Charmed, Valarr Targaryen
pairing: valarr targaryen x lannister!reader
summary: you, a lannister lady, have caught the eye of the prince. it is his name day, alas you gift him something
tags/cw: toxic father, and i don’t think anything else
a/n: sorry for being away so long. i wrote this back in feburary but didn’t post it. i know it’s short, but i hope it’s not too disappointing.
The crowd seems to only gain noise as the final joust clashes, the loser falling off his horse and into the dirt. Prince Valarr has won the tourney. He circles the lists around to come before his family, bowing his head in respect to the king sat in the midst of the seats.
Cheers echo and you feel as if more than half of the eyes have in the dome turned to you. You risk a glance towards your father. You can see how his eyelids shift as he notices the movement from the corner of his eye, and he dips his chin slowly to encourage your performance.
You straighten, reaching to grasp the inside of his elbow. He rises to stand and you are pulled to follow, nails digging into the sleeve of his doublet as he guides you.
Only few manage to get within his way, to which he graciously excuses himself with promises that he will speak more tonight at the feast. You do not know how he manages to charm so quickly, waving off these conversations as if with ease. You keep up as taught, smiling when watched, laughing when spoken to.
It is hard to keep up when your thoughts keep wandering. Back to the champion. Back to the prince. Back to the young man that had asked your favour.
You laugh as the man before you says some awkward jest that he hopes will deem him witty enough to earn your father’s interest, but the man you hold onto only bids good day.
“Father,” you mutter in an attempt to get his attention before you are hidden in private again. You falter when you see the tick in his jaw that warns for irritation, but you need to say something. “Father, I did not know.”
“Quiet,” he hisses. He never once changes the speed of his pace, nor the expression upon his face. His tells of his true emotions lie plain only to your eye.
Your skirts whisper across the stone of the castle’s floors, your feet struggling to move naturally as a flurry of anxious thoughts haunt your mind. You think for a moment he will drag you from the tourney grounds if you speak; so you do not.
You keep your eyes lowered as you follow his path. Most people are outside, the ones who do see you looking so tense, are the servants who know better than to speak of it.
It is a shock to see your bedchambers before you when you lift your gaze at the creak of the heavy door. You expected your father would want you within his own, for it worked well for dismissing you with the wave of his hand.
Your father parts from you, muttering as he strolls towards a clean cup left upon your table. “We must thank the gods for your beauty, though much less for the voice you have that never fails to irritate me.”
Your heart sinks in your chest as you hear his words, your fingers tight and trembling just so around your fan. You keep it clasped before your stomach, shoulders back. You hope it will earn his approval of how you did not break underneath an insult, yet your bottom lip wavers as tears sting at your eyes.
“I swear it, I did not do anything you did not tell me to,” you insist, stepping forward as your voice trembles. You inhale deeply, attempting to force your true feelings from making themselves known.
Yet, you have never been able to hold back tears. Especially when it comes to arguing with your father.
“That is the problem!” He snaps, his tone not softening even as he shoos away your handmaiden who had stumbled in. She gave you a look, hesitating at the doorway to your sitting room, but she does not linger long enough for your father to speak of it.
Once the door is closed, you think you should have thought of something. But your throat is tight and you do not know what you have done wrong.
“What do you mean?” You whisper in a plea, your hand lifting quickly to cover half of your face as an inhale of your breath hics. You are briefly allowed a respite from his gaze as the fan cuts before your vision, before you discard it upon a wardrobe. It would not do well to try and hide.
“You ran away from him, securing his interest for a moment. Only one moment,” he trails on, pouring himself a cup of wine as his jaw grinds. “He gave you his favour, but did he crown you Queen of Love and Beauty?”
Your breath hitches again, blinking away the moisture from your eyes as unshed tears cling to your lashes. You shake your head, letting out a small sound that sounds very much negative in response to his question.
