found it to be a sweet sound. "Most certainly." Wind hushed between you quietly, forcing the sway of your hair with it. The prince's own cape flowed along with the breeze.

He leaned over, and his hand hovered over your face for a moment, before he moved the loose strands out of your view.

A few strands, he would tuck behind your ear.

A few seconds passed, and the two of you looked at each other. Really looked at each other.

His eyes searched yours, perhaps for permission. You did not give it with words. Only a closing of the distance between you as you leaned into him.

The first touch of his mouth against yours was careful. Almost as if... testing. Questioning.

Tension that had stretched between you. Glances, witty remarks, idle flirtation, unspooled at once. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, drawing you closer. Not forceful. Just certain.

Your fingers curled into the fabric at his chest as you answered the kiss, no longer tentative. The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the warmth of him against the cool night air, the faint taste of wine and something unmistakably him.

It was not frantic.

It was not innocent either.

It was slow, deliberate. Like the two of you. A kiss that saw you, felt you, if only for just moments.

When he deepened it—barely—you felt the quiet hum of it through your bones. Duty, honor, strategy. And yet here you were, abandoning strategy for something achingly human.

When at last you parted, it was only by inches. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His breath mingled with yours in soft, uneven rhythm.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The pond lapped gently at the shore, as if nothing monumental had occurred.

But everything had shifted.

His thumb brushed, almost unconsciously, against your waist. “I think,” he murmured, voice softer, “I have wanted to do that since the feast."

A breathless laugh escaped you, though your heart was still racing. “Then you have remarkable restraint, my prince."

“Just Valarr is alright,” He replied, with a grin overtaking his features, "...If you don't mind."

You nodded after a bit, testing his name out, watching his eyes sparkle slightly.

What a mess you've made of things.

Did you mention you were good at getting the things you wanted?