“No,” he answers after a moment, as if speaking to himself within an empty room. You wonder if he has ever even seen you at all in his mind when he envisions who he speaks to.
Your father turns to look at you, approaching with the steadiness of someone with such an arrogance. You shrink back as if prey.
“You will not waste this,” he speaks low. He sets his cup down next to your face, and you watch it as it happens. His grip releases from the crushing grip he had seized upon the neck of the cup. Your mother’s fan sits slightly crumpled beside it, worn from days of your anxious fidgeting.
And possibly hers before you too.
“You will thank him personally, tonight. After the feast, I wish for the prince’s attention on you solely, do you understand me?” He asks. “It is his name day, bring him a present.”
You nod, quick and certainly even if it feels anything but. He watches you for a moment, knowing that you would fumble before you made a prince fall. You know that is what he sees when he tries to see potential in you. Especially after the first time you met Prince Valarr.
You hesitate as you step out into the Godswood, hands folded before you as you glance back once more. You see the knight standing behind you in the light of the setting sun. He has been standing there for as long as you, tasked to watch you at all times, but especially this eve.
He is here to make sure that if the prince comes, there is someone to vouch for parts of your honour. It was something your father had come up with. He would not ruin you completely, but perhaps have the tale twisted into something resembling the careful path of a relationship born of love.
Your wedding, should you even be betrothed, would likely be moved sooner if all saw you as two souls who wish not to bear another moment apart.
Sooner to see you as a princess, as is your father’s wish.
You stand not far from the entrance, not wishing to see your meeting mistake as something that was supposed to be hidden. Merely private.
You twist the rings upon your fingers nervously, one finger to the next, the metal rubbing at your skin. You are staring at the blowing leaves, stuck in your mind as you think of hours before.
You cannot get your father’s tone to vanish from your mind, how he acted as if you had done something wrong and yet still not enough.
How you longed for your mother.
“My lady?” Prince Valarr’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You turn a bit too quick to face him, for while you were supposed to be expecting him, he had snuck up upon you.
“My prince,” you greet, bowing your head respectfully as you honour his title. You take a slow step forward, measuring your movements in hopes that you would look more graceful.
Your gaze lingers upon his face, how the sun made the pale of his skin warm. The brown of his left eye became rich with colour that reminds you of caramel, while the blue colour of his right softened into something akin to a sapphire hue.
“I was told you wished to speak with me,” he says. He is within his princely clothes now, shed from his armour. You find that you quite enjoy the sight of him in either, yet he looks so much more real when he is within this light.
“Yes,” you agree in a quiet voice, guilt making you feel awful for requesting such a thing. You offer him a smile, yet you cannot fulfill an action that does not feel true. You duck your head quickly to hide the faltering, fearing your mess of expressions would only worsen things for you.
“My lady,” he begins, careful. He straightens his posture as if realizing something, his face pinching slightly as he watches you. He lowers his voice. “If I have done something to offend you—“
“No, my prince!” You assure quickly, eyes widening as you fluster at the idea. It seems impossible in your mind for the prince to do anything close to offending, for he chose his words more carefully than you had ever seen.
You shake your head, a small motion that you use to banish your distracting thoughts.
“I thought it was kind that you asked my favour, and it is your name day…” you say, your chin dipping as your cheeks flush at your odd explanation. “I wish to give you this, my prince.”
You slip your hand within your pocket to find soft cloth, and you pull it. It comes into view beautifully, painted by the colours of the setting sun. It folds over your fingers; black silk cut from the black funeral dress from your mother’s funeral, pale white stitching sitting around the edges in a neat display, with a red dragon sewn into the middle.
It is neat, done by hands who have mastered sewing and embroidering young. It is also something you did entirely alone, made in secret with what you could use from what already resided in your room.
The prince’s lips part as he stares at it, pausing for a moment as if you have done something unexpected. He gives a subtle bow of his head that is both permission and assurance, extending his hand. He accepts it with a quiet grace, his touch close to reverence.
“For me?” he quest, staring at it a moment longer before lifting his gaze. He does not smile, yet his expression softens. You notice how his thumb brushes over the delicate stitching, it sends a shiver down your spine as if the thread were your skin he was stroking.
You drag your eyes away, grimacing slightly in embarrassment at your own thoughts. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve, nails picking at the hemming that kept it all together.
“My lady,” he calls for your attention, voice gentle. He waits until your eyes have met his to speak further. “Thank you, truly. It is finely done.”
He blinks a few times as he stares at you, his eyes flicker over your form briefly yet they do not linger. He does not lower his gaze again, for it seems he had found what he was searching for.
You go to speak, but he inhales deeply. You stop, allowing him to talk if that he what he wishes. You were here to please him, after all.
“Did your father send you here, my lady?” He asks calmly, tone even. He tilts his head slightly as if to unconsciously add more weight to his words, a few pieces of his shaggy hair shift over his forehead. His hands stay before him, making no move to pocket your gift.
You hesitate, unsure on what the correct answer is when either choice could be framed to make you sound horrible.
“He.. he said that I should thank you personally for your favour, your Grace,” you reply, your voice quieting against your will as you picked and choose what to reveal and what not. “It was kind of you to ask for my favour at the tourney.”
“So you have said, my lady,” he nods, his brows tightening for a moment. He turns his head away, and you can see his jaw tense as if weighing his next words upon his tongue. As soft as snow falling, he asked: “Do you believe I did it simply out of kindness?”
“Well, I… believe you kind, in truth, my prince,” you breathe the words out, for they are unsure. Not in their truth, but in the confidence you have to say them to a man of his standing.
You choose to answer honestly for you do not have another word you could call a man who saw your reputation restored for a reason you could not conjure up. It was a selfless act he had made on a day when a person is supposed to be their most selfish, a celebration of his name day.
He lowers his head slightly, accepting your words with the grace that was expected of him.
“Thank you, my lady,” the prince responds, a small smile straining at his lips. He does not press further upon the topic of what you think of him.
You are grateful for the break in conversation, even if it is only a moment. Both his stare and his words coax half thoughts from your lips with ease, and yet it is the silence as he looks back towards his guard that prompts you to want to speak.
“Happy name day, my prince,” you wish once more, “May it bring you good fortune.”
There is no words between you for a moment, merely the golden rays of the sun warming the greenery around you. He shifts on his feet, then he nods.
“Good fortune, yes,” Prince Valarr agrees. You can see his teeth as he smiles, it is an expression that feels so very lovely to be on the receiving end of. You are sure he knows precisely how it makes your heart go mad. He lets his head fall as his smile lingers, taking a moment to himself to tuck your handkerchief away safely before he raises his head once again.
“Would you allow me to walk you back inside, my lady?” He asks, offering his arm. Your fingers settle gently upon his sleeve, resting rather than gripping. His steps are slow, and they keep your mind calm.
Your feet are not dragging, and you wish, selfishly, that you would always have this kind of touch. You think your home would feel safe if Prince Valarr was the man in your life, and no longer your father.
“Do you embroider often, my lady?” He asks, turning his head to catch sight of your face. You are momentarily put at pause at his question, but then you nod.
“Yes. Yes, I do, my Prince,” you say, and you swear you see a hint of that smile again. You fight the urge to stare at him, to allow your eyes to become locked upon how his cheeks pull, and how it shows his dimples.
You look away quickly, too aware of how you will trip over your own skirts if you continue staring. The sun’s light has dimmed so you both must follow the torches back inside. The gentle, distant clinking of the armour from both the prince’s kingsgaurd and your own guard follow you.
It feels like peace found finally after withholding through a storm you did not know how to weather. It is quiet, the spring air holds the warmth of the sun without the moisture that makes it uncomfortable.
Perhaps his name day had brought him good fortune indeed.
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